Joe Lehman Quagmire pt. 1 12/3/02

Joe Lehman

Quagmire pt. 1 12/3/02









He held tight to the gun.

Clutching it for dear life, he crouched in the shadows.

His body tensing, ready to jump at any pin drop, trigger finger itching to unload the rapid magazine burst of a worker’s fury.

This must be what guerrilla warfare is really like, he thought.

The room was blanketed in the cold, shivering darkness.

It was as though the window had no effect at all, the bright light and cool brisk mountain air did not exist once it reached the doors and windows of the cabin.

He kept deathly still. Under cover of darkness, his senses trained to enhancement five times beyond what they once were.

His body, a quivering piece of jelly, he had always taken such pride in proper care for it. Now it was garbage, his bones brittle, his skin a pasty malnourished yellow, longing for a taste of the rejuvenating sunlight it missed so much.

His eyes were an empty pool of blackness, like he had not had a moment of refreshing sleep in weeks.

His stubble growing ragged like an unkempt hermit, and his hair, where it was once a wave of sandy blond, now a greasy mound of slime and dirt.

He was now dead to every form of emotion.

Only vengeance remained the force left driving him to stay alive.

It was the vengeance of a brother, torn from his flesh by the murdering arm of law enforcement.

His last resolve was to strike back, cast a dagger into the heart of the great oppressor.

Slowly he was deteriorating to waste they had all wanted him to be.

Now they had gotten their wish.

Hounded, beaten like an animal, he could only hide for such a long time.

Lost in a jungle of voices, the whole world playing in his head like a clock radio that could not be unplugged.

While his body was frozen, in his mind he was on the ground on all fours scavenging for bits of broken pieces with numbing desperation.

The pathetic whimpering expected of a dog, reducing to a worthless derelict piece of human refuse.
But that’s what’s expected now.

This was what he had always wanted.

He was finally underground.

Suddenly the silence was broken.

The creaking, tapping sound emanating from outside the doorway unearthed him, but did not shake him from his position.
Slowly, he braced himself.

Pursing his lips, clenching his teeth, his body tensed even more.
The fury was pulsating his breath.

Ready to aim high and squeeze the trigger with all his might.
Then a he heard a whisper.

He’d recognize it anywhere; the sweet maiden seventeen-year-old voice that had soothed him for so long on the days when it seemed like it was all worth nothing. That nothing he worked for ever mattered.

That voice was calling out his name.

But he did not relax.

His hands clutched the weapon even tighter. His body tensed further, but his breathing was at a greater trembling than he had ever experienced.

Slowly, the door opened; a creak, then some more.

He didn’t move. He couldn’t move a muscle.

He saw her enter the room slowly; everything was a blur, like it wasn’t real.

She moved closer and closer to him, and he couldn’t move.

His face remained the same hopeless, drooling figure with the dark, empty stare, it was.

As she came closer through the shadows, that voice called out his name again.

She was carrying something in her arms. He could not see it, for he was looking straight ahead without eye contact.

He thought he heard her say, it’s me, I’m here.

Was right there before him now, and he still looked straight ahead.

She could barely muster the words. He could barely make out any of what she was saying.

He heard her say you can’t go on like this.

Nothing could get through. His face was still a paragon of hopelessness.

A spot of drool built up at his lips. She brought out a handkerchief with her free hand and dabbed at his face. His face didn’t change. He was comatose. Nothing could get through.

Tears were streaming down her face, now they were beginning to stream down his.

She held up the bundle in her hand.

Wrapped in a blanket he could hear a cooing sound, a gurgle, and then a tiny voice. Unwittingly his eyes darted toward the bundle for a second.

It was there he saw the little round face, the eyes wandering around the room and up at him, with the innocent curiosity only a newborn would possess. The little thing looked as though it was wondering where it was.

He could smell the clean aroma of its soft white skin, the kind of cleanliness only a newborn has when it is still impervious to the evils of the world around it.

He heard her say this is your daughter.

Everything that happened next happened without him even realizing it.

For the first time, his lip curled up the way it would when he would normally smile.

He heard himself muster a sound lodged in his throat, a weak, infantile grunt.

You see, she has your eyes, heard her tell him.

He looked up at her with an imploring stare. His eyes like those of a child to helpless to care for itself, begging to be fed.

His arm weakly extended toward her.

The next thing he knew, he had dropped the gun.

Nervously she placed the baby in his arm.

He gently held the child close to his heart with what little strength he had.

The tears were still few, but were beginning to stream down.

He held the child tight and the cold world opened up like the blossoming of a flower.

At last something in there melted.