Meant to Be

Meant to Be

         The old man leaned heavily on his cane, walking down the streets of his city, which were nearly empty.  The few cars that were out were speeding, zipping past the too bright plasma screens that showed  Patrick Stenson's glowing face.  They were all anxious to be on their way.  No one wanted to be out this time of night.  A car horn could be heard in the distance, and people shouted, letting insults and profanity fly before they themselves took flight, stepping on the gas and speeding down the street. 
         The old man hung his head and continued his lonely walk.  The sidewalk upon which he traveled was old and cracked.  The way was dimly lit by the orange glow of flickering streetlights, and the cracks cast shadows across the uneven squares.  To the man's failing eyes, it was difficult to discern where he was going, or from where he had come, and he found himself stumbling on his way.  He was leaning more and more heavily on his cane.  It seemed he was in danger of falling at any moment, of tripping over an uneven edge in the sidewalk.  Best to stop and rest before he fell.
         It was very late now.  The old man could see no one else in these unwelcoming streets.  Except for them.  They were two men, arguing loudly.  He could see them just across the street.  The one was saying something, talking quickly, and backing into the building behind him.  He looked scared, his eyes were wide, allowing the old man to see the whites around his pupil.  The second man was yelling  now, his greasy blond pony tail was flung from side to side as he shook his head for emphasis.  Ponytail's back was to the old man, but it wasn't enough to hide it.  He could tell by the man's posture.  He was holding a gun.  The first man, the nervous one,  reached into his coat pocket.  The old man tensed.  The nervous guy started to pull his hand out of his pocket.  There was a loud bang, and he fell to the ground, his wallet clutched in his hand. 
         Tears rolled silently down the old man's cheeks.  Things were not meant to be this way.  He never meant for anything like this to happen. 
         Ponytail snatched up the fallen man's wallet, and cast about fearful glances.  His eyes came to rest on the old man across the street.  For a moment, fear clutched his chest.  But then he saw how old the man was.  He saw how he hunched over his cane.  He saw how the old man cried because of his fear.  This old geezer would give him no trouble.  But then again...  he couldn't risk it. 
         The old man watched Ponytail come to a decision, and turn his gun upon him.           
         Looking down the barrel of the gun, the old man was filled with nostalgia, and tears rolled down his cheeks anew.  What has his world come too?  It was not meant to be this way.
         Dear God, it was not meant to be this way!

. . .

         “You know what must be done, Christopher.” 
         “And you know I'll never agree with you.”
         Patrick recognized the tone in Christopher's voice, he knew his friend well enough to know there was no way to make him see the truth of the matter.  That's why he had gone ahead and made the necessary arrangements before ever starting this conversation.  That's why he just had to show him.  If he could make Christopher see it happen, and see how the people cheered, then perhaps his friend would see how necessary it was, even if he still didn't “agree” with him.
         Christopher walked alongside this man in silence.  When Patrick had asked him to simply take a walk with him through their city, he knew there was more to it, they never just took a walk anymore.  Things between them were strained at best.  At worst...  Christopher preferred not to dwell on such thoughts.  No.  this was definitely not a simple walk.  Patrick was guiding them.  He had a destination in mind.  Knowing that made Christopher's stomach churn.  There was no telling what this man was now capable of.  This man whom he had once called friend
         “Where are we going?” he said.  Even as the words left his mouth, he knew.  The street suddenly widened.  The city plaza.  He saw the five men lined up.  He saw how they stood.  The way their arms hung, with their shoulders slumped.  They were defeated.  They knew there was no hope for them.  And yet at the same time, they knew this could never happen.  Everything had been flawless.  There was no way they could have predicted this.  Their world had been turned upside down, and now they were going to die because of it. 
         “We are here.” Patrick said, a too-big smile plastered on his face.  To Christopher, he looked morbid.  “You see?  It doesn't matter if you agree or not.  They do.”  this last he said with a sweep of his arm, encompassing the entire plaza.  Christopher took his eyes from Patrick and the five men, just now noticing the crowd that had gathered.  Parents with their little children.  Old and young.  All of them began yelling.  Rotten food began flying.  The crowd was pitiless, and the five men were assaulted with their hate.  Christopher could see the way the five men, who had never had reason to cower before in their lives, cowered now.  They shrunk in on themselves.  Christopher could see the confusion in their eyes.  Why was this happening?  He knew they must be asking this, as he himself was. 
         The crowd quieted down and made way for the firing squad.  In their spic and span, black and yellow uniforms, the squad made their way to the men.  There was one for each of them as they took their positions. 
         “Patrick, stop this!  This is madness!”
         “These men committed unforgivable crimes.”  Patrick said, and turned to address the crowd.  “These men lied to you!  They brainwashed you!  They lived like kings at your expense!”  the people were silent, hanging on his words.  “For that, they must pay with their lives!”  the crowd cheered.
         “Patrick, I'm begging you, they're just like us.  Confused.  Ignorant.  If you kill them, I will have nothing to do with it.”
         “It was you who said they don't deserve what they have.  It was you who said it wasn't meant to be that way.  I'm telling you this is the way it was meant to be.”
         Tears rolled down Christopher's cheeks.
         “I never meant for anything like this to happen.  It was not meant to be this way.”

. . .

         “Shhhh!”  Christopher said. 
         “What's this all about?”  Patrick said, brushing dust off of his clothing. 
         “Lower your voice!  We can't risk them hearing us.”  Christopher turned on a lamp he had positioned in the corner, and pulled out two small wooden stools, motioning for Patrick to sit.           
         “Oh no.  Don't tell me this is about your crazy ideas.”  Patrick glanced at Christopher, who just returned the look.  “Anyway, we're in a little old, dusty cellar.  No one is going to hear us.” 
         “You'd be surprised how much they hear.  Don't roll your eyes at me.  You know it's true.”
         “You're just paranoid,” Patrick said through slitted eyes.
         “Then why are you whispering?”
         “All right.  You have my attention.  Why did you bring me down here?” 
         Christopher knew the look on his friend's face.  He was caught now.  His curiosity would not allow him to leave until he knew what this was all about.  Christopher rose, and crossed the tiny room to peer out the tiny slit of a window.  He cast a searching glance about outside, looking for anyone nearby.  They were utterly alone.
         Patrick squirmed impatiently on his stool.  He'd never seen Christopher so intense before, never before had he seen him so concerned with privacy.  Christopher stooped, and returned to his seat carrying a box about the width of his chest.  Patrick watched, on the edge of his seat, as Christopher opened it.  His breath left him as he began to comprehend.
         “Do you know what these are?” Christopher asked.
         “Where did you get those?”
         “These are books.”  Christopher removed one, Stock market: Bears and Bulls, from the neatly packed box and handed it to Patrick.  Patrick looked at it for only a moment before it slid from his limp fingers, tumbling to the cold stone floor. 
         “You know this isn't allowed...”  Patrick could barely speak.  It seemed as though his lips had gone numb.  He looked at Christopher, meeting his eyes.  He was terrified by what he saw there.  To Patrick, he looked morbid. 
         “Why is it not allowed?”  Christopher near shouted, “because they don't want us thinking!”
         “Shhhh!”  Patrick quickly rose and crossed the room to the small window, nervously searching for anyone near. 
         “Look at yourself.” Christopher said, “men should not be reduced to this.  Cowering from the Watchers.”
         Patrick turned at the touch of Christopher's hand on his shoulder.  His gaze was drawn from Christopher's face to the book in his outstretched hand.  He just had time to read the title, George Orwell's 1964, before he his hand flew of its own accord, knocking the book against the wall. 
         “Enough, Christopher.” 
         Christopher walked to the open box and from it drew one more book.
         “This is the Holy Bible.”  he said, and opened it.
         “Now you've gone too far!  Do you want to get us both killed?”
         “Have you ever wondered what makes this book so horribly evil?”
         “It doesn't matter, if your caught with that, we're both dead!”
         “I'll show you why its a horrible book.”  Christopher flipped a few pages, and began reading, “And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free...”
         “...Christopher, stop this!  This is madness...”
         “...They answered him, We be Abraham's seed, and were never in bondage to any man: how sayest thou, Ye shall be made free?”
         Patrick's eyes were wide as he shook his head, as much in awe as fear.
         “The book is not evil.  It was not meant to be this way.”

. . .

         “Pay attention children.”  Christopher was trying his best to sit upright in the hard plastic chair.  He glanced at his friend Patrick, who wasn't having that problem, seeing as he was hardly sitting in his chair at all.  He was leaning forward on the edge of his seat, hanging on the teacher's every word. 
         “This is a picture taken in the times of the Oppression.”  the teacher said, holding up a picture.  Christopher leaned forward for a better look.  He could see a narrow street and desolate light posts.  Patrick made a noise of disgust, and Christopher giggled, bringing a sharp glance from the teacher.
         “But that was a long time ago.”  the teacher said.  “Now we take excellent care of our cities.  You can't tell from the picture, but before the liberation, the crime rate was exponential.  Now, in order to cut down on the possibility of anyone getting hurt, we have a curfew.  No one is allowed out past a certain time.  Isn't that nice?” 
         No, I hate the curfew.  Christopher thought, and he looked around the classroom, expecting to see his same opinion expressed on other's faces.  Instead he saw approval in the eyes of his peers.  He looked to his best friend, Patrick, hoping to find he wasn't alone.  Patrick's eyes shone as the teacher told them how things were so terrible before, and how their world today was so much better than during the Oppression. 
         Christopher listened as his teacher explained to them why books were not allowed.  The teacher told them how books had inspired good men to do terrible things.  How the books had brainwashed the people.  The teacher told them how their world was so much better now that everything was controlled and regulated.  That was the way it was meant to be.  If it wasn't, people could get hurt. 
         Christopher couldn't believe what he was hearing.  I don't like the idea that I'm not in control of myself, he thought,  Things are not supposed to be this way.

. . .

         As the old man stared down the barrel of the gun, he finally realized, and lifted his moist eyes to meet those of the shooter.  It was not meant to be this way, and death seemed a release.
         “Thank you.” he said.
         Bang!