For the last two years the old man had barely ventured out of his small room, which was equipped with a refrigerator, a microwave oven, a bathroom, and a small pull-out sofa bed. His meals were brought in to him and the small refrigerator and a black and white portable tv set were enough to meet his simple needs. The old man's son watched over the old man, refusing to put him in a nursing home as the family doctor had recommended. The old man's only other visitor was his grandson who visited him regularly.
These two people were the old man's only connection with the outside world. There were, of course, magazines and the daily newspapers to help keep him informed of what was happening in the outside world, but there was little evidence that the old man read them.
But it was the re-occurring dreams that disturbed the old man the most, making his life a living hell. Dreams of armies marching through the hills. Dreams of executions and assassinations. Dreams of soldiers riding on white horses, charging down from the hills to pillage townships. Dreams of women crying over the mutilated bodies of their sons and husbands. But the old man was not able to connect the dreams to the past or present. It was as if had been stricken with amnesia.
The sun was sinking rapidly. The old man knew that it would soon be dark. The old man was tired, but he knew it was useless to try and take a nap. His life long insomnia told him he would not be able to fall asleep, no matter how tired his body was. Greater still was the fear of sleep which brought with it the reoccurring dreams and nightmares from the past. Dreams that were beginning to take a deadly toll on the old man.
The old man cleaned off his desk, shuffling to one side the correspondence that needed answering. He could not remember the last time he had any communication via the written word, and wasn't sure where to begin.
The old man had moved to Mount Akum a decade ago, keeping to himself, occasionally fishing to pass the time away. But he had done precious little of this in the last few years. The house the old man lived in was located on the North fork of the Cosummes River in Amador County. So close to the river that he could almost reach out and spit into the water.
The old man allowed himself the occasional luxury of a shot of Napoleon brandy. The life of a hill man suited him fine. He seldom ventured into the city, and when he did, he made it a fast trip, entering and exiting in record time.
Due to the old man's earlier debilitating life-style, his health was poor, but he tried his best to keep his mind active.
The old man had been up since three in the morning, having captured his routine four hours of sleep. It took the old man at least two hours in the morning before he was able to deal with the world. Two cups of coffee, four or five cigarettes, then a shower that lasted as long as the hot water was willing to accommodate him. His daily routine more often than not allowed the old man to deal with whatever the world had in store for him.
The old man smiled at the picture hanging from its place on the wall, showing him holding a Rainbow Trout. The day the photo had been taken, the old man had caught no less than sixteen Rainbow trout, but the limit being only five, he had thrown back the other eleven fish, none of whom seemed grateful at his sacrifice.
The old man lived in town, but remained relatively isolated, living at the f ar end of a dead-end street with the river below him. His room was ten by fifteen, connected to the house, and yet separated for privacy.
There were only four houses on the isolated street. Each of the other three houses were occupied by families with children. For the most part, the inhabitants stayed their distance from the old man, respecting his desire for privacy.
The old man's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of gunfire coming from outside. The old man got up from his desk and walked over to the closet. He removed his best suit, a dress shirt, and his favourite tie.
Once dressed, the old man walked into the small bathroom and shaved. In his nervousness, he cut himself, standing back and watching the blood trickle down his cheek; a small spot settling on the collar of his shirt. The old man let it dry there. The thought of washing it off with cold water never entered his mind.
The old man reached into a glass sitting on the top of the toilet bowl tank and removed his dentures, fitting them into his mouth. Fully clothed, the old man stepped back and looked at himself in the mirror.
Returning to the den, the old man could hear the sounds of increasing gun fire coming from the streets outside. If only he could remember the things that were troubling him, he mused.
The old man was disturbed to hear that the gun fire was now mixed with the cries of young children. Fearfully the old man drew back the curtains and saw his worse fears realized. There in the street, in open view, lay a small group of lifeless children. So it had come to this, the old man fumed. They were now killing children.
The old man closed the curtains and returned to his writing desk. He opened the top drawer of the desk and took out a military special 113811 police revolver. The old man sat rested the pistol between his legs, prepared for the worst to come. As the gun fire continued to sound in the streets, the old man thought back to his youth. The desire for the ultimate experience, death! But it had scared the old man to realize that a bullet in the brain brought with it the unbelievable pain which, though only microseconds long as we know it was a subjective eternity burning in napalm. The old man knew this because he had experienced it decades earlier when he had over-dosed experimenting with drugs.
He would never forget the eternal horror of that moment when he realized he had gone over the edge and there was no turning back. The old man had been saved by two comrades who had paid him an unexpected visit, and found him lying on the floor of his apartment, only minutes away from death.
After this experience the old man had shunned drugs and become a binge drinker, drinking only beer for months, with no problems, until the old snake coiling down inside him, somewhere around the solar plexus, making its presence known. The old man on waking filled the room with liquor bottles, grabbing first one and then another bottle, wanting nothing more than to sleep. The old man had cried out to be left alone, but they wouldn't listen to him. Suicide! A half-ass attempt at a painless death, as the old man continued his heavy drinking, living the life of a soldier of fortune.
Now here he was in his final years, with no need for drugs and alcohol. The gun fire had slowed down. The cries less frequent. The old man found himself remembering bits and pieces from his past. He had fought with the Abraham Lincoln Brigade during the Spanish civil war, later becoming a soldier of fortune. He had taken up arms for whatever side paid the most money. The revolutionise had become a mercenary. A marked man in the eyes of the comrades he had betrayed.
The old man stood up when he heard the loud knocking at his door. He made no move to answer it. More knocking. No response. Suddenly the knocking turned to fists, pounding with intensity on the door.
The old was prepared. He knew that it was only a matter of time before they knocked down the door. Slowly he lifted the gun and pointed it at his temple. The sound of the bullet was like a cannon. The ensuing pain of entry and exit a micro-second apart.
On the other side of the door, a middle-aged, balding man pushed his shoulders heavily against the door frame. The door gave way and fell loose from its hinges. The intruder walked over to where the old man lay, kneeling down on the floor and feeling for a pulse, knowing even as he did so that it was a useless gesture. The old man was dead!
The old man' s son turned away from the old man as he heard the sound of footsteps approaching from the hallway. It was the old man's grandson, who moments earlier had been playing outside with the neighborhood children: engaged in war games; playing with toy guns and setting off cherry bombs and firecrackers, the way children do when they play in their make believe world.
The man didn't want his son to see his grandfather like this. Quickly he rose from his knees, heading off his son at the doorway and ushering him into the kitchen. Why, he asked himself? Why had his father taken his life on this Fourth of July holiday. A day the family had looked forward to celebrating together?
Out in the street, the neighborhood children continued to play their war games, lying still and playing dead. The firecrackers sounding like gun fire in the distance.