The ACG Short Story Collection

Expecting my fellow citizens on the train to be cheering, to be leaping forward in order to carry me on their shoulders for my service to the community, I am left confused. As I look from face to face, that is the faces of those that can make eye contact with me, there is a look of profound shock, almost horror. Two people, a man and a woman, are throwing up, it must be from the stench coming from the old man. My other hand outstretched, I shake my head, trying to show them that they have nothing to fear, the only thing they can look at is the mangled club in my left hand. I cast it away, but it does no good. I can read that look in their eyes, it is the mother’s expression when they see their child petting a rabid dog, I’ve seen it many times. I see, they are not used to swift justice of this type, they live safe, comfortable ignorant lives, they are blind to the reality that surrounds them, they are not the ones called upon to perform such duties. Even now I am misunderstood, and I sigh. Again, it is they who are wrong.

The train, in acknowledgment of my task having ended, begins moving again, teasingly, towards the next station. The air clears, my head feels lighter, my body feels heavy as lead. Some compulsion forces me to pick up what remains of the golf club, and I throw it out one of the windows before the train stops. I try opening the train door, my hands are slippery with blood and I cannot grasp it. Someone else opens the door from outside, steps forward, then steps back when they see me. Maybe he understands the respect that I am due. I hear yelling behind me, and I take it to be cheering, and I smile. I sense some need to be in a taxi at the moment, for reasons not obvious to me, I run up the escalators wanting to see the street. The driver correctly gleans the fact that I don't want to be chatted with. Even though I feel like sharing my success, my triumph, he wouldn't understand from the look of him. A turban on his head, bearded, he almost looks like, no, my eyes are acting up. The old guy could not be driving this taxi, obviously, he would still be on that train, waiting to be swept up by a janitor, like ancient dust. I close my eyes and wait for the time I can open them again, at home.

I drop my bounty, my well-earned treasures onto the lounge room floor, calling out for the children, and Sharon.

There is no one here. It comes back to me, they haven't been here for a long time. Years spent alone, thinking that they'll be back, at any moment. I can't remember when. Where is my family? My family?

Ah. There's someone at the door. It's the police, they must be here to congratulate me on my job well done, my exemplary performance on the train. I am unsure as to why they are kicking down the door and screaming, it must be due to their excitement in meeting me. For some reason I look down at my left hand, still covered in blood, and I see that it is not shaking at all, perfectly steady. Guns are raised upwards, towards my head, it must be a form of salute. I don't blame them, it must be rare for them to meet someone like me. Someone in this sinful city that still gives a damn. Someone who makes a difference. Someone like me.

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