Retribution

© Foster Trecost

The soft couch encouraged recollection; Johnson faced upward and also his past. He recalled those things long forgotten, but not for himself - he relived them for someone else. The questions came from behind a graying beard, accompanied by a gaze from behind thick glasses, both of which gave an educated air to the words, but the air was thin. “What did you do next?”

Johnson tugged at the memories, which resisted the soft couch and tugged back, making disclosure difficult. “I can't remember,” he said.

“You can't or you don't want to?” A patient nature gave the impression time was not important.

Johnson continued: “It was meant to be a joke, a game; we were just kids. We took him in the woods behind the school. He tried to fight but we were too many and he was just a little thing. We made him hug a tree and then tied his hands together and his feet together.”

“Why like that, facing the tree?”

“We thought it'd be scarier if he couldn't see us.”

“How many were you?”

“Five.”

The tone turned insolent, the questions now served on a jagged plate: “Five against one?”

“We didn't see it that way. There were five of us but we would've done the same even there were only two.”

The jagged edges became sharper with each portion: “Why would you do such a thing?”

No answer and the question was repeated.

“Because we could. He was so little.”

“Yes, of course,” said the bearded man. “Then what happened?”

“We had a slingshot. Not a fancy kind from a store, just something we made.”

“But it worked?”

“Yes, it worked. We took turns with it. After each round, we'd move a few feet further away. Finally, we got so far back that everybody missed but me. I was the winner.”

“Interesting game. Did you feel like a winner?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still?”

A nostalgic smile graced his face and then melted away, but not before it was seen by the bearded man. “No,” said Johnson.

“Well, that's something. That's progress, wouldn't you say? Did you ever think how this might affect him, long term?”

“No.”

“Did you ever think how this might affect you, long term?”

“No.”

The bearded man stood and walked across the room. He took his glasses from his face, placed them on a desk and then pinched the part of his nose that rested between his eyes. The memories were difficult, also for him, especially for him. “Do the ropes hurt your wrists?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And your ankles?”

“Yes.”

“As much as they hurt his?”

“I don't know.”

“Then what, after you were declared the winner?”

“We walked back to him. He was bleeding everywhere, his back, his neck, but he wasn't crying, which scared us more than the blood. I couldn't understand why he wasn't crying. I thought you were dead-”

“-He!” yelled the bearded man. “You thought he was dead.”

“Yes, he. I thought maybe he was dead.”

The bearded man then permitted the jagged plate to remain empty; he saw no need for further questions. He pulled open a drawer and pulled from it something Johnson could not see, but also did not have to; he knew what was to come and tightened his eyes in await of the first arrival. The opening shot caught his temple, the one after, his cheek. He wondered how many more lay in store, how many more he could endure, and then understood something all these years later: full with fear and humiliation, as much as he wanted, he also could not cry, not even a single tear.