Perfectly Imperfect

‘Perfection,’ I said. ‘What’s the root cause, do you think?’

My grandpa, “Gramps,” was sitting across from me at the café table, examining his coffee. He’d been sitting for the last five minutes, giving me time to “chew over my thoughts,” as he often called it. I recall the many times the old bugger would say, ‘it happens this way with you young ones. You all seem to live inside your heads… or on your doodle-lackey devices.’ And then he would tell me how he’d once watched a young girl, head glued to her phone, walk into a street sign. ‘And it was a good mashing, too, Jackie-boy. Idiot girl had spoiled her nice white blouse with the blood! Streamed out of her nose and down her chin.’ I can’t quite remember how many times I’d heard that story over the months leading up to this day.

For most of my life, I’d always tried to be something I knew I wasn’t. Being this way seemed to grind at me from the inside, making me feel crushed beneath the weight of its burden. I was always trying to be someone I knew I wasn’t as well because I felt like I had to impress everyone I met. I’d spent my life trying to trick myself into believing I was a different person than who I was. And what made it all so bad, was that I wasn’t even aware I was doing any of it. It was just something that happened as if I was some twisted robotic version of myself. I would keep pushing forward in life, though nothing seemed to measure up if you know what I mean.

I’d heard somewhere that this happened to people, and it didn’t matter how much effort someone put in, or how hard they tried, happiness and fulfilment in life never seemed to come. And this was no truer than it’d been for me my whole life. There was always something missing.

I suppose that’s why I try so hard to impress others. I’ve felt incomplete my whole life. I believe I’m flawed, and this makes me feel weak compared to my friends who seem to have it all.

Now, I’m not a moron. I know this feeling happens deep down inside. I’m just not capable of putting the finger on the problem, that’s all. I always feel as if something’s missing, something’s way off inside. But, I’m no moron; sometimes I just don’t see the great big fat arse elephant standing smack bang in the middle of the room. Any psychologist might’ve told me I was maybe suffering from “imposter syndrome.” Yeah, any psychologist could have labelled me, taken my money, and sent me on my way. I suppose I know what I’m doing. I don’t need a psychologist. Shit, I’m capable in many areas of my life–even though I always feel like a fraud and that I’m in danger of being discovered as said fraud.

I feel this because I think I must be perfect all the time. I feel as if I must, all the time, try to impress everyone I meet. And it destroys who I am from the inside out.

That’s why I reached out to Gramps all those months before this day. That’s why I tolerated listening to the same story about the girl who’d walked into the street sign. I reached out for guidance, one might say. I suppose if I hadn’t, Gramps would still be alive today, playing checkers with Spidey in the nursing home, and I’d still be struggling with perfection. But I’d take that struggle over the struggle I’ve lived with ever since that day—the battle of guilt. And having to hear the crazy man’s insane shrieks… and living with all the blood.

Oh, there had been so… much… blood.

*

‘Many people try but cannot understand what causes it, Jackie,’ Gramps replied that morning in the café. ‘Though, I’ve seen many of your generation going through life thinking and acting as if they’re perfection. I suppose that’s why so many whippersnappers nowadays give us old-timers lots of cheek–they think they are perfect and better than the rest of us. So many trapped, living with perfection, and they don’t understand what they’re going through. They don’t understand the certain symptoms they may be feeling.’

‘I suppose you think, I’m no exception, granddad?’

Gramps shrugged at that. ‘Not my place to make a judgement call like that, Jack. I’ve lived a long life, and what I’ve learned is, you don’t have to be perfect because… well, none of us is perfect. I took a long time to believe that. I took until I was perhaps in my mid-forties to realise that I couldn’t be at my best all the time. It just doesn’t happen for anyone. No one can be all things to all people, and none of us can ever have it all.

‘The sad part I see in you, Jack, is that you live with the idea you must be perfect because you assume other people expect you to be perfect.’

‘True. True.’ It was now my turn to investigate my coffee. ‘I feel like I’ve wasted my life always trying to be perfect for everyone else, rather than just being who I am. I suppose that’s why I feel the way I do. I’ve created a downward spiral into hell.’

Gramps shocked me by cackling at what I’d said. His wrinkled face turned up towards the ceiling as he laughed. ‘Always been one for the over dramatics, Jackie,’ he laughed. ‘You’ve always been like that, so you have.’ He wiped a tear from one sunken eye with a bony finger.

‘No, but it’s true, Granddad. I grew up with the belief that striving for perfection or even appearing to be perfect, was the original source of pride and self-worth. Mum drilled that into me from a young age. Dad always belittled me whenever I screwed things up. It bullied me throughout school because I wasn’t as good as the other kids…’

‘And I suppose you think this made trying to be perfect even more important to you?’

‘Well, yeah sure, but―’

My Grandfather cut me off. ‘Jack, as I came of age, I realised I’d developed the idea that to gain respect from others, I had to be perfect. Everyone gets this crap in their heads from time to time. We think it means others rely on us to be perfect all the time. You’re hanging on the emotional burden of perfectionism. You see that, right? Deep back in your mind, when you think about it and admit it to yourself, the worst part of it all is that you think you cannot move on or live a full life unless you’re perfect, right?’

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to because I knew Gramps was right. The old bastard was always right, and I loved him for it.

‘You came all those weeks ago to learn. You want me to teach you how to get out of the shadow of perfectionism that’s hanging over you like a heavy cloak?’

‘Yes.’

‘You want me to show you how to love yourself?’

‘Yes.’

‘You want to make an impression on other people by being yourself, right?’

‘Yes… I guess…’

‘Well, Jackie, you first need to teach yourself how to accept yourself–flaws and all.’

**

I watched, amused, as my Grandfather fumbled his overcoat and reached inside. It was here I suppose that I first noticed the man that would change my life that day. He was standing on the sidewalk outside the café, in front of the large window. I don’t think I noticed him on a conscious level because I only remember seeing him now as I write this. He was looking up and down the street as if searching for someone he’d lost in the crowd. And I’m almost sure, as I watched Gramps digging in the inside pocket of his overcoat, the man outside stooped or perhaps even dropped to his knees a few times. Hard to say for sure, but… no, I’m sure that’s what he was doing.

Here comes the old trusty notepad, I thought with a smile as I watched Gramps search inside his coat. Outside, the man looked up the street and then down, and stooped again.

I knew better than to mock Gramps about the notepad he kept close by and dragged out at every meeting we had together. I was happy that he was taking our “little talks”–as Gramps was apt to call them–so seriously and spending his time in the nursing home writing notes he thought might help me overcome my problem. It kept the old man busy, I guess; kept his aging mind active, and that was a good thing.

Gramps removed a beaten grey notepad from the inside pocket of his overcoat and laid it flat on the café table. He flipped open the pad, scanned the first page for a moment, frowning, then licked the ball of his thumb and flicked through the pages.

‘It’s here somewhere, Jack, my boy,’ he mumbled.

After a few minutes–I patiently waiting, sipping my coffee–Gramps shouted, ‘Ah, here it is!’ A tender smile formed at the corners of his mouth as he glanced up from the notepad. My heart melted. Here was a man, going on 85, sitting at a table in a quiet little café, smiling like he was a teenager again.

Suddenly, Gramps’ face dropped while looking at me. For a moment, I felt a cold dread surge through me and thought: Oh Christ, the old bugger’s having a heart attack! As I think back now, I wish it had been a heart attack. A heart attack might have been a better way for him to go, perhaps a more beautiful way. I know what you’re probably thinking, how can a grandson be so cruel? But trust me, when you understand my story, you’ll understand why a heart attack would have been… kinder for the old man.

I went to ask Gramps if he was all right, but before I could get a word out, the old man did something that reminded me of that old Meatloaf song. What was it? Something about taking the words right out of my mouth. Yeah, that sounds about right… or something along those lines. Anyway, Gramps asked me if I was all right.

‘Yes, I am Gramps. Why do you ask?’

‘Because you’re sitting there with a dim-witted look on your face. All dopey eyed and smiley. It looks like you need to do a giant fart or something.’

My mouth dropped open. He had said the last part of that pleasant little statement too loud for my liking. I noticed the couple sitting a table over from us glance in our direction.

‘Gramps!’ I said, frustrated. ‘Don’t say that so loud.’

‘Say what?’ Gramps asked, still a little too loud. ‘You mean – what? Fart?’

Oh my god, I thought in a panic. I’m going to die!

Finally, the old sod smiled at me. It was a sly smile which I recognised immediately. I returned his smile, though mine was more of a mortified grimace than a sly smile. ‘You got me again, Gramps.’

‘You’re too easy, Jackie-boy. You worry too much about what others think of you.’

I giggled nervously and shook my head. Gramps offered me a sly wink and then looked back down at his notepad. Outside, the man dropped to his knee again.

Gramps read: ‘ “Man was born free, but everywhere he is in chains.” ’ He looked up. ‘You know who said that?’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. A man that needed a giant fart.’ I cringed when I saw, from the corner of my eye, the couple look in our direction again. But the cringe grew into a wince when I noticed the irritated look on Gramps’ face.

‘Are you going to take this seriously, Jack, or you just wasting my time? I could be back at Settlers playing checkers with Spidey if you’re not serious about this. Sure, Spidey loses his teeth mysteriously halfway through the game–especially when he’s losing–but at least he takes my time seriously because he knows we both have little time left here.’

Immediately, I felt terrible for my remark. ‘No, I take your time seriously, Granddad.’ I always referred to Gramps as “Granddad” when he gave me that steely look. That look, the way his eyes pierced through me like hot pokers, it always scared the shit out of me. As a child, he would give me that stern, hard gaze whenever I stepped out of line, messed up at school, or back chatted my mother–he had always been more of a father than my own worthless dad. A hard kick then swiftly followed the lookup the backside, and a kick from Gramps was like being hit in the arse with a steel rod. I’m entirely confident the old bugger had a foot made of steel. Probably had it blown off in the war and as a laugh, he got a metal one built to replace the lost one. You know, that would not have surprised me in the least. The man was strict, old school I guess most would call him today, but he had a kind and noble heart. Now, how many people can you say that about today? ‘I take our little talks seriously,’ I went on. ‘I’m sorry. Please, tell me who said that.’

For a moment, I didn’t think Gramps would continue, then the old man’s steely gaze softened. It was always a relief when that happened. Finally, he said, ‘ “Man was born free, but everywhere he is in chains,” was noted by…’ He paused, glanced down at his pad, frowning again, then went on. ‘Jean Jacques Roussepa… No, that’s not right.’ He glanced down at his pad. ‘Rousseau.’

Gramps looked up and frowned again. The old man had always seemed to frown a lot. ‘What?’ he asked.

‘Well, I gotta be honest, Gramps. I have no idea who that is.’

‘What do they teach you young whippersnappers in school these days?’

‘Gramps,’ I smiled, ‘I haven’t been in school for at least 10 years now.’

‘Really? Holy snapping dog shit!’ The couple next to us looked again. ‘Has it been that long, Jackie boy?’

‘Yeah, it has, Gramps.’

‘Shit… I’m old, hey.’

Another glance from them. Another cringe from me.

After what seemed like a lifetime of the other couple looking in our direction, Gramps went on. ‘Rousseau was a French philosopher, part of the enlightenment period…’ He paused again. ‘Y-You know what the enlightenment period was, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay, good.’ Again, he paused, before adding, a little alarmingly, ‘What about a philosopher? You know what one of them is, yeah?’

‘Gramps, I know what a philosopher is.’

‘Oh good, because I was worried, I would have to explain that to you… and for the life of me, I don’t have a clue where even to start to do that!’ He flapped his hand in front of him as if he was shooing a fly from his face. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘some famous dude said that.’

I smiled. The man outside stooped again.

‘I think he meant what he said in political terms, but it can also be true in terms of spiritual and emotional. You see Jack, most of the time, all of us carry the key to the prisons we live in… and by prisons, I mean our heads.’ Gramps tapped the side of his head as if to bring home his meaning to this prison. ‘We define the world in a kind of little box that tells us what we can and cannot do. Or, to put it more bluntly–what we mustn’t do as far as society is concerned, and what we should do, as far as society is concerned. Society seems to think it can tell us who we can and cannot be, and where we can or cannot go. It’s all foolish. But these so-called rules are all too real because… well, we make them real by believing in them. Do you follow?’

It was my turn to frown. ‘I think so…’ I said with little authority.

Gramps sighed. ‘Okay, look at it like this. We were born free, but for some damn reason, we refuse to take the key we carry, stick it in the lock and turn it to open the prison door in our heads. We choose to stay in this prison. And it’s our conditioned minds at work, holding us back and trying to drag us down. Most the time, none of us even know that we’re letting our minds do this to us. But, I’m gonna let you know a little secret, Jackie boy: the sooner you get out from under the influence of these external conditions, the sooner you’ll start to live your life with adventure, meaning, fulfilment and…’ he paused, then: ‘Now, this might sound ironic, but you’ll also live with control. With control, not under control.’

I uttered a small laugh and sighed. ‘Easier said than done, Gramps.’

‘See, that’s your problem right there, Jack.’

‘What is?’

‘You’ve allowed the world to condition your mind so much that you use that old cliché bullshit. “Aw, easier said than done.” Wah, wah, wah.’

‘Jeez Gramps, take it easy.’ I glanced around the café, trying not to notice the couple sitting next to us. They definitely looked as if they were taking a keen interest in our conversation.

‘Nah,’ Gramps said, though he snapped it at me. ‘I have been too easy on you for months now, Jack. Time to toughen you up, my boy. You gotta let all this bullshit go so you can live your life to your fullest potential. I don’t want you to end up like me and not realising this until I was in my forties! You gotta always be in control of yourself and your thoughts, Jackie boy! If you let the world or other people control you, then you’ll find your happiness being crushed. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out how wrong this is. Have you heard of Murphy’s Law?’

‘Yeah, sure. “The worst things happen at the worst time.” ’

‘Bingo! You’ve probably also heard the saying that “life happens when you have other plans,” right?’

I nodded.

‘Jack, what I discovered was that life has its own agenda. No shit! The damn thing spins on its own axis!’ Alarmingly, I looked at the couple sitting at the table next to us. They eyed my Grandfather and me carefully. ‘It just keeps right on spinning around and around and around,’–Gramps made twirling motions with the index finger of his right hand while saying this–‘willy-nilly of whatever your damn plans are! And, you wanna know the sad part? The more you choose to believe that it’s up to others to control you, the less likely you’ll be happy.’

‘Well, that put things into perspective.’

‘Jackie, with life, you gotta give it a lot of wiggle room.’ He emphasised the word “wiggle” by completing a very awkward little jig in his chair, which caused the woman at the table next to us to spurt a little laughter.

I glanced over at her. She was covering her mouth with her hand, and it immediately attracted me to her. She had long dark-reddish hair, perhaps dyed by the look, and the most prominent brown eyes I’d seen. Straight away, I felt awkward for feeling that way, since she was sitting there with another man who was, for sure, her boyfriend, fiancée… husband? I offered her a nervous smile. She lowered her hand, bit her bottom lip (oh god, she’s beautiful, I thought), and smiled back. I dropped my gaze and turned my attention back to my Grandfather, who was inspecting the bottom of his coffee mug.

‘Do you want another coffee, Gramps?’

‘Oh no, I probably shouldn’t. I’ll be shittin myself all the way back to the home.’

I cringed again and felt like sinking into my chair, fading into nothingness. That was loud enough for the beautiful woman to hear.

‘Where was I?’ Gramps asked.

‘Shittin yourself… apparently,’ I replied, in almost a whisper.

‘Ah yes, that’s right,’ Gramps continued, ignoring, or perhaps not hearing my remark. ‘You can set goals, have dreams, plan, but when the cold hand of death comes stalking you, Jackie, accept what you get out of the process. And hopefully, you’ll accept that way before the hand of death, my boy.’

Gramps looked at me. ‘Are you listening boy?’

I was, but, for the first time, I’d noticed the man outside the café.

‘Jack? Are you hearing me, Jack?’

‘Yes, yes, but…’

‘But what?’

I raised my hand and pointed at the front window behind my Grandfather. ‘That man outside… I think he’s licking the window.’

***

‘Are you daft, boy?’ Gramps said. The old man had had to strain himself to turn in his seat. ‘He isn’t licking the window, just… staring in at us.’ He paused for a moment, perhaps a little long because his silence made my skin creep for some unknown reason. Gramps said, in a more than less audible tone, ‘Bit creepy.’

After a moment longer, Gramps turned back to face me. I was still watching the man outside, who was staring straight in at me. It was creepy, and he had been licking the window. I was sure of that. Now he was standing there, staring in at me with a sinister little smirk on his face.

‘What made you think he was licking the window, Jack?’

‘Huh?’ I couldn’t seem to take my eyes from the man. To be honest, I don’t think I wanted to stop watching him. There was something not right about this man, and I felt if I took my eyes from him, something would happen. Something… bad.

My Grandfather clicked his fingers in front of my face. Gramps had always had a loud clicking action. When you were in a daze, the sound had a way of exploding in your ears, like small firecrackers being let off somewhere close to you. I blinked, shook my head, and focused on my Grandfather. ‘Sorry, what were you saying Gramps?’

Gramps was frowning again. ‘I asked, what made you think he had been licking the window?’

I looked at the strange man again. Shrugged and said, ‘Guess it had just looked like he was licking it, Gramps. Maybe the glare?’

‘I think all the talk about being born free might’ve sunken into your head a little too far, Jackie. Sure, we are born free but licking a window in public… that’s maybe a little too free, boy.’

I smiled. ‘Yeah, I guess you’re right, Gramps.’

Gramps eyed me for a moment longer, then he continued. ‘You mentioned earlier you felt like your mum drilled into you that being perfect was important ever since you were a child,’ he said, once more eyeing the bottom of his empty mug. ‘And that your dad belittled you when you screwed things up.’

I nodded.

A small, roundish waitress appeared beside us with her notepad. Gramps didn’t seem to notice her. I looked up and gestured towards Gramps’ mug. The old man might have said he shouldn’t have another coffee, but both he and I knew that wasn’t the truth. The waitress nodded her understanding, scribbled into her notepad and then walked away. So, this is what it feels like to be known; I thought and smiled. Quickly, that smiled vanished as I listened to the words roll around in my head. I cringed at them. It seemed cringing was a favourite pastime for me that day. The words sounded haughty, maybe even snobbish. There was that perfectionism Gramps was referring to coming into me. I pushed the thought away and went back to listening to my Grandfather, who was looking at me closely.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘Well, what?’ I replied.

Gramps sighed. ‘I swear, Jack, you’re dancing in the clouds with butterflies or something.’

From the corner of my eye, I saw the beautiful woman glance across at me again. I so wanted to be invisible. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I was―’

‘Relax Jackie,’ Gramps held up his hand. ‘I was just asking about the things you claim your parents did to you growing up. Your mum was drilling shit into your head about being perfect, and your dad belittling you when you got things wrong.’

‘Yeah, that’s right. At least that’s how it felt… and still feels, I suppose.’

Gramps smiled his devilish, cunning grin once more. ‘So, you think your parents won’t be happy unless you’re perfect?’ He laughed. ‘Human beings tend to blow things way out of proportion sometimes. We’re always reading too much into the signals other people give us. I was very much like that, Jackie.’

‘I am like that now.’

This new voice came from the other side of our table. We both looked, and I think we were both a little shocked to see the man who I still swear to this day had been licking the window, sitting at the table on that side of us. He’d turned the chair until it was facing both myself and my Grandfather and had made himself very comfortable. He was leaning back with his arms folded and his right leg resting on his left knee. He held a knife he’d taken from the cutlery bucket that sat in the centre of the table. Neither Gramps nor I had noticed him come into the café or take the seat beside us.

‘Every single day,’ the man went on, ‘people are always saying shit to us. They send us many stupid verbal and even nonverbal signals. You, me, your old friend here, we all read into these. That’s what we do. But when we read something into these signals that aren’t logical, that’s when we get into trouble, am I right? Rational meaning gets stretched.’

‘Ah, yes I guess you’re right…’ Gramps said, slowly.

The man smiled at my Grandfather. It was a huge, almost menacing smile I didn’t like. I wanted to stand upright then and tell Gramps we were going, but at the same time, it intrigued me to know what this man wanted. Where this new conversation was heading and, most of all, why he had that knife in his hand. Now, as I sit here writing this, I wish I’d made good on my first feeling. I wish I had taken Gramps back to Settlers.

The man went on. ‘Most of us look at reality based on what we think is real. We never seem to look at the facts, do we? We only project our pathetic little insecurities, failings, or delusions. The sad part of all this is that the most common way we do this is by thinking the people who love us the most in this crazy world expect us to be,”–here the man looked into my eyes and smiled–‘perfect.’ Had he been listening to our conversation the whole time? No way that wasn’t possible. He’d been outside the café most the time… licking the damn window.

The little waitress reappeared at our table now and placed Gramps coffee in front of him. She put it down a little heavily, causing the cup to clang on the table and I noticed Gramps jump a little at the surprise of it being placed in front of him. I’d never seen my Gramps jump at anything, and when I looked at him, I’m sure I saw a little fear in his face. We were leaving, I decided. I went to say this to my Grandfather, but before I could, the little waitress spoke to the man.

‘Get you anything?’

The man now turned that menacing smile to her. ‘No, I’m fine thanks.’ The waitress eyed the knife in his hand for a second, and then, seeming as if there was nothing strange about the man’s manner–or the fact he gripped that knife tightly–she shrugged and turned away. ‘Cool. Let me know if you change your mind.’ As she walked away, my eyes connected with the woman at the other table. I think she had sensed what I had. There was something not right about this man. It was time to go.

‘You make some fine points, son,’ Gramps said to the man, ‘but if you don’t mind, I was having a private conversation with my grandson, here.’

The man ignored my Grandfather and went on. ‘We blow everything out of proportion, and it’s all based on bullshit facts. We stretch the truth until it reaches the point it breaks. Until it reaches the point it breaks from reality! What we think is real becomes a lie because we’ve distorted it into some kind sick sense of responsibility! We take it as a demand to be perfect all the time!’ The man’s voice was now rising. People around the café had taken notice of him more closely now. Alarm bells were sounding inside me but, all I could do was sit there and listen. ‘This sick sense of responsibility has somehow destroyed our existence. That’s my opinion. We think we must strive to be perfect in a world where no one is perfect! There is no such thing as a perfect human! No one, none of you, can demand perfection from anyone when you, yourselves, are not perfect! But we lose all of this as useless human beings. You suffer through life because of this way of thinking.’ He paused, smiled again–I hated that smile–and then said, ‘Which is why I’m here to tell you… you’re all going to die. Today…’

****

‘Now see here!’ Gramps pushed back in his chair and pulled himself to his feet. I know I should have stood from my seat too, but something froze me in place. Not fear, but… bewilderment, perhaps? Something was about to happen, this I was sure of, and I knew I should get my Grandfather out of the café while there was still time. Yet that bewilderment kept me frozen in my seat. I wasn’t scared, but I felt like a frightened little child all the same. ‘I won’t have you saying things to upset the nice people in this café,’ Gramps was saying as he stood straight and stepped out from the table. He was now only a few feet from the man, looking down at him, standing there with his chest out and shoulders back. My Grandfather was the bravest man I ever knew.

‘Sit down, old fart, before you fall down,’ the man said. He wasn’t looking at my Grandfather, and he showed him no respect at all.

‘No-no I won’t stand for it!’

The man with the knife now stood from his chair. He approached my Grandfather until they both stood toe-to-toe with one another. Gramps was a few inches shorter than the man with the knife, meaning he had to look up a little to meet the man’s eyes. He did this without fear, staring him down with that familiar look in his eyes. I was frozen in place. Although I knew I needed to stand up and back up Gramps, or at the least, drag him away from the confrontation he was having with this man that held a knife and was a little unbalanced. I knew I needed to do this, but I couldn’t make a connection from my brain to the rest of my body. I was frozen, though still not in fear, in astonishment, frozen, in time, or so it felt. My hands were palms down on the tabletop as if glued or somehow fused to the top. My legs, well they seemed to have forgotten how to work and remained stationary beneath the table.

The man with the knife said, ‘You’re standing now, old-timer. So, you’re standing for something. Do you speak for these people in this café?’

'If it means standing up to bullies like you, yes, I suppose I do speak for these good people.’

‘How do you know they are good people?’

Gramps now raised his head, pushing out his chest and standing tall. ‘I just know they are.’

The man with the knife smiled. ‘There are two types of people in this world, old man. There are the good, and then there’s the bad. Light and dark. It’s a balance, and it’s important in the world, wouldn’t you agree?’

Gramps didn’t reply, he just stood there in his confident stance, eyeing the man with that steely gaze. I expected Gramps to give the man a swift kick in the arse at any minute. I didn’t want it to happen, but I expected it to happen. That kick never came.

‘Balance is something that keeps the earth spinning,’ the man was saying. ‘To create such a balance, there needs to be good and evil, dark and light. Life is full of hostilities, and it’s one thing that makes life interesting. Aggression is important. It provides symmetry in our lives. Good and evil makes the world more exciting, more enjoyable.’

Gramps had had enough of what this man was saying. ‘What the hell are you babbling on about? I think you should leave this place before we call the police son.’

‘I’m not your son,’ the man replied. His voice was low, husky, his eyes appeared to darken, and he lowered his forehead a little towards my Grandfather. I remained still frozen. ‘And I’m asking if you think I’m a good person?’

We all held our breath–at least I know I was holding mine in anticipation of what Gramps would say next. He stood there, scanning the man’s eyes, searching perhaps for any sign that this man was, in fact, a good man. For what seemed like a long time, Gramps looked into this man’s eyes, until he sighed and said, ‘I don’t know.’

The man’s menacing smile reappeared at my Grandfather’s words. ‘Some say there is evilness in this world,’ the man said, never once taking his dark eyes from my Granddad. ‘I think some people just chose to go to extreme lengths when it comes to being good or evil.’

‘I have fought in a war,’ Gramps said. ‘I know the difference between good and evil men in this world.’

‘Then you should know what you are standing against for these so-called good people here today. You should know hostility when you see it.’

‘I know bravery when I see it, and I know a coward, and you, sir, reek of being a coward. You don’t have the balls to carry out what you’re thinking of doing here today. That is what I can see in you.’

‘Then you’re a fool,’ the man said. ‘Brave, but still a fool.’

The next words my Granddad said were to be his last ever spoken. He said, ‘And you’re a madman.’

*****

I think we all saw it happening before my Grandfather was even aware he was doing it. He was a brave man for sure, but age had taken the speed that war veteran might have once had–the hand of death had slowed Gramps to a snail pace.

I watched Gramps’ old, bony hand reach out towards the knife, and then I watched youth overpower old age all from my frozen spot on the chair. The man with the knife knocked Gramps’ hand away, and in almost the same instant, he brought the blade up and plunged it into my Grandfathers’ throat, the fleshy part below his chin. I’m not sure what the actual biological term for that area below the jaw is, maybe we refer to it as the throat who knows and who cares. All I know is that I watched that madman stick that knife into my Grandfather, below his chin, and I didn’t do a thing to keep it from happening.

Gramps’ mouth dropped open as the knife went in. Blood poured from the wound, down the blade of the knife and over the man’s hand. In his gaping mouth, I could see the blade protruding through, covered with my grandfathers’ blood. Gramps’ eyes widened and bulged. I heard him gag and grunt and moan; I think he was trying to say something but with the knife stuck deep in his throat, the word was only a gag. When I think about it now, it sounded as if he might’ve been trying to say the word ‘why.’ Perhaps ‘why’ to the man who had just rammed that knife into his throat. Or maybe ‘why’ to his grandson who had just sat there and let this crazy man kill him. It haunts me every day, that one last sound coming out of my Grandfather’s mouth–gah–is the guilt that eats me up while I’m awake and while I sleep.

The man now turned the knife inside my Grandfather’s mouth, a whole 180-degree turn until the sharp side of the blade was now facing inside Gramps’ mouth towards his throat. Then, with what seemed like ease, he pushed the knife forward and dragged it downward. More blood spewed out of my Grandfather, spattering to the floor as if someone had poured a bucket out. Gramps stumbled back, clutching at his throat, looking at the man who had just killed him. There was blood everywhere. It was covering my grandfathers’ overcoat, spilling from the gash in his throat, dribbling from his open mouth. It had even leaked from the corners of his eyes like red teardrops.

My Gramps is crying blood, I thought, and with that thought, the feeling came back into my body. Maybe a little late, but I could feel it all building up in me now–pure rage. And, for the first time since watching that knife plunge into my Grandfather, I heard the other people in the café screaming.

As Gramps dropped to his knees and then bent forward, still holding his throat but pretty much now dead, I stood from the chair and screamed, ‘You killed my grandfather!’

The madman spun towards me, his shoes twirling in my grandfathers’ blood. He held the knife out in front, threatening me with it. The menacing smile never once leaving his face, those dark, insane eyes drilling into me, my Gramps’ blood smeared over his hand. ‘And now I’ll do you, too.’

He came at me, shrieking. An ear-splitting scream of the likes I’d never heard and hoped never to hear again. ‘Yaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeekkkkkkkkkp!’ Now unfrozen it seemed, I grabbed the chair I’d been sitting on and threw it at the screaming madman. The chair hit the man’s arm holding the knife, causing it to come loose and drop into the blood below. He stumbled backwards against the table he’d been sitting at when he’d first talked to us–oh, how long ago that now seemed.

People were rushing towards the front entrance, but only a few. The rest remained frozen in their seats, watching with terrified stares at what was taking place before them—frozen, except for their screams.

Now the madman was gaining his footing once more. He glimpsed the knife just before I did and pounced on it. I had mere seconds to decide my next course of action, and it hit me in less than a second. I hurried around the other side of the table (noticing that the beautiful woman with the dark-reddish hair and her boyfriend, fiancée, husband? was still sitting at their table, both as paralysed with fear as it seemed were most of the café goers) and as the madman scooped up the knife, I scooped up the table. I turned it on its side, took a firm grasp of the two closest legs in both hands, and lifted. It wasn’t as heavy as I’d expected it to be and I was glad for that. Now as the madman came at me, losing his footing in my Gramps’ blood, screaming that horrifying noise–Yaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeekkkkkkkkkp!–I ran at the madman with the table. I was expecting him to stop dead in his tracks and back away, but he didn’t; he kept running at the table. Running and screaming and holding that knife out in front of him until… he ran straight into the table. There was a loud hollow thud from the other side, and his insane shrieks ceased. I heard his body hit the floor behind the table, and I thrust the table forward, heaving it at him. The table landed on top of him. ‘You turd!’ the madman said from beneath the table. ‘You turdity turd turdity turder!’

The table moved and before I knew what was happening, the madman, moving quicker than I’m sure is even possible, was out from beneath the table and getting to his feet, still holding the knife. As he stood up straight, something sped past me, knocking me to the left. It was the beautiful woman’s boyfriend, fiancée, husband… oh, whoever the hell he was. He was charging the madman and had forgotten about the knife.

As he pounced on the man, I heard the beautiful woman somewhere close behind me scream, ‘Jake! No!’ but it was no good, and it was too late. Both he–Jake was what I think she’d said–and the madman fell to the floor. Jake was laying into the man with punches to the face and head, yet you know what? I swear that goddamn smile never left that crazy bastard’s mouth even as those massive fists thumped into him. Perhaps because the madman knew he had the upper hand because he still had the knife. Or maybe that smile was just fixed to him. Either way, it didn’t matter, because he had the upper hand and it wasn’t too long before everyone knew this.

The madman stuck Jake with the knife, plunging it in his side just below his ribs. I could hear the blade thrusting in and out of Jake’s flesh, making almost sucking sounds or squelching sounds as it went in and out. More blood covered the floor, joining with my Grandfather’s blood, and covering the madman, too. He screamed as he stuck that knife in Jake. Behind me, the beautiful woman cried out, and when she did, I realised I’d almost let myself become frozen again. Her screams snapped me back into action, and as Jake died on top of the man, I turned towards the front entrance, clutching the woman’s hand as I did–more out of reaction to adrenalin than heroism, I think.

‘We gotta go now!’ I bellowed at her. At first, she didn’t move, but after I gave her arm a sharp tug, her legs started forward with mine.

We ran towards the door, and I noticed, fleetingly, no one else was. The doorway was clear, looking lonely and so damn far away. Behind me, I heard that god awful shriek again (Yaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeekkkkkkkkkp!), but I kept running to that door, not once looking over my shoulder to see if the man had gotten to his feet or even how close behind me he might have been. I ran, dragging the beautiful woman behind me, though not caring if she tripped and fell. I think I would’ve left her there if she had fallen. I know, not brave, but it wasn’t about being brave or a hero. It was about surviving. I’d taken her hand out of – I don’t know why I’d taken her hand. I’d just taken it.

As we passed by my now dead Grandfather, I looked down at him. His eyes were open and staring up at me. Dead though questioning eyes; eyes that have fed my guilt since that day; eyes that were accusing. Why? Why? Why? And then those eyes vanished as I raced past his dead body towards the door.

‘Yaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeekkkkkkkkkp! No one leaves! No one gets out! Yaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeekkkkkkkkkp!’

How close was he? I didn’t know and didn’t want to find out. I just wanted to get out of there, reach the other side of the street, get as far away from the madman and his insane shrieking as I could. I could feel him right behind me, though. I could almost sense his hand reaching out for me, only inches away from my neck, that knife whooshing through the air as he swung it down on me, plunging it into my back and then dragging it downwards and opening me up like he had my Grandfather and―

Then I was pushing through the door, running out onto the sidewalk, into the bright light of the day. I kept running, dragging the woman behind me. We ran into the street; I didn’t notice if any cars were coming or if any of them had had to come to a sudden squealing halt. I think if I had, I would have freaked, thinking the sound of their tyres squealing were the insane shrieks of the madman. I noticed nothing until I reached the other side of the street and stopped, gagging for breath and feeling, for the first time, my entire body shaking in fear. In the distant, I could hear sirens coming, getting louder with each passing second. Someone, I thought, someone’s been smart and called the cops.

Beside me, someone stepped up on the sidewalk. I jumped and almost elbowed them in the face, thinking it was the madman come after me. It wasn’t, though, it was the beautiful woman. I’d forgotten I still had hold of her hand.

I turned to her, dropping her hand as I did. She was looking back across the street at the café. She was even more beautiful up close than I’d first thought. Tears stood out in her eyes, glistening in the bright light of the sun. ‘I’m sor―’ I tried, but the words got caught in my throat. ‘I’m sorry about your husband,’ I got out. ‘Jake, wasn’t it?’

She looked at me, her eyes now tearing up more and becoming red. Her mascara had run down her cheeks, forming thin long black vines that gave the impression of tiny cracks in her complexion. ‘He… he was my brother,’ she said, before turning and walking up the sidewalk with her arms crossed over her midsection. I thought of asking for her number, but it didn’t seem to be the time if you know what I mean.

I watched her disappear into the gathering crowd. I could still hear the police sirens approaching. People were gathering by the minute on this side of the street, looking across at the café. Some were muttering about how they’d seen a man earlier standing outside, looking strange. Other’s spoke about how he’d been licking the window only moments before entering the café (I knew he did that, I thought). And still, others said they had been lucky because they’d thought of heading in for a coffee before going home. None of them knew how lucky they were.

I don’t know why I did it; I suppose I felt as if I was being watched, but I turned my attention away from the gathering crowd as the beautiful woman disappeared into the crowd, out of my life for good. And that feeling of being watched was correct. There, standing at the window, that menacing smile still plastered on his mouth, was the madman… and he was staring straight at me. Blood caked his face, some his own, I guess, and some that belonged to the woman’s brother, Jake. He just stood there, watching me and smiling. Behind him, I could see the people who hadn’t been lucky like myself to get out. His hostages I guess you could call them. They were all sitting at the tables, looking ahead, looking out at people on the street, looking back at them. Terror held their faces. A small boy wandered into view, and I saw his mother swoop him into her arms. I hadn’t even noticed that child. If I had, would I’ve tried to save him? I don’t know. I had saved the woman I guess, but as I said, it wasn’t out of bravery I did that. I don’t know why I’d done it.

As the police cars came squealing around the corner and halting in front of the café, the madman continued to stare out at me. The police jumped out of their cars, pulling their guns and shielding themselves behind their cruisers, the madman pushed the button to the roller shutters on the shop windows. The shutters lowered, he and his menacing smile went out of view but remained burned into my mind.

I turned away from the café and made myself vanish into the gathering crowd. I didn’t want to answer questions.

******

I never told the police I’d been there that day. I’ve let the story out until now. It’s remained a constant nightmare since that day, a year ago.

As for my Grandfather, my mother phoned me later that night to tell me someone had killed him. According to the reports, the madman had held those people all day inside the café. He hadn’t responded to the police attempts of trying to communicate with him. No one inside the restaurant had spoken to the police about what had happened inside. The madman had released every one of the hostages unharmed, and the police had taken the madman into custody. The police had found two bodies in the kitchen, laid out with their hands over their chests… and two coins covering each of their eyelids.

‘He was in that bloody café, Jack!’ my mother had cried over the phone. ‘Why would he have been in that bloody café alone?’

I didn’t know what to tell her, so I’d just hung up the phone and stood there in the house’s silence.

I know I’ll never gain an in-depth understanding of what happened in the café that day. I think if I tried to, it would take me down a path of utter madness. I guess the safest option is to accept that perhaps the damn world is perfectly imperfect, and that’s just… fine with me.

Yaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeekkkkkkkkkp!