LitShark
Predator
- Joined
- Nov 8, 2002
- Posts
- 3,515
Time.
It’s unique in its ephemeral nature. Constant yet never static. Ever present and yet utterly intangible. Time is not an element, not a location nor a thing. Not animal, vegetable or mineral. It only exists in the way that it is measured, and each measurement lacks a beginning or an ending—only measures of the middle. The middle of what? The middle of everything. The middle of nothing.
No time truly exists except for the present moment. A sliver of middle so tiny there is no unit small enough to measure that encapsulates all of time—and then it’s gone. Meeting out measures of time already gone by.
By the time time becomes real, it’s gone. And gone again.
The autopsy opens up in seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades—but even these quantifying units are merely imagined constructs, informed by the fluke of a spinning globe doing laps around a big-ass star. Days, nights, tides, moon cycles—these too are measures of time, like imperial versus metric measurements. Yet none manage to actually describe what they’re quantifying.
All measurements of time are merely perceived, and moreover, can be impacted by how they are experienced. Ten minutes of severe torture can drag on like a lifetime—five hours with a passionate lover can feel like a blink of an eye.
If time is relative, it can be malleable, too.
Jason Forrest had a lot of time to think about time. How it was measured, how it was experienced, how it changed things. Fifteen years, by common measurement, and Jason served every moment of those fifteen years.
When his wife promised him forever, it turned out that forever added up to three years of jail time. She mailed him the divorce papers. She never even said goodbye.
His “life” sentence only measured out to about ten years before they offered him parole. Jason refused, opting instead to serve the rest of his sentence in lieu of parole. Having a parole officer breathing down his neck, tucking him into bed in some halfway house wasn’t Jason’s idea of freedom. It wasn’t like anyone was waiting for him.
At least in prison, his mind was free.
Jason never liked quantifying his time as a ward of the state in conventional terms, “fifteen years” never quite told the story. He preferred to say that he was locked up for twenty-five thousand, eight hundred and sixty-five pull ups. He’d served twenty-six law books, cover to cover. Paid his debt to society in four-hundred and eighty-five thousand punches against his rolled-up mattress.
Jason used his time to turn his mind and body into weapons. And when he was released, he was exactly that: a weapon. A weapon of revenge.
As if his time in prison hadn’t moved slowly enough, Jason was forced to serve his time knowing full-well that he was innocent of the crimes he was convicted of. Unfortunately for him, the time when that mattered was also gone—but it mattered to him.
It would matter to them, too. The ones who took all that time from him. Time he could never get back.
He would be avenged against them all.
It was just a matter of time.
*-*-*
“The time for complacency and corruption is over. It’s time for a change, here in Monte Vista. It’s time for a new mayor with a new vision for our community. The time has come for law and order! It’s time for Conner Marks! The time is now!” Connor held both arms above his head and the crowd erupted in wild cheers and applause.
The election was just weeks away and all signs seemed to be pointing to a Connor Marks victory. He reached out his hand, bringing his beautiful wife and daughter up onto the stage with him. They were good for optics, his campaign advisor had told him several times over.
“God bless America and God bless Monte Vista!”
More applause, Connor held his wife’s hand aloft, bulbs flashed. The election had all but taken over their lives, but at last, the end was in sight.
Truthfully, Connor’s relationship with his wife was strained, and his daughter was a teenager, but their polished white smiles gave no hint of the discontent lurking in the Marks home. After the press got their photos, the family was ushered by security into the back of a black town car.
“I think that went well!” Connor smiled at his wife expectantly.
*-*-*
“About time.”
When Garrett Walsh turned on his bedroom lights, Jason had been waiting in the dark for some time with a sawed-off shotgun in his lap.
“You’ve taken enough time from me, your honor.”
“Dear heavens!” the retired judge gasped.
“Heaven’s not going to help you, Judge. Heaven doesn’t give a fuck. Not about crooked, bought out, washed up parasites like you. Sit.” Jason gestured to the ground with the barrel of his gun.
It took some effort for the elderly, fat judge to crawl down to his knees.
“L-listen. I have money. In the safe. The combination is 22-11-33—just please, don’t hurt me.”
“Money? You think I care about your money? Slips of paper and metal discs. What you’ve taken from me can’t be measured in dollars, judge. I don’t want your money.”
“What do you want?”
“I want what you’ve taken from me. Time.”
“Time?”
“Fifteen. Fucking. Years—you son-of-a-bitch.”
“Forrest?” Judge Walsh’s eyes began to shine with recognition, “I-I-I didn’t mean—if it hadn’t been me, they would have just brought in another judge. You were never going to walk.”
“You should have let them.”
“Oh God. Please.”
“I wish you weren’t so pathetic and washed up, Walsh. I ought to show you what it’s like to lose your life in pieces. But your wife’s dead and your adult children hate you.”
Walsh only blubbered in response. He was an ugly crier.
Jason sighed.
“I guess I’ll just have to settle for killing you.”
BOOM!
Jason fired both barrels into Judge Walsh’s round belly, bursting him open like a rotted pumpkin. The judge was launched back into the hallway to gurgle through his death rattle.
“I suppose I’ll have the money, too,” Jason remarked to no one, brushing a spot of the Judge’s blood from his cheek, “you won’t be needing it any time soon.”
After looting the safe, Jason extracted a notepad from his jacket pocket. A list of names. He drew a red line through Judge Walsh’s name. The name above his was similarly crossed out. Jason tapped the next name with the end of his pen: Connor Marks.
“I guess your time has come,” Jason smiled, emptying a can of gasoline over the judge’s body and bedroom.
Jason tossed a lit book of matches over his shoulder as he left. The orange flames leapt to life with a rumbling gasp. Jason locked the front door behind himself and left in no particular hurry.
He had all the time in the world.
It’s unique in its ephemeral nature. Constant yet never static. Ever present and yet utterly intangible. Time is not an element, not a location nor a thing. Not animal, vegetable or mineral. It only exists in the way that it is measured, and each measurement lacks a beginning or an ending—only measures of the middle. The middle of what? The middle of everything. The middle of nothing.
No time truly exists except for the present moment. A sliver of middle so tiny there is no unit small enough to measure that encapsulates all of time—and then it’s gone. Meeting out measures of time already gone by.
By the time time becomes real, it’s gone. And gone again.
The autopsy opens up in seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades—but even these quantifying units are merely imagined constructs, informed by the fluke of a spinning globe doing laps around a big-ass star. Days, nights, tides, moon cycles—these too are measures of time, like imperial versus metric measurements. Yet none manage to actually describe what they’re quantifying.
All measurements of time are merely perceived, and moreover, can be impacted by how they are experienced. Ten minutes of severe torture can drag on like a lifetime—five hours with a passionate lover can feel like a blink of an eye.
If time is relative, it can be malleable, too.
Jason Forrest had a lot of time to think about time. How it was measured, how it was experienced, how it changed things. Fifteen years, by common measurement, and Jason served every moment of those fifteen years.
When his wife promised him forever, it turned out that forever added up to three years of jail time. She mailed him the divorce papers. She never even said goodbye.
His “life” sentence only measured out to about ten years before they offered him parole. Jason refused, opting instead to serve the rest of his sentence in lieu of parole. Having a parole officer breathing down his neck, tucking him into bed in some halfway house wasn’t Jason’s idea of freedom. It wasn’t like anyone was waiting for him.
At least in prison, his mind was free.
Jason never liked quantifying his time as a ward of the state in conventional terms, “fifteen years” never quite told the story. He preferred to say that he was locked up for twenty-five thousand, eight hundred and sixty-five pull ups. He’d served twenty-six law books, cover to cover. Paid his debt to society in four-hundred and eighty-five thousand punches against his rolled-up mattress.
Jason used his time to turn his mind and body into weapons. And when he was released, he was exactly that: a weapon. A weapon of revenge.
As if his time in prison hadn’t moved slowly enough, Jason was forced to serve his time knowing full-well that he was innocent of the crimes he was convicted of. Unfortunately for him, the time when that mattered was also gone—but it mattered to him.
It would matter to them, too. The ones who took all that time from him. Time he could never get back.
He would be avenged against them all.
It was just a matter of time.
*-*-*
“The time for complacency and corruption is over. It’s time for a change, here in Monte Vista. It’s time for a new mayor with a new vision for our community. The time has come for law and order! It’s time for Conner Marks! The time is now!” Connor held both arms above his head and the crowd erupted in wild cheers and applause.
The election was just weeks away and all signs seemed to be pointing to a Connor Marks victory. He reached out his hand, bringing his beautiful wife and daughter up onto the stage with him. They were good for optics, his campaign advisor had told him several times over.
“God bless America and God bless Monte Vista!”
More applause, Connor held his wife’s hand aloft, bulbs flashed. The election had all but taken over their lives, but at last, the end was in sight.
Truthfully, Connor’s relationship with his wife was strained, and his daughter was a teenager, but their polished white smiles gave no hint of the discontent lurking in the Marks home. After the press got their photos, the family was ushered by security into the back of a black town car.
“I think that went well!” Connor smiled at his wife expectantly.
*-*-*
“About time.”
When Garrett Walsh turned on his bedroom lights, Jason had been waiting in the dark for some time with a sawed-off shotgun in his lap.
“You’ve taken enough time from me, your honor.”
“Dear heavens!” the retired judge gasped.
“Heaven’s not going to help you, Judge. Heaven doesn’t give a fuck. Not about crooked, bought out, washed up parasites like you. Sit.” Jason gestured to the ground with the barrel of his gun.
It took some effort for the elderly, fat judge to crawl down to his knees.
“L-listen. I have money. In the safe. The combination is 22-11-33—just please, don’t hurt me.”
“Money? You think I care about your money? Slips of paper and metal discs. What you’ve taken from me can’t be measured in dollars, judge. I don’t want your money.”
“What do you want?”
“I want what you’ve taken from me. Time.”
“Time?”
“Fifteen. Fucking. Years—you son-of-a-bitch.”
“Forrest?” Judge Walsh’s eyes began to shine with recognition, “I-I-I didn’t mean—if it hadn’t been me, they would have just brought in another judge. You were never going to walk.”
“You should have let them.”
“Oh God. Please.”
“I wish you weren’t so pathetic and washed up, Walsh. I ought to show you what it’s like to lose your life in pieces. But your wife’s dead and your adult children hate you.”
Walsh only blubbered in response. He was an ugly crier.
Jason sighed.
“I guess I’ll just have to settle for killing you.”
BOOM!
Jason fired both barrels into Judge Walsh’s round belly, bursting him open like a rotted pumpkin. The judge was launched back into the hallway to gurgle through his death rattle.
“I suppose I’ll have the money, too,” Jason remarked to no one, brushing a spot of the Judge’s blood from his cheek, “you won’t be needing it any time soon.”
After looting the safe, Jason extracted a notepad from his jacket pocket. A list of names. He drew a red line through Judge Walsh’s name. The name above his was similarly crossed out. Jason tapped the next name with the end of his pen: Connor Marks.
“I guess your time has come,” Jason smiled, emptying a can of gasoline over the judge’s body and bedroom.
Jason tossed a lit book of matches over his shoulder as he left. The orange flames leapt to life with a rumbling gasp. Jason locked the front door behind himself and left in no particular hurry.
He had all the time in the world.
