The Messenger

He awakens, not knowing where he is, or even remembering who he is.

Wisps of his final dreams cling to the edge of his mind, and they slowly retreat back into their cracks as he sits up in bed. He turns off his bedside alarm and makes his way to the bathroom. In the kitchen, he hears the fresh spurts of coffee dropping into the decanter, programmed to percolate at the same time the bedside alarm is set. As he stumbles a little on his new morning legs, he thinks about his past.

Childhood is far behind now, and part of him wants for that lost innocence, but he knows it is gone forever. Like the now forgotten dream fragments, it has slipped painlessly away with the passage of time. His struggles to recall what it was once like to believe in Santa Claus, or the infallibility of his parents mostly finish with him asking himself the same questions over and over:

What happened to me?

Was I ever that happy? And,

What am I doing now?

These thoughts, they beat like a dying moth in his mind. Only sleep makes it stop; or perhaps a single gunshot would, lifting off the top of his skull like a bloody, inverted pie plate. It isn't good to think about that.

The man never consciously thinks of these things; he only feels their presence in the effects on his mood. Even now, as he has his morning shower, his only thoughts focus on the events of the day:

If it is cold outside.

Will he be tired.

How long will his day last. Simple, functional things.

He dries himself with his towel, carefully replacing it on the rack. Damp, crumpled towels on the floor won't do.

Shaves.

Combs.

Brushes.

He is almost ready. But today will be like no other. It is brand new, fresh in the box. He turns off the light, and pauses. For just a moment, in the roseate gloom of the humid bathroom, he can almost believe he has returned to the womb.

Walking into his bedroom, he picks up the garments he had placed on his footlocker the night before; white undershirt and boxers, and white longjohns to shield himself against the cold. They are clean and new, fragrant in that special way that they can be only one time. It pleases him that today he is wearing new clothing close to his heart. He pulls the shirt over his nose to sniff briefly before he puts his work clothes on over top - these articles aren’t so new.

He eats his simple breakfast in the intimate confines of his kitchen, not bothering to turn the light on. The faint light of the east illuminates his table, and he enjoys the effect on his mood. He allots himself ten minutes for this small meal, the same as always: toast, coffee, cereal. It is staple food, no luxuries. He munches quickly. This food

Body of Christ. Take, eat.

nourishes the body, sharpens the mind. Finishing his spartan meal, he returns to his bedroom for his last tasks of the morning. In his methodical fashion, he drops to his knees beside the bed

Father, forgive me.

and slides the narrow box from beneath that he has been concealing from view. Concealing from whom? Nobody…but items like these are kept in dark places. He places its compact weight on the bed, neatly made, upon a many-coloured duvet. He opens it.

The gun.

An AR-15, the fully automatic machine gun made available only to the nation’s walking army. Or anybody with access to the internet. He regards it with a long look of introspection. He can still turn back, there is yet time - but this isn’t the thought that crosses his mind. He is marveling at the idea of how everything will be different just because he will use this tool today. And this rifle really is a tool; its utilitarian black construction is reminiscent more of a tire jack or some kind of wood-clamp than anything else. His will shall be delivered with its use.

He removes the AR from its small case and performs the ritual of breaking it down into pieces for cleaning. It is a surprisingly quick process, and especially since he has practiced religiously to get all the nuances right. Every morning before work for the past month, he has taken apart the gun, oiled it, put it back together. He does it now not even thinking about it, his hands doing the work, his mind a blank. He likens this state of mind to a yogi on his mat, intoning meditative chants

Hail Mary, full of grace.

until all random thoughts disappear. Popping the fully loaded clip back inside, the AR is almost ready for its intended purpose. One thing remains: the man screws a long, crude noise suppressor to the end of the barrel. Its construction was simple, accomplished in only a couple of nights in the basement with his old metal lathe. A million years ago, he had once crafted a hammer for his father in his high school machine shop. It was never used; it was an ugly, embarrasing thing. So is this, but like the hammer, it was easy to make, and it works just fine.

With a final twist home, he slings the rifle to his shoulder, muzzle end down. Then, one arm through his long, navy peacoat and then the other - and the compact AR fits beneath, neat as you please. He is glad for the weather: frigid, with gusts of snow. There is no need to justify his long coat. He pulls on his black gloves, with close fitting material, excellent for the sometimes dexterous work his job requires. He doesn’t bother to check for his keys or wallet. He isn't going to need them.

He walks to the door through the long, darkened hallway of his narrow home. He lifts his hat from its hook and squares it on his head. At last, he is ready. He appraises himself in the mirror beside his coat rack. Tall, forty-something.

Thin.

Neat.

Tidy.

The embroidered wings of the U.S. Postal Service gleam with their silver threads on his hat, luminescent in the pre-dawn light. He wonders briefly what kind of machine could have made such a difficult pattern. It doesn’t matter.

Opening the door of this house for the last time, a small crucifix appears on the wall, hanging in the triangle of light afforded by the open door. The man wonders why the Lord would appear so tortured and confused in all such depictions. Such a righteous sacrifice should make One fill with the majesty of the Holy Spirit? No? Was He not willing to make this most supreme of sacrifices? He kisses his fingertips, and places them on the forehead of Christ

Jesus wept.

as a sudden gust of wind flaps his pant legs like dark flags. He feels no cold. A man doing his duty places thoughts of creature comforts aside. A man with a purpose sees nothing but his goal. His face betrays no confusion or suffering.

Today, he is new. It doesn't matter anymore what once was. He is now the Messenger. He has found God. The rest of his life will begin today. His Message shall be delivered on newscasts, and books will be written analyzing the moments of his deliverance. Others will follow.

He will be reborn on this day, baptized in blood.

A man with faith needs nothing, but will be rewarded with everything.

Neither rain, nor sleet nor snow nor dark of night shall stay this courier from his appointed rounds.

Whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die.

The man steps into the new morning light, grinning hugely to the sky, each white tooth a slick, Chiclet tombstone. Today, his heart is full.

Amen.