Setting The Scene

Before we begin, I need to introduce the perspective we’ll be seeing it from. Her name is Agnes, and she was as old as her name suggested and had quite the strange accent.

“The fuck’re you doin’ ‘ere?”

My first interaction with her was not a pleasant one. In fact, it was quite the opposite. She pointed a gun at me.

“I don’ want no fucking bible thumpers at me door.”

I began to doubt the veracity of John’s claims. She didn’t seem nearly as kind-hearted as he told me. But still, I persevered. She didn’t want to talk to me, even after I explained that I was a friend of John. I showed up at her house day after day until she finally let me sit down and talk to her.

Some would say that my methods of getting her to talk were rude, and they certainly were. I felt, however, that this was a story that needed to be told. I’m well aware that there might have been more diplomatic ways of achieving my goal, but I’ve never been a diplomatic person.

I sat down on the sofa and gazed about the interior. The place would have looked like it was plucked out of the seventies and sent through time, if not for the layers of dust atop every surface, accumulated over the decades of living alone.

I was unsure of where to begin. I had been so full of energy and vigor, ready to flex my social muscles. But when the time came, I learned I had overestimated my communication skills.

“Well? Spit it out, I ain’t got all day, ya’ know.” She sat down across from me and glared. I tried to speak, but my vocal cords had failed me. She just continued to glare until I caught my bearings.

“I’m here to ask about John,” I said, the name feeling foreign on my tongue.

“Who?” she replied, showing no recognition after I mentioned the name.

I pulled out a photo I had in my pocket of John from before we’d met.

“Oh, her. How’z she doin’?” her voice and eyes softened slightly once she saw John’s photo.

“She’s…” I struggled to finish the sentence. I didn’t know why, the whole reason I was there was because John had died. Why was it so hard to say those few words?

“… dead.” I managed to say, my voice had become emotionless, and I didn’t let my face betray my true thoughts.

“Huh.” Was all Agnes muttered, her voice barely a whisper. “Well, that’s a damn shame, ain’t it.”

We sat in companionable silence for a while, both contemplating the loss of someone who touched our hearts.

“That all you came ‘ere ta say?” she asked, much kinder now. She almost seemed grandmotherly.

“I want to ask about the…” I tried to find the right words for it. “Incident.”

She scoffed. “That’s one way ’ta put it.”

She had certainly bounced back quickly; her grandmotherly façade disappeared, the fire in her eyes quickly reigniting.

I’ll try to describe the events from her perspective to the best of my ability. I’ll try to mimic her thought process and actions, though it certainly won’t be perfect. I can dive into the mind of a fictional character, but I can’t fully dive into the mind of a real person. Reality is often more multi-faceted than fiction would have you believe. There is rarely pure good and pure evil. Everyone has motivations, and things that may be frowned upon in books are not bad in real life. Could humanity thrive without greed? Without the drive to have more, to make more, to be more?

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

And so, she told me a story. One I’ll try to faithfully recreate.

So begins the story of Agnes, and the little ‘girl’ who made her feel joy again.

Ironic, Ain’t It?

Life sucks, and then you die.

Agnes had forgotten where that phrase came from, but it certainly rang true. She led a purposeless life, and what use was someone without a purpose?

Age had done a number on her. She was in pain all the time, and not just physically. Her mind was awash with the sorrows accumulated over the years.

Her husband was gone, he had been gone for quite a while.

She can’t even smoke right now, she had been invited to a housewarming party.

What a load a crap, she thought. Just move in and be done with it. No need for all this here pageantry.

Nonetheless, she wasn’t one to turn down free food. At least, she hoped there was free food. If not, she’d raise hell. That wasn’t an idle threat, she’d done that many times in the past. Now, it was rare for anyone to invite her places. The only people who did were those who didn’t know her and the idiots who thought of themselves as therapists, despite being unlicensed and utterly terrible at it.

The new neighbors lived on the right of her, two houses down. Despite being the same size and design, they could easily be told apart.

Theirs was neatly maintained, with freshly mowed bright green glass and a new coat of ocean blue paint on the house.

In contrast, her lawn was dying, which was good because she wouldn’t have mowed it even if it grew. The paint of her house was chipped, and the bottom part was stained brown from the sprinklers, which she never figured out how to turn off.

Had her husband been around, he would have been embarrassed by the state of their house. He treated it like his baby, which she never quite understood. Maybe he needed something to dote on, because after their son left the house, he’d only ever show up to ask for money. Once they no longer had any left, he stopped showing up.

Good riddance was how she thought. She doted on him when he was a kid, but he got caught up in the wrong crowd and became an irredeemable piece of shit.

Her husband never quite got over it. He always hoped their son would come back to them some day. Even on his deathbed, he remained optimistic till his heart finally stopped beating.

“He’ll come tomorrow,” he’d tell her, and she just nodded along. She fed him the lie repeatedly, knowing full well that their son couldn’t be bothered to visit. He was getting high somewhere up north.

She walked up the steps of her new neighbors’ house and steeled herself to knock. She could smell BBQ on the grill and could hear indistinct chattering from the background.

“Hey! How’re you doing?” her new neighbor asked. The lady had opened the door, probably having seen Agnes through the window.

She was in her late twenties; her face was rounded as if she never quite lost all her baby fat. She had kind eyes and a cross hanging from her neck. Behind her was a child, no more than 11 years old, shyly looking at the ground. It was as if she was unable to make eye contact. She was swaying back and forth nervously, her hands clasped together as if she was trying to restrain herself from fleeing at that very moment.

“I’m Mary, and this is Joanne,” the lady gestured at the girl behind her. The girls face flushed red. “What’s your name?”

“The name’s Agnes, it’s a pleasure to meetcha.” Agnes tried to plaster on a polite smile. She wasn’t sure how well she succeeded, as the lady’s smile faltered for a second.

Agnes stuck her hand out for a handshake, which was reciprocated. Her grasp was firm and confident, whilst Mary’s grip was soft and ladylike.

She’s tryin’ too hard, Agnes thought, looking at Mary. She was trying so hard to convey the image of a polite, well-to-do Christian mother. She played the part well, almost to perfection. But Agnes was a cynical lady and believed everyone was secretly a terrible person willing to do anything to get their way.

Maybe she was right, or maybe she was wrong. But time would tell and besides, it never hurt to be prepared.

She followed Mary and the kid (she’d already forgotten her name) to the backyard. She was greeted to the sounds of kids laughing in the bouncy house and adults talking amongst each other about useless things like the weather.

Despite now being in a backyard full of kids her age, the kid still stuck near her mother. It was strange, her son would have abandoned her for his friends in an instant without any hesitation.

“Don’t you want to go on the bouncy house?” Mary tried to encourage the kid to go and play with kids her age. “Everyone your age seems really nice.”

Mary’s attempts fell on deaf ears, as the kid refused to leave her mother’s side.

Mary sighed softly before glancing over at Agnes, as if she suddenly remembered Agnes was still there.

“Would you like to meet my husband?” Mary asked. It wasn’t really a question, as she had already started walking to where her husband presumably was.

Like hell I want’a go, Agnes thought, though she certainly couldn’t say that. She had a reputation to uphold… kind of. She didn’t want to sound rude in front of the kid, they looked like they’d die of a heart attack at the first loud noise.

And so, keeping that in mind, she reluctantly followed Mary, who’d stopped in front of the grill.

Manning the grill was a man who appeared to be in his late twenties to early thirties. He had an energetic look to him, wiry and ready to run a marathon. He looked like your stereotypical youth pastor, the only thing he was missing was a guitar.

“This is my husband, Jack.” Mary said, while Jack looked up from the hotdogs and smiled at Agnes, his eyes squinting as he looked in the direction of the sun. In contrast to his wife’s pale skin, he was tanned as if he’d spent most of his life outdoors.

He's actin’ like I’m tha fuckin’ pope, she mused. He was far too excitable for her liking.

So this is how Agnes met the Anderson family and- depending on perspective- either improved, or fucked up, Johns life.

“Feet, what do I need you for when I have wings to fly?”

* Frida Kahlo

Dear Reader,

Wings, what do I need you for when I have feet to walk the earth? I don’t desire to be like Icarus and make history, though I’ve seen people who have the polar opposite reaction to the story of Icarus.

I believe it was Oscar Wilde who said “Never regret thy fall, O Icarus of the fearless flight. For the greatest tragedy of them all is never to feel the burning light.”

I don’t desire to fly high, glamourous and free. I don’t desire to fly high, see far below and touch the clouds. I can see all I desire, walking along the ground. I can be one with nature, humble and interconnected to it all. For as the saying goes, “pride cometh before the fall”.

I desire no grand destiny, nor feel a need to tempt fate. Those foolish dreams of younger me, time kindly did abate. And rather than the burning light that Wilde desired so, the sun provides a warm embrace, a kind and gentle glow. I see the man-made wonders, from a perspective meant to be. Unlike Icarus, whose sight was tiny as a flea.

I may not get to where I want fast. But unlike those wings, I know my feet were made to last.

-A man does not need wings, when he knows his feet will do,

A Fool