Souls - I
Souls are a dirty business. You’d think something as abstract and ethereal as the human soul would be relatively clean, but it isn’t. Sitting in my van, the motor still tiredly rumbling as if it resents being parked, I can see just how dirty it is.
Lying in his own filth, along with the filth of hundreds of others, you’d think Jonathan was a hobo. But he’s not, he’s hiding. Lying in an alley, garbage as his pillow, blanket, and roof. Jonathan thinks I can't see him, he thinks he’s safe.
But he isn’t.
I can’t help but sigh as I turn off the van, the engine thankfully shuttering to a stop. I open the door, letting the metal groan slowly as it opens and closes. I’m not trying to be covert. He doesn't deserve that.
I stomp over to Jonathan with the grace of a toddler’s tempter tantrum, kicking his filthy foot when I reach him. He doesn’t move.
“You have a debt.” He still doesn’t move.
“And it’s past time to collect.” I kick him harder this time. No movement, he is dedicated to the opossum thing I’ll give him that.
You probably think I’m gonna pull away the garbage and reveal that he’s been dead the whole time. Hate to disappoint you, but it ain’t gonna happen. How do I know this? Cause he ain’t paid up. And there’s no dying until you’re paid up.
I kneel down to the grimy asphalt, feeling the slime soaking into the knees of my pants, and pull out a large, silver cylindrical tool out of my inner coat pocket. I’d tell you the name, but you don’t know it. It’s kind of like a syringe, but larger and not nearly as delicate. Like I said, souls are a dirty business.
I pull back the garbage, his glassy eyes stare up to me, his mouth agape frozen in a grimace of horror. He blinks. Told ya, not dead. Yet.
“You shoulda paid your debt Johnny boy, would have been better for everybody.”
A tear escapes his steely eye. Looks like he had a stroke or something, body telling him what we all know. It was time to get out of this mess.
I pull the tool up to his face, he knows the name of it. He knows what it does.
“Ready?” I don’t know why I asked, he can’t move.
Nodding, I let the tool find its purpose, entering through the cornea, deep into the brain. You’d think you’d get used to the pop that a bursting eyeball makes but you never really do.
Jonathan groans so lightly it almost sounds like he might be finding relief. Then he exhales, and it’s done.
The tool isn’t silver so much as translucent now, throbbing with its contents trying desperately to go back to their place in the universe. Not yet little guys, not yet.
I stand up and make my way back to the van. I don’t check to see if he’s dead cause it doesn't matter. His debt is paid, he can do what the hell he wants now.
The van roars back to life as I turn the ignition and grab the check sheet next to me. I scroll down the checkmarks until I find “Jonathan Maker”.
One more checkmark.
Lying in his own filth, along with the filth of hundreds of others, you’d think Jonathan was a hobo. But he’s not, he’s hiding. Lying in an alley, garbage as his pillow, blanket, and roof. Jonathan thinks I can't see him, he thinks he’s safe.
But he isn’t.
I can’t help but sigh as I turn off the van, the engine thankfully shuttering to a stop. I open the door, letting the metal groan slowly as it opens and closes. I’m not trying to be covert. He doesn't deserve that.
I stomp over to Jonathan with the grace of a toddler’s tempter tantrum, kicking his filthy foot when I reach him. He doesn’t move.
“You have a debt.” He still doesn’t move.
“And it’s past time to collect.” I kick him harder this time. No movement, he is dedicated to the opossum thing I’ll give him that.
You probably think I’m gonna pull away the garbage and reveal that he’s been dead the whole time. Hate to disappoint you, but it ain’t gonna happen. How do I know this? Cause he ain’t paid up. And there’s no dying until you’re paid up.
I kneel down to the grimy asphalt, feeling the slime soaking into the knees of my pants, and pull out a large, silver cylindrical tool out of my inner coat pocket. I’d tell you the name, but you don’t know it. It’s kind of like a syringe, but larger and not nearly as delicate. Like I said, souls are a dirty business.
I pull back the garbage, his glassy eyes stare up to me, his mouth agape frozen in a grimace of horror. He blinks. Told ya, not dead. Yet.
“You shoulda paid your debt Johnny boy, would have been better for everybody.”
A tear escapes his steely eye. Looks like he had a stroke or something, body telling him what we all know. It was time to get out of this mess.
I pull the tool up to his face, he knows the name of it. He knows what it does.
“Ready?” I don’t know why I asked, he can’t move.
Nodding, I let the tool find its purpose, entering through the cornea, deep into the brain. You’d think you’d get used to the pop that a bursting eyeball makes but you never really do.
Jonathan groans so lightly it almost sounds like he might be finding relief. Then he exhales, and it’s done.
The tool isn’t silver so much as translucent now, throbbing with its contents trying desperately to go back to their place in the universe. Not yet little guys, not yet.
I stand up and make my way back to the van. I don’t check to see if he’s dead cause it doesn't matter. His debt is paid, he can do what the hell he wants now.
The van roars back to life as I turn the ignition and grab the check sheet next to me. I scroll down the checkmarks until I find “Jonathan Maker”.
One more checkmark.
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