Bleeding Knuckles

Prologue

The first half of this account is fact, the latter half is fiction where I chose another path: the wrong path.

He showed me that my hand would bleed.

He showed me.

He showed me two shredded middle fingers on my right hand dripping: one second there, and one second gone. Glass sliced my skin, and a bright hammer, in a strange room. It was a moment of all moments, and I had no idea why I saw it. “But it will be ok,” He said. What I was given was more than a deja-vu, what I had seen was the future. It was true, it would happen, and it was only a matter of time. Most of all, I was comforted. It would be ok.

I am familiar with deja-vu just like you are. So many times I had something take place where I looked sideways: “I’ve done this before,” or “I dreamed this.” But it was always after-the-fact. It was instantly the past. It was always the same like everyone else had experienced, but this time it was different. It was the opposite. An opposite deja-vu: the future. In my mind it was instantly a fact. The truth, the blood; all of it. It was as much a fact as the hammer I had been swinging when it came. It was as much as a fact that dinner was later placed in front of me, my family surrounding me, and the prayer we shared for ten seconds. Ultimate truth. It was the future as if it already happened.

So what did I do?

I took it with me. A dream, like all dreams, I could do no other thing. It is my firm belief that though mankind may believe he has a choice, the future is set for them by their own will. Sometimes I wonder if given the opportunity, would any man, in the knowledge of the children he has, the friends he has made, the victories, and even sadness he has experienced; would he take another path where all he knew would be erased from reality? Would you, if you were outside space and time, change anything that has produced these treasured faces; your beautiful moments? I could not. I would not.

Like the rest of us, I kept it to myself. Why tell anyone the stuff of my waking dreams? Most dreams are vanity anyway. "Dreamers of the day are dangerous men, T. E. Lawrence said, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible." I believed that, but I also was stuck in the moment like everyone else; I would have to wait.

That was almost two years ago.

What happened was exactly what I saw. I did swing a hammer, and I did bleed from my knuckles. The glass hit the floor and I was at once invincible and vulnerable. Yes. It happened. The moment was the most courageous, manly act of my entire life. Here is the proof:

https://www.aberdeennews.com/story/news/courts/2022/03/25/south-dakota-candidate-groton-mayor-smashed-election-computer-hammer-no-contest-plea/7154181001/

__________________________________________________

Now I pass from reality to fiction. This is the wrong path. This is what a coward would have done:

The moment it entered my mind I thought it was crazy. It was nothing but vanity. A dream by a dreamer. But, it was so real. It was so real I started sweating and set the hammer down. Lately I was constantly dreaming. The year 2020 was in all of our minds and I felt I must do something, anything. Yes. I had to do something. The daydream was nothing. It was outside reality and nothing more. Yet for the next two years the dream followed me everywhere, and I ignored it.

When we moved to South Dakota we left all of our friends and family. It was a step into the unknown. I had tried God and found him wanting. Screw New York and its heavy taxes and all the idiots who demanded masking! What did I owe the state of my birth? Nothing! So, with anger I stepped foot into a new house utterly alone. My friends were now a thousand miles away, and so were the friends of my children. Another move in the life of a marine is nothing. We would adapt as we always did. South Dakota was a blank slate. We would make the best of it. We had to.

Every time I shaved I looked into the mirror. I liked what I saw: forty and nothing but war scars to worry about. I had it all as long as I did nothing. I knew it was a lie, and I didn't care. Starting the day, I went about my duties and performances with vigor. Certainly if I worked hard enough, the vision would disappear, my conscience would abate. It must.

Who the hell was I anyway? A wounded veteran? Yes. Confident? Yes. But I had little means. I was a nobody. I didn't have a congressman in my pocket, I had no real connections to make a big noise. No one would listen anyway! And I tried! I had already sent emails to congressmen and governors and that was enough. If they didn't answer it was their fault. I had already made my complaints known to my peers and that was enough too. The only thing I had was my vote, just like all Americans. But did I? Did we? I knew we didn't. Could I ignore my conscience long enough to no longer hear it? I was sure I could. A marine can do anything! The only thing I had was a dream that may, or may not be me. Though it nagged me daily and tormented me at night, it would go away. Who the hell was I to do something like that anyway?!

And I killed it.

I killed my conscience. I poured myself into work and did well. My house was perfect, my family was perfect, my wife was perfect. I kept up family prayer, and was a success-story indeed. I erected a stunning flagpole and saluted the flag. I read the Bible daily and prayed sometimes nine times a day: sometimes on my face. I now lived in the most prosperous, conservative state in the union, so why did I have to worry? What else could I want? I did my job. I gave enough in the war. I did my duty. No one would know anyway. No one would know that their daddy, their friend, didn't have the courage to go through with it. No one would know.

But I knew.

Everyday I shaved in the mirror. I was less bold, less a man, less this, less that. I stopped growing. I hated myself, I cursed myself, and I didn't care. Slowly, my duties and performances became meaningless. I was a success after all! Why do more? Why not have another drink? Why not go on vacation to Lexington and Concord and ruminate on the past? Ruminate on heroes! Why not wear my old uniform when I marched the flag down main street? Just stand up straight a little while and all will be well. Honor was mine. I had it all.

Then, I aged far beyond my years. I was two-hundred pounds and loved my scotch. I loved a good barbecue and had many new friends. I had a face for them, and a face in private. So what if I no-longer could march or fit in my uniform? I had it all. I did my duty.

And I no longer dreamed. My mind was blank until morning. I asked God to give me dreams like the old days, and I got nothing. Nothing. My spirit was alive yet dead at the same time. I went to church and did the motions. Surely the dreams would come again. Surely I would grow again. Surely He would give me another dream.

And I woke up many years later, and all the world had changed. My children were gone, my wife and I estranged, and I sat on my porch and looked at the flag. Yes. It was perfect. The world was crazy, and it will always be crazy; but I did my duty. There was nothing more I could do.

Yes.

I was a nobody.