As I sat on the beach, drenched to the bone, looking out at the ship sinking below the horizons edge, I unexpectedly met an old friend. I hadn’t seen him seen my troubled years, when I ran wild in the city, and when Sierra died.
“Hey G.”
“Hey man.”
“You shouldn’t be here G,” I said.
“I am here" the old specter replied. I knew that.
“Why are you here?” I asked angrily.
“You tell me”, he replied.
“I did the right thing.”
“Did you?”
“If I didn’t, innocent people would have died,” I rationalized.
“Innocent people did die,” G irritatingly replied.
“I know. But even more would’ve died if I hadn’t. It was for the greater good.”
G looked at me blankly. I couldn’t help but taste the sarcasm in the air. “Who are you to decide the greater good?”
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That stumped me. I knew what was right. I knew it ever since Sierra died. But if I was asked if someone who did things identically to me and looked like me, and acted like me, if they could tell right from wrong, I’d laugh.
“You could’ve warned them. You could’ve given them warning enough to swim to safety.”
“If I did that, the guilty ones could’ve also escaped.”
“A guilty one did escape.” I know exactly who he means. “How far must you go? At what point does enough actually mean enough?”
“You know the answer to that."
“Do I?” he asked infuriatingly.
“Yeah!” I yelled, knowing that if anyone saw me, they’d see a madman yelling at the sun. “You know if I stop before it’s over, that you'd be here again. But instead of looking like you, G, it would be her, saying things she would never have said. Telling me I am a terrible brother. Wearing the face of agony and death."
The thing that was G smiled. “Eh, you’re right, I suppose. And even though you know it is not actually G or Sierra you see; you still can’t help yourself”.
“Go drown yourself!” I yelled. But part of me didn’t really mean it. Even if it wasn’t him, it was nice seeing G's face again.
G smiled and shrugged, “If you say so.”
As he walked into the water, I felt my heart betray me and panic as he disappeared beneath the waves, leaving a trail of bubbles behind him. It’s not him. It’s not him. It’s not him.
When I came to, I found myself in the fetal position, sand in my pants. Looking up, I saw a few people—far fewer than were on the ship—washed ashore, gasping for air. I hoped they were all innocents. It would be cruel irony indeed if only the guilty survived.
Getting up, I moved toward the motorcycle I stashed in advance. I knew what I must do. I knew that this wouldn’t be the last time I would see G again.