As I stare blankly to the wall ahead of me I ponder ‘what am I doing here?’
What is it with dead end jobs and shithole towns that just make you stare into nothingness and ask ‘what am I doing here?’ as if there was any real importance on what you were doing nowhere. Furthermore if you had any importance why would you be working at a dead end job that triggers this question? Maybe you really are important just stuck in a measly town cleaning up the piss, shit, cum, and blood that people have left on the bathroom floor of some mall; maybe you’re not supposed to be what your job entitles.
“Jay, staring at the wall won’t get the floors scrubbed.” Ah, the infinite wisdom of an aging irrelevant. I wonder if he ever thought of anything more than mopping bathroom floors. Always has his head to the floor slowly stroking the mop back and forth and then step back away from the cleaned surfaced then repeating the procedure until the floor reaches it’s end at an entrance. There is the possibility that this man thought of using a sponge mop, or even an electric buffer, or when he feels extra special he’d use a wet-vac. Other than that, there isn’t much to discuss about him.
But there is much more to this custodian than this boy knows, or could even think of. He is a kind man, a humble man. His heart is filled with kindness unbound.
When this man was young, he was a fighter pilot; he believed in his country, he believed in the lies that brought him to war. He was told to bring freedom to a foreign land, across the seas, across the mountains, and across the globe encompassing. He sweeps the floors as he would have swept bombs on homes of mothers, fathers, and children; he would destroy all who was in the way, the homeless, and those who once had homes. He did not truly see the destruction he had caused he did not see the faces of those who felt his indiscretion. He was content with what he had done; it was easy to him. When his flight was done he would celebrate with his pals, his men, his brothers at arms. He flew and when he flew he left an ocean of tears and blood. He once destroyed a market in one swoop, not only did he kill the shopkeepers, and their customers but he also starved several villages, and those who lived out of cities. He did not see their emaciation, he did not see their woe; he was content. If he had known, if he had seen what he had done, he would crumble and he would topple as a mountain gives way to the weight of gravity.
When he flew, he imagined himself as an angel, and his bombs, and the destruction he caused, were his message of change, they were his message of freedom. He was doing this for their well being, to make their lives better, to give those hope when they had none; he was an angel from his land. True, he did not see these particular events for what they really were, but he did see some of the atrocities he caused from above. As an Arch Angel casts down to smite the wicked, and cruel, he sends his bombs, there was a miniscule demon that fired brimstone, and flame to clip his wings. He jettisons his vessel and floats calmly to the ground, as his vessel crashes in a fiery blaze and obliterates a school. He lands hard, but he is left unscathed, he removes his straps and prepares for the eventual onslaught to come. With a sword of flame, and heart filled with evangelical might he waits boldly. He is just, he is right, and he will fight for the honor of freedom, and high order than himself. His wings may be clipped but he is still the hand of a higher order. All the while he watches as a building is set ablaze by his wreckage. Children scream and cry, wailing and running scattered across his view, except for one lone child.
This child was fair, and unscathed, innocent, and lost. He meets the child’s gaze, they lock, and the world became silent. The Custodian was unmoving, entranced, and finally the veil of illusion falls away from his eyes. His wings were nonexistent, his sword of flame extinguished, into a cold hard steel barrel, and his evangelical fervor, quelled, yet left an eerie feeling in place. He stares crazed at the child, ‘What have I done?’ a thought left in his mind as a mantra. The cruel realization of his actions swept through every fiber of his being, not to leave a spot unchecked, and unclean. His illusion that made up his reality shattered with a single glimpse of the consequences of his actions. Still fixated on the Child’s eyes, which was left unscathed; untouched by his destruction he watched the light burn in his eyes. The light was bright, and blinding, it was as if life poured all its energies into this Child’s eyes; life and soul gazed back at the Custodian. It was as if the Child were an angel, fallen into Hell, fire, and rubble charred black were his background. It was an ironic sight to have an angel, as this Child was, surrounded by death, flame, and despair, a disposition unmatched in the eyes of the Custodian. Then there was a blast. He remembers every detail as it is set in his mind constantly playing through even to this day. The blast seemed to be slow, a wall of flame and smoke that slithered, and engulfed the unmoving Child. The Custodian stared, unblinking, shocked and calm, he could do nothing more. He saw, in those split seconds that felt like hours, the Child’s flesh burn, and strip away, his clothes set aflame, and his eyes melt; yet still filled with the blinding light of life. His eyes gave off a light that pierced through the smoke and flame, it was there even after the extreme heat melted his eyes, after his flesh stripped clean to his bones, and after his bones fell into dust; the light remained, and the Custodian was left unclean. He comes out of his trance and ducks for cover, the previous silence now broken, and became a cacophony of unpleasant sounds. Shots fired and screamed, and bombs fell and wailed, then blasts heave and the ground quivers. Stone, rubble, and hot metal shards fell as sleet and hail. The charred remains of structures pelted his pilot’s coat, and shards of metal sleet burned and scathed through his flesh and clothes. Bullets scream above his head; he could do nothing but wail. He covers his head with his hands, his face flushed red, and eyes pop out as if they were trying to escape to find better shelter, but in the battlefield there is no where safe to hide. So he waits, curled into a ball sobbing as a sick child, with no way to cure, or alleviate the pain. He waits for his own death, but it does not come.
When the bullets stop screaming, and the bombs stop wailing, and the ground stop shaking the Custodian lay still and then sleep overcomes him. He awakens to find himself still on the spot where he lay. Bruised, bloodied, and scorched he stands and seeks the spot in which the Child stood. He spots the remains almost instantly. There is nothing left but black ashes and bone fragments. He walks slowly across the rubble, silent and uncanny. He bends over to collect a bone, it was brittle and it crumbles to black dust. He removes his helmet and sweeps the ashes into it. To this day he does not know why he did such a thing, but it is the first thing to cross his mind whenever he touches a broom. With the Child’s ashes in his helmet, and not one speck of dust left on the ground, he wanders off to where he thinks his base camp is. It takes him six days to arrive to his base. With no food, or water he wanders lost, not knowing for certain if his destination was truly ahead of him. Still holding the ashes in his helm, he dared not spill a grain of dust he dared not part with it. Through those six days and nights in the hot desert sun, and the cruel cold desert moon, his mind was leaving him.
He had his first hallucination on the second day, during the mid-day sun. The ashes spoke to him. “Where are you taking me?” It first came as a slow whisper. He ignored it. Then it came again, not as slow and a little louder, but still not loud enough for him to take notice. He told himself the heat was getting him, and that the wind was getting into ears. Fatigued, and walking, bruised, bloodied, and parched he carried on. When night came he found shelter under an over hanging rock. He set himself up for rest, and he slept an uneasy sleep. He was awoken by a voice in the middle of the night, and he finally heard it loud and clear “Where are you taking me?”
He quickly answered, “Who’s that? Who’s talking? Where are you, come out so I can see you!”
“I am here.” The voice was near but there was no one to be seen, was he dreaming? Was he going insane? But if he were going crazy he would not have asked that question; the crazy do not know they are crazy.
“Where’s ‘here’?”
“Well, ‘here’ is relative. As is everywhere, but in this case where ever ‘here’ is, is where you placed me.” A chill runs down the Custodians back. The hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. He turns slowly, cold sweat beads down his face. He looks to his helmet, the ashes of the Child spoke to him. He cannot comprehend this, even during his clearest of moments he would not have been able to understand how the black ashes of the dead could speak. Even as fear overwhelms his entire being, he still remains calm.
He asks the ashes, “How are you speaking to me?”
“I do not know, but the fact that you can understand me and that I can understand you is strange in itself. I never knew your language, and I’m guess you have not learned mine but save for a few words.” The ashes respond eloquently, calmly, and the sound so peaceful the Custodian pays no mind to the fact that he’s having a conversation with a pile of ashes. “So… are you going to answer me? I would really like to know where you’re taking me.”
“Oh, right, we’re heading towards my base. I need to report to my superiors. They may think I have died in action, or at least have gone missing. I need to let them know I’m fine… At least let them know I’m alive.”
“Okay…” there was sometime that passed before either of them spoke a word, but the Custodian stayed awake despite feeling exhausted. He was glad that he had some form of company, someone to talk to. It brought him a slight glow of life, a skip to his step, and his wounds and his fatigue did not bother him so much anymore. This was the distraction he needed. With a slight smile across the Custodian’s face he sat till dawn approached, and stood as the Sun rose off to the horizon, and he stood with the Child’s ashes in his arms. They stood and watched the desert sunrise. As they stood, the ashes spoke to him once again, “ I would really like to see the ocean. Can you take me there? You can leave me there, and spread me along the beach.” The Custodian agreed and continued on their trek to the base. He was still lost, and he was not so sure that his base was in the direction he was walking, but he still pressed on.
On the third day, the Custodian became accustomed to conversing with the ashes. He told the ashes about his childhood, about living by the beach back home. About fishing in the lake with his father, about water skiing with his friends. He went on about his time play, fishing, and hunting on the waters of his home. He even spoke of the different beaches there are, he went on about the sandy white beaches, the coarser brown beaches, and the rocky black beaches, and all of the different things one can do on each one. The Child’s ashes would every once in awhile give words of excitement, and would continuously probe for more stories about the Custodian’s life by the water. The Custodian didn’t mind going on about his life. He found it soothing, a calming distraction. But all of this talk of water reminded him of his thirst.
On the fourth day, he got up before the Sunrise, held the ashes, and welcomed the day. He did this with great effort, his muscles strained, and his legs cramped, and his feet blistered yet he still stood with the ashes. He must find water, but he does not know where to look. He asked the ashes, “Where can I find water?”
The ashes respond, ”Place me down, and bleed into me, and I will promise you water.”
The Custodian does what the ashes ask, unquestioningly. He removes his service knife and cut his hand and leaves a few drops of blood into the ashes. A spring appears into his sight almost instantly, and he drinks, he drinks his fill. He drinks too much too fast, and it makes him sick. He grabs the ashes and he walks on, hurt, and ill. He does not speak to the ashes for the rest of the day; it would be best if he conserved energy.
On the fifth day, he rose again before the sun rose, still weak, and his muscles strained, his lips blacken and dried from the desert heat. He watched the sunrise again, half asleep and holding the ashes. He wandered on towards his destination. Later he asked the ashes, “Didn’t I have some water yesterday? I should be fine, I shouldn’t be this thirsty.”
“The water you drank was an illusion, as was the cut you made on your hand. I’m sorry, but you were hallucinating.” The ashes spoke a matter of fact, with such calm, and soothing sound that the Custodian did not mind. He should have been angered, frustrated, but he was calm. He was tired, he was thirsty, and he was hungry. With no plant in sight known to be edible, and no animals to be seen, no insects under rocks, he went on starving. He had the hot desert sun beat down on his head, with nothing to cover the rays. He began to see things. He thought he had passed by his father watering their lawn at one point, there was another time he swore he saw the lake in which he used to fish. He saw a motorboat rocking on the edge of a sand dune. He felt his mind slipping, and he felt his life draining. He collapsed to his knees hold the ashes, then the ashes spoke.
“You have to take me to the ocean, you promised.” With those words of encouragement, he groggily got up, and walked on with a horrid gate. Each step was pain, each movement was excruciating, but he had to get to a beach, he had to go on. He had to make amends, for his sins, beyond all costs.
On the sixth day, the Custodian, rose and sat with the ashes to watch the sunrise, he can barely sit up. He waits for his strength to return a bit before he wanders towards his destination. He can only think of the atrocities he must have caused. The pain and misery his bombs have made, and the death and destruction that his fellow angels have brought to the unsuspecting people below. With black lips caked, and sheared skin baked he arrived thirst unquenched, and with hunger panged. He arrived and collapsed into himself still holding his helmet, and cried tears of blood. When without water for long enough a man will cry tears of blood, if that man can no longer hold back his sorrow, and frustration. Bruised, broken, and dehydrated, he arrives home away from home, where the other ‘angels’ reside. They rushed him to a medical construct, leaving his helm with him, as they could not take it away, he dared not part with it. He dare not be without it. Even in his weakened state his strength was impressive. The Custodian had spent several weeks at the base to recuperate enough for him to be safely transported home. And he leaves with the ashes of the Child.
When he arrived home, he was given an honorable discharge and a rather sizable compensation package. When he left for home the first place he drove to was three hundred miles away from his door; he drove towards the black beaches to the north. The Custodian then walked onto the beach, clear of mind, and long after his hallucinations ended. He brought his helm, and sat on the coarse ground and waited for the Sunrise. Dawn was approaching. He stood with the ashes and watched the majesty of the Sun’s glow upon the water. With each sunrise, a new day begins and life goes on, and the dead are further from the future. When the Sun rises above the water, you can swear that it glows a special glow, it is as though life is given a new breath of air, and burns with a special eloquence, much as the Child’s eyes had. As the Sun stares at the Custodian, he lets the ashes loose upon the ground, spreading them carefully, and evenly. Making sure they are cleanly spread. He leaves the beach and arrives home, healthy, and full of life.
The Custodian was without a spouse or children so he sold his home after his father passed on, and rented an apartment in the city. Even though his compensation package was sizable, he felt it was important to work, but he did not want a high paying job, he didn’t need it. He found a job as a custodian at the mall, and when he was not working he was volunteering at the homeless shelter, and soup kitchen. He goes there to find anyone who may have had that light the Child had, and he sees it everyday when he’s there. He also fosters six children across the globe; whatever he makes he sends out to them what he does not need. He has bought them all water purifiers, and wells for their respective communities. They too had the light of the Child. He makes no mistake there is no way for him to redeem his atrocious actions against people, but he can try to find a way to help those in need rather than causing more suffering for others.
~
The Custodian works hard, and he enjoys the simplicity of his job, but every once in awhile he is reminded of the bombs he has swept, the tears and blood he had mopped, and the lives he had sucked away. And that could make any man breakdown. Which he had done in front of a young man he called Jay.
“Hey, old man… you okay? What’s wrong? Did you throw-out your back? My dad used to throw-out his back all the time…”
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