Guilt

Guilt

Achilles did a 180 degree twist, hopping into the air, subsequently sprinting behind the couch and running a lap around the living room before abruptly stopping and flopping down onto the carpet. Jack watched as he sat on the ground, his back against the couch and his legs sprawled out in a V-shape.

“That’s a good one, Achilles! You’re quite the speedy little guy!”

Jack petted Achilles, stroking his head as the small brown rabbit continued laying comfortably on the ground.

“Okay, okay,” Jack said after a couple of minutes, “I can’t pet you the whole day! My arm is getting tired!” He slouched back against the bottom wall of the couch.

He began unconsciously twiddling his thumbs, a habit developed from the intense anxiety which hovered over him constantly like a chaotic, unpredictable storm.

Jack looked out the window. It was a cloudy day. There was a drizzle of rain. It was warm, and a bit windy. It was comfortable.

“What should I do, Mr. Achilles?” Jack said, “What’s next?”

Achilles ruffled his nose, as if to communicate what Jack already suspected: Achilles had no idea.

Jack stood up and walked outside. The misty wind blew against his face. He thought it felt nice.

He stared into the woods. It was spring, but the trees were still mostly dead. The wood was lifeless. On some occasions, a lonesome deer would emerge, as if from some ethereal emptiness, and sniff around in the parking lot of the apartment complex. When this happened, Jack would pick up Achilles, take him out to the balcony, and hold him up so he could see the wildlife. Jack thought Achilles would be interested to see such a (to Achilles, at least) massive creature.

No deer today, though. The wood was empty.

Jack walked back inside and fell asleep. It was about his bed time, anyway.

The drive to work the next day was foggy. The mist from the previous day had continued through the night and into the morning. The windshield wipers of Jack’s small, sputtering Toyota Scion THUMPED and THUMPED, similar to the way Achilles THUMPS when he’s angry, as they attempted unsuccessfully to keep moisture from the windshield.

The noise made Jack twitch with anxiety.

He tried to muffle the constant, necessary but frustrating sound with music from the radio. As he turned the knob, static white noise filled his ears. He cringed back into the driver’s seat, swerving and nearly colliding with an oncoming semi-truck; its high-beams blinding, the blare of its horn further deafening. He pressed one of the presets. He wasn’t sure which one because in his frustration he’d pushed three or four of the five buttons with his whole palm.

The soothing voice of Ann Wilson rang out over the static:

He’s a maaaaaggggggic maaaaaaan!

Jack made it to work.

The warehouse parking lot was full. Jack drove in cyclical monotony around each section of the lot, searching for a space. He eventually squeezed in between an oversized pickup and a creepy, white, windowless van.

After putting the car into park, he grabbed the chair-lever with his left hand, leaned back, closed his eyes, and thought about how much he didn’t want to go to work. It was nearly 6:00 AM.

The toaster dinged as it discharged two pieces of burnt bread into the air. Jack, unable to catch them because his head was rattling from the ding, watched them fall back to the toaster and then to the dirty floor. He picked them up and began buttering.

The morning paper was sitting on the table in the break room. Jack sat down and snapped it open, a piece of the freshly buttered toast hanging from his mouth.

On the front page read a chilling headline:

LOCAL WOMAN FOUND DEAD IN NEARBY RIVER.

The cause of death hadn’t yet been discovered, but based on the multiple stab wounds littering the body, police were assuming with confidence that it was a homicide.

Jack immediately sank back into his chair and pulled the paper over his face.

“Was it me?” He contemplated miserably, “What if I did that?”

He continued to drown himself in his chair with the morning paper.

DIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNG came the abrupt sound of the work bell.

Jack snapped up in his seat, looking at the clock. It was already time to start work. He shoved the rest of the dirty toast in his mouth, swigged his cup of hot black coffee, and stumbled out the break room door into the warehouse.

The ringing of bells and clanging of metal for the rest of the day filled Jack’s head as his sense of paranoia grew.

“I did it!” He thought, “I must have done it! Who else would do something like that! And they haven’t found the killer; it must be me!”

Horrified, he continued monotonously pressing the buttons on his machine as the sound of steam and compression produced and then spat out one metal bushing after another.

This continued for hours. When the bucket filled, Jack grabbed it, lifted it, and placed it on the conveyer belt, the whole time thinking about the possibility that he was a murderer.

“I did it! I just know that I did it!” He brooded continuously.

When the DIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNG signaling the end of the work day finally rang out, Jack was in a twitchy state of detachment.

It was still raining on the drive home. The windshield wipers continued their frustrating THUMP as Jack again tried to drown it out with loud music. The Immigrant Song by Led Zeppelin played at full volume as Jack attempted to distract himself by singing along:

“Ahhhhhhhh... Ah… Ahhhhhh… Ah… I come from the land of the ice and snow…”

Jack’s paranoid, mumbling rendition sounded much less inspired than the screeching confidence of Robert Plant. Jack continued singing, nonetheless. He wished he had the courage of a Viking.

When he walked in his apartment door, he set his things on the table and then sank exhaustedly into the couch. While battling with his involuntarily closing eyelids, he noticed through his mental haze Achilles gnawing on the bars of his cage. Jack, feeling sorry for his animal companion, arose and opened the door.

He petted Achilles, and the rabbit, grunting his disapproval, turned and ran off behind the couch, flicking his feet backward in resentment. Achilles, like most other living creatures, disliked being forced into a cage. Jack, on the contrary, felt like he needed a cage. It might do him some good. He instead crawled into a fetal position on the couch.

After rocking back and forth in anxious discomfort for some time, sleep, like the chemical effect of a dulling downer, forced its way into Jack's already hazy psyche. It was fidgety, fearful sleep -- Jack tossed and turned, sweating through his clothes -- but it was sleep nonetheless.

Jack dreamed.

He was kneeling in the middle of shallow, muddy river. It was completely dark outside. His hands were bloody, but he didn’t know why. Jack tried to scream out in terror, but no sound came. It was as if the misty, damp air muffled any noise attempting escape from his throat. He continued silently shrieking. There was a deer in the river -- a doe. She approached him, bent down next to him, and began sniffing at his bloody palms. Jack screamed again. This time it wasn’t soundless. Noise erupted from his mouth as raspy incoherent terror filled the air. The doe jerked backward in fright, momentarily looking Jack in the eye. She looked afraid, but she also looked like she understood him, as if to be communicating:

“I know who you are… I know what you’ve done.”

She then turned and ran. Water kicked back by her legs splashed into Jack’s palms, washing off some of the blood.

Jack awoke.

He was lying belly up on the couch. Achilles was standing on his chest, sniffing his face. It tickled. Achilles sprang off as Jack snapped up. Jack’s eyes were frantic. They darted back and forth, as if glancing simultaneously at both everything and nothing. They were tired eyes, even after napping. They were fearful.

Jack stumbled over to the bathroom sink and splashed water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. He thought he looked miserable -- like a pathetic, scared man. He walked back over to the living room, sat on the couch, grabbed the remote, and turned on the television.

Jack, flinching, retreated backward as the full volume of the evening news blasted out from the TV set. The same headline, this time in auditory rather than written format, forced its way into Jack’s skull and began chaotically bouncing around, destroying his already fragile psyche. With his eyes closed --shielded by his forearm -- he pointed the remote at the TV until the volume subsided.

“I did that!” He again thought to himself. “I know I did that! Who else would do something so deranged? I must have done it! I know I did it!”

Jack slouched off the couch and onto the floor. He laid there for some time. Achilles again jumped onto his chest -- this time using his forepaws to dig into Jack’s T-Shirt as if his heart were a potential burrow. He continued digging spasmodically until Jack lightly brushed him aside.

Jack stood up and walked to the door leading out to the balcony. He opened the door. It was still raining. He stepped onto the balcony. In the distance, on the other side of the parking lot, he could see a deer. It was a doe. Rather than grabbing Achilles to show him the wildlife, he instead limped further out onto the balcony. Mist further dampened his sweaty clothes and face. He peered across the lot to the deer. He made eye contact with her. She stared back and kept staring.

Lightning alit the night. The crack of thunder filled the sky. Jack flinched. The doe was gone. Jack was afraid.

A tickling feeling brushed against Jack’s leg. In his paranoia, he turned quickly. He felt familiar fur against his ankle as he pushed aside the soft creature at his feet. Achilles was thrown from the balcony, to the parking lot.

Jack, mortified, looked to the ground below. Achilles looked dead.

He ran outside and grabbed Achilles. Achilles was dead. Jack held him. Innocent, rabbit blood spilled out onto his palms. He looked across the parking lot. The deer was back.

They again made eye contact. Lightning again struck. This time the deer didn’t move. The deer looked confident, though sad. Jack rocked back and forth. He screamed. He started crying. He pressed his face to Achilles limp body. It was an accident. He didn’t know what he was doing. He wasn’t in the right state of mind. He did it, though. That part was undeniable. He was guilty.

“Hey!” came a voice from above.

Jack looked up and saw a resident of one of the neighboring apartments standing on her balcony.

“You know we’re not allowed to have pets here, right? You shouldn’t have that rabbit!”

Jack, bewildered, screamed again.

The rain continued. It washed the blood from Jack's hands, but only some of it -- not all of it.