KEEP PLANNING main / links / about Anonymous Fishhook

After I got on the bus, I had some time to think. A minute earlier, watching the cop ride away on his bike, I had almost felt grateful to him. He didn’t know it, but he had really helped me out. “Professor! How’s it going today?” “The same as usual. Just an ordinary day.” “That’s good, that’s good, we don’t need anymore excitement around here…” “Why do you say that, Officer?” “Well, don’t go spreading this around too much, but you know that young man that drowned in the harbor last month?” “Sure, I heard about it.” “Well, a couple forensic specialists came down from the capital, and they say the cuts on his body couldn’t have been from the rocks. They’re too clean. And they bled, so they must have made while he was still alive.” “Wow. What does that mean?” “Well, it means it might not have been a suicide.” “You mean it was murder?” “Well, we don’t know yet. It could have been an accident. I mean, maybe the kid cut himself up. He already had a record, you know. Drugs, stealing. He was real messed up, a maladjusted type. But we’re looking into every possibility. Anyway, it means I get to do some real police work for a change.” He laughed. “If it is… criminal. Do you have any suspects?” “No, no. But it looks like this kid was of a certain persuasion, if you catch my meaning. The forensics guys were able to retrieve some semen samples. So, we’ll know who to talk to when the test results come back.” “Wow. How long will that be?” “Oh, probably sometime tonight. They put a rush on it. Hey, listen, I’ve gotta get going. Don’t go spreading any of this stuff around, remember? If there is foul play you wouldn’t wanna tip the perp off, would you?” “No, of course not. Have a nice day, Officer.” “Same to you, Professor!” I was glad I was on the bus. It relieved me of the pressure to act. It would take a little more than an hour for it to reach its destination, and there were no stops in between. Until then, there were no decisions I could make, no forks in the path. I could consider my options without losing any time. My first decision: I couldn’t go back. That much was certain. I would miss the little room I had rented on the hill overlooking the water, but my time there was over. I would probably never see the ocean again. My second decision: Once I got off the bus, I would find the nearest ATM and drain my bank account. There wasn’t much in there, but it was a matter of principle – I didn’t want them to have it. What would I do with the money? That required more careful thought. I could feel the future narrowing ahead of me. How long did I have left? A few hours, perhaps a few days if I headed for the mountains. It would take them a long time to find me up there. I knew the major trails well, thanks to my mentor, and some of the minor ones, as well. My wilderness survival skills had always been mediocre, though, and the days were getting shorter, the nights colder. Most likely, the elements would claim me long before anyone tracked me down. Was that how I wanted to go, shivering in a damp canyon, set upon by hungry wolves? The idea wasn’t entirely unappealing. I could see there was a certain poetry to it. What I knew was I could not allow myself to be captured. The indignity did not bear consideration. I could feel the future narrowing ahead of me. I could pay someone to take me further inland, past the mountains, onto the plains. But the expense would leave me almost broke, and there was always the chance of getting caught at a roadblock, or spotted and reported at a gas station. Even if I did get through, what would be the point? There was nothing I there that would change anything. No matter where I went, I would be a marked man. And it’s the fate of marked men to be destroyed. I decided I wouldn’t try to escape my fate. As I decided this, I realized that I had already decided it. The pleasure I was feeling was the pleasure in finding myself suddenly tasked with deciding how it was I wished to die. I didn’t regret the way things had gone with the boy. He had been beautiful, but trivial. He didn’t understand his body, the effect it could have on others. He didn’t know how to use it, or how to accept being used. Something would have happened to him sooner or later, whether or not we had ever met. Overall, I had to admit, I thought very little of him. I remembered the softness of his skin, the wispy lightness of his pubic hair, the way the coldness of my blade made him try to pull away. I couldn’t remember his face. I knew that I had liked it, but I could no longer picture it. It no longer held any importance for me. That I thought of him at all, at this time, was probably more than he deserved. When we first stepped out of the club, he had said to me, “You don’t do this sort of too often, do you?” He had said it in a mocking way, which I pretended not to notice. His clothes had reeked of cigarettes. He had been right, of course, although not for the reasons he assumed. Nothing about me is repressed. I have lived a life of total freedom. In fact, as he later discovered, things were exactly the opposite of how he had thought they were: it was him that feared the indulgences of life. It was that fear that had destroyed him. It was sunny today. The light fell on the back of the seat in front of me in shifting blocks. It fell across me, too, partially. I looked at the back of my hand resting on my leg. I looked at the way my knuckles poked up against my skin. I looked at the scar my mentor had given me, a pale line curling back on itself like a fishhook. I would miss that scar. Would I miss anything else? I supposed so, but I had always known it all had to end sometime. Today would be a fine day for it. Tonight would be a fine night for it. Either one. I’ve never believed there’s a big difference between dark and light. I decided I ought to make some time to listen to the birds when I got off the bus. I would find a place to sit somewhere secluded and stay there for a while. This would be after I withdrew my money from the ATM. I hoped that I would hear a crow. I have always appreciated the brutality of its call. I would probably masturbate there, too. I would shoot my seed on the ground and leave. The animals could decide what should be done with it. I remember there was a waterfall my mentor took me to when I was still a boy. It was high up in the mountains, inaccessible by car. We had to walk up a narrow path forever just to reach it. Over many thousands of years, the waterfall had carved a narrow canyon into the rock. The walls were bare, smooth stone and slick with mist. The roar of the water was deafening. It was the first and last time I was ever scared. The path might not still be there. In my youth, it was so overgrown as to almost disappear at times. It may have been restored since then, but it’s just as likely the forest has reclaimed it. A local guide would know. Perhaps I can pay someone to take me there. I ought to buy some firewood, too, and something I can throw into the water as an empty gesture. In circumstances such as these, it’s necessary to appear slightly pathetic. It’s necessary to appear vain. When my picture is in the newspaper, I would like it to be mistaken for a mirror. The bus lumbered around a wide curve. I felt my knife in my pocket. I fingered it, but I didn’t open it. It wasn’t the time. It’s not the time. The road is still narrowing up ahead. *** Anonymous could be you.