C'MON, TAKE ME AWAY!: Anthony's fading words.

                               

                              C’mon and take me away.

                    This is story of a man named Anthony.

       One whom decided life and his agony made him face a monster.

　

          Anthony left his job on a cloudy October afternoon, mold chilly drizzle falling. Droplets of water making polka dots on his grey t-shirt, eventually filling in the blanks, covering broad shoulders. Red hair, long and full, becoming more saturated with each step taken as he headed for his mint sky-blue Camaro.



           This was his ninth job since January. His family seemingly taking disgusting pride in pointing this out to him.

         “You’re a goddamned drifter. Going nowhere and loving every mile along the way.” his kin was fond of saying at family gatherings. Having given up on him years ago, simply tolerating his presence around holidays and little else, prodding him in vein attempt to make an impression.

        Anthony hearing their echo’s off and on, in moments of silence as he would fail for sleep. Eyes closed, being tired, exhausted, seeking for treasure. This treasure being a night of restful slumber without voices that booze and sleeping pills no longer aided him.



         Sweats, frigid wetness, covering pillows as if caught in winter rains, causing him to awaken abruptly. Shuddering, grasping to capture what caused this while feeling further depressed. Unable to take hold of the nightmares, like exhaled cigarette smoke slipping through fingers, more and more feeling sadder and lonely with each and every day.



         God, have you forsaken me? What did I do to deserve this and why haven’t you taken me home? Sinking face, bowing head, stomach churning, he begins to cry. Tears covering chiseled cheeks, nose growing more congested with sob, clamping down hard on easy breathing. Gasping, heaving body, dropping to his endlessly scabbed knees, to once again roll into a fetal position. Rocking slowly to eventually reach crescendos of speed, faster and faster til he’d knock himself out by his head repeatedly hit the floor.

       Driving into this quickly darkening fall evening, his Camaro’s twin exhaust growling fiercely as RPM’s reaching 6000, heading toward the worst areas of Chicago.

       Stopping at a McDonalds for two 99 cent McDoubles, thanking the nondescript voice that took his order over static-filled speaker, his Camaro slowly rolling toward window #1. He paid a tiny Asian female that greeted him with a sincere smile. She thanked him, smiling still, bidding him a good night.

      Good night? What is a good night? Wasn’t she a character in a Bond movie? Fuck this, climb out of your head!

      Engine angrily snarling toward window #2, holding back the horses that wished speed into wall at 150 MPH, he braked solidly at #2. Stainless steel bordered glass window opening to greet him, smiling faced black male handing him a bag: Have a great night, sir!

     Nodding and solemnly wishing the same, he took hold of the bag. He then handed this man just over five hundred dollars.

     Feeling awkward, asking him to hold position, this minimum wage earner asked him to hold a moment. Seconds later, a pale female manager asked him why he’d given her employee so much money.

     Smiling, he told her that her workers deserved a break today, which is why he headed for McDonalds.

     Revving engine, throttling hard, smoking tires, he split.

     Granny shifting as he ate his burgers while juggling gulps of leftovers of his morning coffee, now cold, hastily taking off after each red-light with increasing abandonment and disregard, motoring into this black night.

      Rain, colder than when he’d left his job, steadier than before, seeking his last fix.

      Calmly striding down a garbage filled alley, horrid smells of rotting family dinners past ascending from rat torn Hefty bags, though not as bad with falling temperatures. Without a care in the world, Anthony strolls deeper and deeper in danker places.

      STOP, motherfucker! Gimme what you got!

      Anthony halts, no rise in blood pressure, feeling colder, near freezing as rain turns to white flakes of snow.

       I WANT YOU GODDAMNED WALLET, BITCH! Man, short black hair, anemic skinned, agitated face, aiming a 9mm at Anthony’s chest. Wearing a full length leather, shifting stance as if to strike menacing stance. DO AS I FUCKIN’ SAY OR I’LL KILL YA!

      Slowly dropping to scabbed knees, like the lazily falling snow, telling the shooter he has no money. He gave it to McDonalds workers miles ago.

      While crossing his ankles in an act of submission, staring into the barrel of the 9mm, he said: Do your worst. Free me, you wortHLESS PIECE OF SHIT! GO ON, BLOW MY ASS AWAY!

     Unsteady, Shooter feeling insecure with such statements, seeing no fear in this redheads shrouded face. Stepping back, almost falling over careless rubbish.

      Wishing to be dead, being one who doesn’t care, therefore one who shouldn’t be, looking deeper in the barrel of his salvation. Eyes getting bigger, pupils fully open, smiling into the abyss.

    Just pull the trigger, damn you! Fuck you! You are worthless and probably have the smallest of dicks that women laugh at. How tough are you? You scare lesser fools.

     JUST END ME!

      Hands trembling, warmth filling his body unlike anything known to him, staring vividly as fire blows just above him, blanketing his face in residue.

      FUCK THIS! He begins to cry, face-planting into a dank puddle. Not dead, not understanding why, slowly rising.

      Seeing the 9mm held in his own hands. Dropping the Luger into a slushy, soon to be frozen puddle.

      Eyes leaking less and less as he sees the moon silently coursing its path between the old buildings which surround him.

      Fuck this shot! I’m worth much more…

     A man dressed in total black approaches him. “Watched you for a bit, son. Glad you didn’t end a life Jesus took your sins for. Happy you missed, though you did blow the crap outta of Pans Adult Novelty’s neons to hell.”

      Looking up toward this calm voice, Anthony arose to his full height stronger than decades before. Knees hurting less with each passing second.

      Who are you, he asked, in a voice no longer shaky.

      “I’m Father Ericsen, pleased to meet you,” this man of Christ said, sending his right hand toward Anthony.

      Anthony, breathing steadily, taking the Father Ericsen’s hand into his own. I’m Anthony.

      ‘Let’s talk, you and I,” this priest said, smiling, illumination embracing his being. “let’s talk, you and I. We’ll take as long as you need. You can find peace, so help me God!”

       “Thank you, Father!”

       They, hand in hand, began to leave this alley off personal abyss.

      “Oh, wait on second!” the priest said. Leaving Anthony’s hand to the wind, walking away from him, turning his back.

      Anthony’s mind began to cartwheel in speedy nervousness.

      Reaching down, Father Ericsen said: “Can’t leave this here. Lord, no!” A voice like that of an Angel, he picked on the Luger and placed it in his black overcoat after securing its safety.

     Walking back to Anthony, feeling Gods power fill his being, smiling.

      “What troubles you, Anthony?”

       I thought you were leaving me.

      “Christ and his Father never leave anyone behind. Take heart in that.”

      Thickening snow descending steadily with each passing moment.

      Anthony’s depression leaving him for good.

      They talked for weeks without separation.

       Anthony found peace and contented home on this Earth.

　

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          AN: There is so little I can say. I was fortunate to be the benefactor of this story.

         My mind left shredded as I heard one of Anthony’s parishioners sobbingly tell me his tale and what led him to God through a Fisher of Men.

        Having those that care for me greatly, thinking me on a course for huge overload, perhaps feeling manic, those closest that know me better than I know myself, sharing caution profound, warning me. I had to place this entry here.

        I am one that does believe in hope eternal, eclipsing sadness overcome. One that never gives up any fucking miserable soul that crosses my path.

       I give up on no one, perhaps to my own detriment, yet through this gift of Christ I go on.

        I sometimes hate this part of myself, cursing it madly, screaming the question: WHY ME?

       All things happen for a reason, constantly telling myself time and time again.

       If I could…

       Would you???

        Acceptance.

Mark William Darus July 8 2012.