John turned on the gas and clicked the utility lighter a few times, they never seem to work on the first try, but he got it, and the log ignited. The fire warmed his hands as he held them close. He tried hard to appreciate the sensation, because he knew he may never experience it again. He knew it was impossible to hold onto a feeling like this. It was impossible to hold onto any feeling, and he knew that. So he sighed and set a cushion on the hardwood in the floor. This was part of his plan, and he had to follow it.
He pulled the small notebook out of his pocket and started ripping out the pages. One by one, he tossed them in the fire, watching the flames engulf them. He skimmed some pages briefly before tossing them, just to remember. The pages were filled with accuracy data from his shooting practice, from different types of guns at different ranges, notes on his target’s changing whereabouts, notes on his target’s security detail, brainstorming locations for the operation, notes on the announcements of his target’s public appearances, and so on. With all the pages turned to ash, he placed the empty notebook cover on the log, letting it burn slowly.
It was well before sunrise, so John started on breakfast. He fixed himself a toasted bagel with cream cheese with bits of smoked salmon on top, and a single cup of Earl grey tea. He didn’t want to be hungry for the operation, as an empty stomach might impair his critical thinking and focus. And he didn’t want to be too caffeinated because he couldn’t afford to have his mind race or his hands shake. The hot tea warmed his insides, as the fire had warmed his hands. He always enjoyed having the house cold, especially with a hot beverage. His ex-wife hated it cold, though, so they ran the heat for much of the winter. They finalized their divorce three years before the incident, but they remained amicable, attending all of their only son’s major life events.
Their son Alex was interested in everything, it seemed. He played shortstop for the high school baseball team, led the chess club, loved mountain biking and fishing, read about Japanese history in his free time, and worked part-time as a math tutor for younger kids. John was so proud when his son got that baseball scholarship to the University of Texas. He was proud that Alex focused as much on his studies as he did baseball, even though John didn’t know anything about anthropology. Alex made a lot of friends and had a lot of fun his freshman year, and got a summer job to stay in Austin. Then one day John turned on the news.
John shook his head and stood up abruptly. He sighed. He couldn’t think about that just yet. He went upstairs, down the hall, opening Alex’s bedroom door. The room was exactly as it was when Alex left for Texas, except for the fact that there was more dust. All the same posters remained, the map of the Earth from National Geographic, the beautiful picture of Yosemite Falls, the poster of an outfielder making a diving catch next to the words, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” John crossed the room to the dresser, still containing the clothes Alex hadn’t brought to Texas. He picked up a picture frame and wiped the dust with the back of his sleeve. It was a photo of Alex, aged 12, wearing a dirty pink cap, carrying a wooden walking stick, smiling brightly. It was also a photo of John, wearing a sweaty white t-shirt and straw sunhat, standing next to his son in the Grand Canyon. John felt his eyes water, and he felt rage swelling in every cell of his body.
Now it was time to replay that Saturday morning. It was late March, and John woke up excited to watch the college basketball tournament. He hadn’t gone to college himself, but he was proud of Alex, and so proudly supported Texas. They were a four seed, and they won their first game handily. They had a decent chance to win their first NCAA championship, and of course John filled out his bracket with the Longhorns winning it all. John’s odds of filling out a perfect bracket were approximately one in 9,000,000,000,000,000,000. The Longhorns’ odds of winning the championship were a bit better, at slightly over one in 64.
Texas was due to play later in the day, but John still wanted to watch the morning game, so he turned on the Television. Two broadcasters stood near the court, conducting the pregame show, and John stood in the kitchen, preparing his coffee. One broadcaster explained that, while they planned to call the game professionally, it was important to remember that this was, after all, just a basketball game, in light of the news coming out of Texas. They may break from the game periodically for updates.
News from Texas? John stood in front of the TV, holding his mug. That small strip at the bottom of the screen, which was usually black, displaying different scores of different games from the men’s and women’s tournaments, was now bright red. On the left, in big, bold, white letters, were displayed the words “BREAKING NEWS.” Smaller words scrolled across, and John read them: “Mass shooting reported outside Austin, Texas.” He fiddled with the remote, struggling to remember the number of the news channel. He flipped to it, and saw helicopter footage of a grocery store parking lot, with police cars and ambulances flashing their lights. A man’s voice explained that a shooting had occurred at a suburban Austin grocery store. They had received reports that the perpetrator has been apprehended, but no confirmation yet on the number of injuries or fatalities.
John’s coffee grew cold, but he was too stunned to even sip, not even aware that he was still holding the mug at all. He grabbed his phone from the table and called Alex. The rings sounded off slowly, louder than John had ever heard. “Pick up. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up.” No one picked up. Alex’s voice came through, starting his voicemail message, but John couldn’t bear it. He ended the call and threw the phone down at his couch. He started pacing, occasionally glancing at the television.
He didn’t know what to do. Call 911? The television already showed emergency responders there at the scene. Of course they already knew. There wasn’t much he could do except wait. So he decided to call Alex again. As he reached for the phone, resting on the couch cushion, his hand mere inches away from it, the phone lit up. His ex-wife’s name appeared at the top of the vibrating screen. John took a big, deep breath before answering the call.
“Ellen?” he said.
“John?” her voice said. Her tone evoked the tears that must’ve obviously been falling down her face. John could tell, in that very instant, just from the sound of her voice, just from the way she said his name, that she knew what he dreaded, she knew that it was over, all hope was lost. She choked out, clearly sobbing, that Alex was identified as one of those killed.
This is where John’s memory was incomplete. Surely they had a conversation, surely he said something, but he could recall no words. The memory jumped to him taking the mug, half-filled with coffee, and smashing it down on the kitchen floor, shattering it and chipping one of the tiles. That tile is still there, still chipped.
John knew he had to replay that memory at some point during the day, to make his act of vengeance complete. It was better to replay it early in the morning. The rage pushed him to continue forward, but if he replayed the memory too late, during the operation, it might destroy his concentration.
He took one final look at Alex’s room, then closed the door. As he walked through the house, more memories came to him, memories of the days and weeks and months and years after the shooting. He attended vigils and funerals. He listened to remarks from the President, the governor of Texas, and various members of Congress. He met the families of the other dead victims, met injured victims, and met others who were there, who weren’t injured physically, but were likely scarred for life. He learned that Alex was at that grocery store with his college friend, helping the friend and the friend’s sister sell trinkets to support her softball team. They said that Alex pushed them behind a pillar when he saw the gunman, shortly before he was shot. They said he didn’t suffer long, and that all he said was, “It’s okay.”
None of this mattered to John. The only thing that mattered was that his only son, his only child, was dead. It was around this time that he came to a realization, or at the very least a conclusion. He met with Ellen several times, and she seemed filled with an unspeakable sadness, while he felt consumed by an unstoppable rage. It was through their meetings, through the shared experience of the loss of their son, that John reached his conclusion. He concluded that, fundamentally, women were sad and men were angry. He didn’t know if this conclusion was correct at all, if it was sexist or not, if it had any basis in reality at all, and he didn’t much care. What he knew was that his ex-wife was sad, and he was angry, so he started to plan.
John sat at the desk in his study. He wasn’t one for manifesto’s, unlike the eighteen year-old killer of his son, and he didn’t know how to post on these “chan” sites, unlike the eighteen year-old killer of his son, and he certainly would never know how to “livestream” his actions, unlike the eighteen year-old killer of his son. He wasn’t even particularly political, and he didn’t see this as a political act, again, unlike the eighteen year-old killer of his son. Still, he wanted to write something. He didn’t expect to get away with what he was about to do. Still, he put on a pair of latex gloves and started to write.
This is the killer of Senator Jacobs. I am going to kill him as retribution for the Austin shooting. Senator Jacobs has fought his whole political career to ensure that the very gun that was used in the shooting would be available for purchase by eighteen year-olds. He fought his whole political career to resist any gun regulation. 15 people were killed, 7 injured, 2 paralyzed in just 9 minutes. Senator Jacobs said this was not a gun issue, but a mental health issue. Yet, he has fought his whole political career to eliminate any funding for mental health services for anyone, including teenagers, such as the killer in Austin. He wants guns for eighteen year-old kids and doesn’t want the mental health issue to be addressed. If mental health is really the problem, why does he do everything to not solve the problem? Based on his actions, my only conclusion is that he wants this type of thing to happen. For that, I’m going to kill him. I don’t have much political to say, but to anyone who may ever read this: watch how swiftly and how strongly the hand of justice comes after me, and how slowly and how pathetically it deals with the worst criminals at the top. And be prepared for more thoughts and prayers when Senator Jacobs’ name is splattered across the newspaper headlines.
Satisfied, John folded up the paper, put it in an envelope, and addressed it to the Washington Post. He thought it extremely unlikely that they would make the note public. He assumed that only three or four people would read it, but he felt compelled to write it nonetheless. He never thought he would kill, or attempt to kill, a U.S. senator, but he also never thought his son would be gunned down by some eighteen year-old obsessed with Nazis and Rhodesia and so many bullshit memes that John couldn’t understand. But here he was, packing his disassembled gun and his ammunition into his black bag. He placed the bag in the back seat of his car and drove off.
John stopped at the post office drive-through and idled. He tapped his thumb on the letter, still wearing the blue latex gloves. Even though the letter is just a letter, it felt bigger than that. It felt like this truly was the point of no return. John felt that, if he were to put the envelope in the slot, that he was fully committing to the act. He examined the envelope, flipping it over in his hands, as if it contained his life. In some way, it did. If he were to succeed in the act, he’d be the guy that killed a senator. That’s all he’d be. If he went through with it, he’d be caught, and the President and other senators and news people would give remarks about him, and some guy out there would make a Wikipedia page about the event. His name would be mentioned in the “Perpetrator” section, and interested people could read about him, about his “Early Life” and about where he worked and about his dead son. They may even be able to read about the letter that was in his hands right now, but John wasn’t sure about that. He scoffed, thinking of the absurdity of considering his Wikipedia page before doing what he was about to do, then he shoved the envelope into the slot.
Lefty Forrester 