The Decision

1075 ADI

So much blood. It soaks his shirt and spreads out on the street around his shoulder. How do I stop it?! I can't. There's no way. It's everywhere—even on my hands. I stand abruptly.

They'll come for him. I need to not be here when they do.

This realization drives me through the open gate of the tangled scrap metal barrier that surrounds my property. I take no time to consider the pool of blood on the foldout chair in my outdoor cooking area and the speckles of blood sprayed on the concrete ground behind it. I pass between the elevated rows of potted plants that sit where gas pumps once sat, and run straight through the front door of my home, slamming it shut behind me. In the dim light from the lone kitchen window, I stand and shiver.

This is not good. Not good!

I swing around and bump the kitchen table as I look out the window. It makes a horrible noise and the items on top rattle. Joshua is still there, just outside the wall of tangled metal. 

Why is he still there? Are they waiting? Are they watching? Do they know I didn't do this?

I look down at my shirt. With one motion, it's off. I cast it from me. His blood is on it. It's also on my hands. I lift them as though they are diseased and rush to the sink. My eyes jump from the water bucket to the large funnel that acts as a tap to the dirty rag sitting by the soap. Everything I touch will need to be scrubbed.

I grab the bucket and fill the bowl at the top of the funnel, then grab the rag and open the latch to let the water pour out. Blood runs into the sink, across dirty dishes, and down the drain. When they're as clean as I'll get them, I rinse and wipe, and return to the window. They still haven't come. 

Why haven't they come?

It doesn't make sense. Do they know? How much do they know? Will they ask questions?

If they do, I'll need to be ready.

The details of the morning begin to replay in my mind. I can see Joshua peering through a hole in the front gate.

"Morning, Mark." His voice is pleasant, as always. "May I join you?"

I rise, walk to the gate, unlock it, unlatch it, and open it. It makes an awful squeak. 

"I've been meaning to fix that," I say.

"I can help."

"No. I'll take care of it."

I don't like it when he does that, offering to do things for me. It makes me think he is only here to impress the teachers by doing his good deed for the day. That is their currency: Good deeds.

I turn away and return to my cooking spot. He closes the gate and follows.

It was a foolish mistake. 

The scrap metal fence isn't there for show; it keeps the bad people out. But I was irritated. Oh, how that man can irritate me! Why can't he just visit? Why does he have to do nice things for me or bring me presents from the city?! His company is enough. Those other things just make me wonder if our friendship goes both ways—or if I'm just a project to work on. It wouldn't frustrate me so badly if I didn't consider him a friend. But that is what he is to me: a friend. They have to know that.

Do they?

Even when I believed angels to be messengers of God, I was never convinced that they were able to see and know everything. Now, after all the things I've read from the books I've found in the rubble, I'm no longer convinced that they are angels at all or that there is such a thing as an all-knowing God. But I don't doubt their power. I've watched men fall dead where they stand. That is the power of a god—but as for how much they know, that is up for debate. I don't want there to be any misunderstanding. I didn't kill my friend.

With shaking hands, I grab another shirt and put it on as I peer out the window. He's still there, lying on the hard ground. It doesn't make any sense.

Well, I can't just leave him to rot and become food for the vultures.

I force myself out my front door, eyes fixed on Joshua, determined to do something, anything, but I don't get to him. When I reach my cooking spot, I come to an abrupt stop and take in the gruesome sight. The blood-soaked chair, the gorey strands sprayed across the ground behind it, the trail of it out the gate.  My stomach twists and acid rises into my mouth. I want to clean it and erase it, but that's what a guilty person would do.

Stop acting like you're guilty. You didn't do this. It's not your fault.

But, on some level, I believe it is. My negligence got Joshua killed.

It doesn't matter what I think. Only what the evidence reveals. 

Surely they'll know I'm innocent. I replay the events of this morning in my head, starting with the voice of the first man who came to my gate. 

"Well, now, something smells good!" The voice is gruff and sinister.

A shiver dances down my spine as I realize I left the gate unlocked. Before I can react, the man enters.

Joshua's voice is surprisingly calm and friendly. "Why don't you join us, friend?"

"SHUT UP!" Says another man, stepping out from behind the first. He's not much to look at, but he is holding a rifle.

Both my hands come up as fear twists my guts. "Okay. Everything's good. I know the drill," I say, attempting to keep my voice as calm as Joshua's, and failing miserably. "This doesn't have to get violent. Take whatever you want. We won't put up a fight."

"We don't need your permission!" says the scrawny man. 

Another man lumbers through the gate.

How many are there? This is not good.

I force a diplomatic tone. "I wasn't giving you my permission. I—I just want to make it clear that we're not going to make any attempts to stop you."

"Here," says Joshua, reaching into his bag, I lean to see what he's going to offer the men—

CRACK!!!

The noise jolts my body and my eyes dart to the scrawny man; he is as surprised as I am.

Joshua groans and grips his chest as blood soaks his shirt and leaks through his fingers.

He. He. Shot him.

"Noooo!" I scream, jumping up from my chair. "He's NOT twilight!"

"You trigger-happy fool! What have you done?!" says the first man—the leader man.

The scrawny one backs away in horror, muttering, "I— I thought he had a…"

The leader motions to the big man. "Come on! Help me with him!" They move forward and grab Joshua. I watch, helpless to do anything to stop the horrific scene from unfolding.

As they struggle to lift him, I eventually find my voice. "What are you doing?!"

"Trying to save him—'cause it might just save us all!" he says.

They drag him out onto the dusty street where their supply bags sit. The scene is madness. The large man rips open a leather sack and starts pulling things out, medical supplies, I think. The leader examines the wound as the scrawny man watches in stunned silence, the rifle hanging loosely in his grip.

"You idiot!" says the leader over his shoulder, "I never should have let you keep that stupid thing."

"I'm sorry. I didn't…"

The leader digs into the wound. As he fishes around, he says, "It went through an artery or something." He grabs Joshua's face, smearing blood across it. "Come on now, stay with us!"

Joshua doesn't respond. There's no life in his eyes. I can't catch a breath.

The scrawny man's words and tone match the feeling of horror in my chest. "No. No. No …"

"We have to go," says the large one, stuffing medical supplies back into the leather sack.

The leader lets go of Joshua's face and wipes his hands across my friend's chest. With a push and a snarl, he rises, grabs two bags, and runs. The others follow.

I hurry out and fall to my knees next to Joshua, examining his body with desperate fingers. "Wake up! Please wake up! I'm so sorry. I should have locked the gate. Stay with me. I'll get help. I can run and get help. You'll be alright." There is no response. His chest is no longer expanding to take breaths. He's gone. My friend is gone.   

I shudder as I return from the memory, and tears flood my eyes—tears that would not come before. Now they flow easily. 

My hand rises to wipe them away but I stop. We hide our tears in Twilight because they are seen as weakness, and the strong prey on the weak. But I need to let them flow. They are evidence that I cared for Joshua. 

Does it matter now? They're not coming.

If they were coming, they would have been here by now. There's no case to be made. I don't need to prepare a defense.

So, what do I do? I can't leave him here. If he were twilight, I would bury him in the soil behind my home. But he isn't. I look in the direction of the city. If they aren't coming, I need to bring him home.

After a long silent pause, I turn and walk back into my compound, past my cooking spot, and into the garage to get my horse. She quietly looks out from her stall and my heart lifts.

I'm glad they didn't stay long enough to take you. I've lost enough today.

I draw near and gently put my cheek against her face.

"I guess it's just you and me again," I say softly. "It might be time to give you a name."

I don't usually give my horses names because we don't stay together long; the bandits see to that. But she's always quiet when they come, and that keeps her safe.

I lead her out of the stall.

"I've lost so many I love because they don't know when to keep quiet. But not you. You're quiet as a mouse. I think I'll call you Mouse. What do you think? Do you like that name?"

She doesn't make a noise.

"Mouse it is."

I guide her past the cooking spot and out the gate and position her near Joshua. With great effort, I get him onto my shoulder, carry him over, and shove him on the horse at the front of the saddle. His legs and arms drape down the sides.

I mount and settle in, driving my knees under Joshua's body, and start off toward the city—something I swore I would never do.

How strange. Joshua and I argued about that this morning.

My mind flashes back.

"I mean no disrespect, Mark, but why live out here? You don't break the law. Why not reap the benefits of living under the blessing?"

"I don't fit," I say, pouring another cup of coffee. "I don't like the rules; they're too difficult."
"Which rules?"

"Like, how do you live with one woman your entire life? It's absurd."

"It's quite nice, actually. Marriage ages like fine wine."

Air bursts through my lips. "Fine wine. More like cheese aging in the sun."

He laughs and takes a sip of coffee.

"I think people should be allowed to love who they want to love, and when things get stale, move on. They don't have to hurt each other, just agree that it was fun while it lasted and part in a civil manner."

"So, men should be able to leave their wives because someone new catches their eye?"

"No," I grumble, "I'm just saying they should be able to agree to separate for the benefit of both sides. Obviously, it would be messy if one left the other for someone else."

"Very messy," he says with a wry smile.

"If they part on good terms, it doesn't have to be messy. They're both getting something out of it. They're free to have a new, fresh relationship."

"Is that your case for staying in Twilight? You're here for the romance?" He laughs. "You've lived alone in this old gas station for as long as I've known you."

I poke at the coals around the percolator. "It's too much work trying to figure them out."

He laughs again. "Then why not come live with me?" he says.

I almost spit out my coffee. "What?"

"Look. I live in the countryside. You can live a simple and quiet life there. There are few rules when you keep to yourself. How many years do you have left for romance? You're already living a simple, solitary life. Why not enjoy a solitary life and take advantage of the blessing? The ground here is cursed."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"I just can't!"

"Okay. Well—the offers out there. I'm not taking it back. I hope you'll think about it."

"There's nothing to think about. There is no place for someone like me there."

"What happened to you?"

I grumble and poke the fire again with my stick.

"It must have been bad if you think you can never return—particularly since no one is making you stay in exile. This is personal for you, isn't it?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"If you share it, maybe you can get past it."

"Stop. I mean it." I point my finger sternly.

He takes another sip from his coffee and doesn't say another word.

My eyes stare down the long barren road, my heart feeling as hollow and empty as the ancient structures on each side.

Why did he do that? Why did he let the subject rest? He didn't say anything after that—not until the bandits showed up. Why?

I would have told him if he had pressed. I've never told anyone, but I would have told him. Maybe I could have put it behind me.

What I shared was true. I don't fit—and I don't like their rules. But that's not why I left or why I won't go back. My marriage was stale and I tried to convince my wife that it would be better for both of us to separate, but she wouldn't have it. So, when my heart grew cold and I was drawn to another woman, my world exploded. I still remember the eyes of those who caught me, and those who found out shortly after. They looked at me with such intense disappointment. And when I was faced with the decision to go home, to see that same disappointment in my wife's eyes, or the eyes of my little girl, I chose exile.

I didn't even say goodbye. I just left.

My friend could have drawn all of this out of me. He might have even convinced me to take him up on his offer. But now the offer is dead, as dead as his lifeless corpse.

I spend the rest of the day inside my head, going over the conversations of this morning, the refusal of his invitation, the interruption from the bandits, and the fallout. I don't even scan my surroundings as I normally would—and I find myself thinking that it might be a kindness to have some wild animal attack me, or to have some other trigger-happy fool shoot me dead. But no such blessing comes. Nor do the gods. They're going to make me bring him the whole way.

When the sun is low in the sky, the border of the wilderness appears as I pass the carcass of a building that bled its rubble onto the street hundreds of years ago. The horse dances between the concrete chunks and metal rods that protrude from them, clomping down the street until there is no street to clomp on, only a dirt road. 

At the border, I stop.

Memories flood in. I grew up here. I have seen the good—and I have seen things that terrify me. Peace comes with a price. The gods and the teachers rule with an iron rod.

I swallow.

They protect their children with technology beyond comprehension, the kind of technology that builds pyramids, and I am no longer one of their children. I don't belong here. But I have in my care one who does. They'll give me time to explain. I draw in a troubled breath and I press forward.

They could have destroyed me at any time. They wouldn't even have had to do it themselves; they could have gotten their invisible bugs to do their dirty work.

They're letting me come.

Low wooden fences run along both sides of the road. On my right is a farmhouse; it looks like most of the family members are working in the field. Men, women, and older children are picking vegetables from the garden. Young children play in front of the porch that goes around the home, and on it, a woman sits, watching me. She's probably wondering if I present a threat to her family, or maybe she is curious about the lifeless man I carry in my lap. I force my eyes to look forward so she doesn't get the wrong idea about me—well, any worse than the idea she already has. Even if I didn't have a dead man on my horse, I still have the dirty appearance of a Twilight dweller—like most, I wear the ancient clothes I find, and it is hard to keep them clean without running water. She knows what I am.

I soon pass another home. It looks less like a farmhouse, but it has gardens, fruit trees, and ample vegetation. All of the homes do. It is a requirement of the gods that the people grow some portion of food to share. In the yard, children play with a cougar. 

Blood-covered teeth lunge at me from my mind's eye. I grip the reigns tight and look forward again.

They wouldn't do that in Twilight.

As the horse clomps ever forward, the winding road leads to more homes and more people in their garden-covered yards. I keep my eyes forward, not wanting to look at their expressions of disdain or their disapproving eyes. But, at some point, I may have no choice. I don't imagine I'll get much farther before someone asks me about the man on my horse.

Let them.

Maybe they'll take him and I can quickly go my way. It would be better than facing the gods.

Much better.

Mouse slows as though she senses something. My heart quakes. I expect the gods to come down from the sky in pillars of fire. Instead, the sides of the road shimmer like a dream, and two men in radiant white armor with gold trim appear.

"That is far enough, Mark," says one.

"You may go no farther," says the other.

I have trouble finding my voice. "I'm—I'm only here to bring my friend home. Nothing more." 

The god who spoke first walks alongside the horse and I deliver Joshua into his arms. He holds him with no effort.

"You know," he says, looking at me with sparkling green eyes and a face more perfect than human, "we wouldn't have to turn you away if you would only abandon your foolish thoughts."

"What thoughts?"

"We are not gods, as you suppose. We've told you this many times. We are servants of God Almighty, the same as you."

"Well, I've read—"

"Yes, we know what you've uncovered in the rubble of the world that was judged. You have also been taught the scriptures here in the place of blessing. You know what is true, and we hope you will someday abandon your foolish thinking and come home. But, for now, go in peace, Mark." He turns and walks away with Joshua in his arms.

Goodbye, Joshua. I don't imagine you'll return to Twilight after this.

I turn my horse as commanded, and head back, keeping my eyes forward as I ride. I've managed to avoid their judgemental stares, and I'd like to keep it that way.

I feel bad enough about myself today, thank you very much.

"Good sir!" says a boy to my left. His voice is loud and it causes my heart to jump. He was standing so still next to the postal box at the end of his driveway that I didn't notice him.

I slow the horse. "You should not be talking to me, young sir. You know who I am."

"Yes. I know who you are. It's okay."

"Your parents let you talk to twilights?"

"We're a mid-home. Do you know what that is?"

"It's been a while but, yes, I think so. It's a home for people struggling with sin, right?"

"Right! We have lots of twilights stay with us. Do you need a place to rest your head for the night?"

I look down the road. Darkness is descending; I may have to sleep in a rubble pile before I get to sleep in my bed. His offer is appealing. There is just one problem.

"I'm afraid I have no coins to pay for a room."

"You don't need coins. All of our needs are met by the tithe."

Again, I look down the road, then up the long driveway. "Did you check with your parents?"

His face shines with a grin and the gold curl hanging on his forehead jiggles as he nods.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Alright. Who am I to turn away from hospitality?"

He jogs up the driveway and I turn my horse to follow. 

"The hitching post is over there." He points. 

"Evening, friend," says a lean man by the open door of the barn. An amber light glows on the stalls and hay bales within.

"Evening," I say, hitching the horse.

"It's good to have you with us. I'll take care of your horse. You can head inside. I'm sure supper is almost ready."

Supper sounds appealing. I haven't eaten since breakfast with Joshua. In all of my introspection, I didn't think once about the gnawing pit in my gut. 

Children come around the house and run up onto the porch. Standing at the white wooden railing is the woman who watched me ride in. I hope this doesn't change their decision to let me stay.

"Evening," she says with a bright, beautiful smile. She is a little overweight and it seems a perfect fit for her. "Supper is on the table. Ferran will show you where to wash your hands. Thank you for joining us."

The boy who brought me in steps out from behind a pillar of the porch. He must be Ferran. I walk up the path and stairs. Ferran greets me. The woman calls out toward the men at the barn, "Supper's on!"

Ferran grabs my hand and guides me through the front door into the home. It is dimly lit for a city home, but not dreary. I like it. There is just enough light to warm each room.

"Kitchens here," says Ferran. "Table's there." He points through the doorway into the dining room. There are men, women, and children—about fourteen total.

Ferran enters the kitchen, passes by a dark-haired teen girl, and starts washing his hands at the sink. 

"Hi. I'm Charis," says the girl, as she heaps rolls onto a silver platter.

"Mark," I say. "Pleased to meet you, young ma'am."

"I bet you have some stories," she says, lifting the platter and taking it out to the dining room.

Stories? Interesting word. Sounds whimsical.

Twilight is anything but whimsical.

But I understand what she's attempting to do. At least, I think I do. She's trying to make me feel accepted—as though my stories are fit for table discussion.

Well. It worked. Somewhat.

Ferran finishes at the sink and smiles as he passes by. "See you in there," he says. 

I wash my hands, dry them, and stare at them for a moment. Just this morning they were covered in the blood of my friend, now I'm wiping them on a clean towel in the loveliest home I've ever seen, and I will soon spend time with people who seem equally as lovely. What a strange day this has been.

I hear the voice of the woman from the porch. She is now in the dining room. "Quiet down, everyone." Her tone has a kindness that is hard to find in Twilight. "For those of you who don't know, we have a guest. He's had a very hard day, so let's all make him feel welcome."

How does she—

I don't have to finish the thought. I know. She saw Joshua on my horse—and probably saw the weight of the world on my shoulders. 

My posture is stiff as I come around the corner to enter the dining room. Every eye is on me. Emotions flood my chest, but I hide them. It is all so overwhelming. These are not the eyes I remember. There is no disappointment here. What I sense from them is acceptance, and it knocks the air out of me.

Charis blurts out. "Are you okay, Mark?"

"Yes. This is just—I haven't seen this many people in one place in a very long time."

There is a rule in Twilight. We are not to stay together in groups of more than five for long. While it is mostly a lawless place, that is the one law that brings the gods—I mean, the angels.

Charis slides a seat away from the table. "Come. Sit next to me." I sheepishly walk behind the row of kind people and take a seat on the other side of Charis. The woman from the porch takes her place next to me, at the head of the table.

"Let us all share grace," she says, taking my hand and the hand of the woman across the table from me. The hand is warm and soft in my grip. As she prays, all I can think about is the contact between us, so I only catch a few phrases of her prayer. "Thank you for the rain that steals the toil from the land … Thank you for family … Thank you for our guest…" She releases my hand and my eyes open. All eyes are on her now, so I look at her as well. "You may dig in," she says with joy.

The table is alive with activity as people grab food, pass plates politely, and chatter with each other about the day. I take part in what is passed to me and eat quietly, once again feeling overwhelmed by the emotion of being surrounded by so many kind people. My eyes only leave my food when someone passes a dish my way.

How does a day start so tragically and end like this? What a curious tapestry the gods—I mean, God, weaves. His hand is in this, I'm sure. I've never doubted His power. I've just doubted His rules. But even on that point, I can't deny that the connection these people share with one another far surpasses any relationship I ever found in Twilight. They are not oppressed.

As I hide in my introspection, I notice a few times that the woman who runs this home is looking at me. Is she finally coming to her senses? Is she realizing that I don't belong here? Is she considering the threat I might pose? I hear the voice of the angel: If you would only abandon your foolish thoughts.

In Twilight, we are all suspicious of each other, even when we're being kind. It is the way of things.

I finish my plate and have no food left to stare at, so I look around at the others. They're still enjoying conversations with each other, and none are studying me. I am accepted as a part of their group, free to listen and engage in conversation as I am comfortable to do so—but I remain silent—until I am finally addressed.

"You know," says the woman at the head of the table.

I look at her.

"It's funny," she says.

"What's funny?" I ask.

"Has it been so long that you don't recognize me?"

I study her face. "I'm sorry? I don't understand. What do you mean?"

The room grows quiet.

"I have lived on the edge of the wilderness my whole life, following its ever-advancing border, waiting for my father to come back into the light—and here you are."

At first, I don't understand her words, but she gives me the time I need.

A breath leaves my body violently, threatening never to return.

Not a word is spoken as I look at her face. In my mind, I imagine a young girl, playing in our wheat field, running to me, reaching up, looking at me with the adoring and accepting eyes of a child—the accepting eyes that are looking at me now.

My world shatters and one word slips past my lips. "Ella?"

"Yes, Papa, it's me." Her eyes shine with tears as she moves closer. "I'm all grown up."

"But why would you…" I choke on the words.

"You're my father. Is that not enough?"

"But I did such detestable things."

"Mother said you did those things because you didn't understand the goodness of God, only his severity. I hope that has changed."

Has it changed?

I look at the faces around the table. Many are likely the faces of her family—my family. The others aren't family; they're outcasts, like me, but they are treated like family. By the goodness of God, they are cared for. They don't have to go into Twilight. My daughter has made a place for them while waiting for me. Has my opinion about God changed?

Yes.

In one evening, these people have done what the teachers and the angels could not do in over twenty years. Today, I understand the goodness of God. In His mercy, and in a miraculous way I don't fully understand, He brought me home.

My eyes return to my daughter and my hands lift as if they have a will of their own. "May I?" I ask.

"Yes!" She laughs, sliding her chair. "Yes, of course you can!"

I slide too and put my arms around her. She hugs me tight. All of these years I have lived in darkness, afraid to look into my daughter's eyes and see her disappointment, when all that was waiting for me was love.

I hug her for a long time.

Then, I feel her chuckle.

"What?" I ask.

She pulls back and smiles at me, "You know … I'm not going anywhere."

"I'm sorry. I was just afraid you'd disappear," I look around, "That you all would. I'm afraid I'm going to wake, surrounded by darkness, concrete, and dust, and realize that all I have are my delusions. I'm sorry. It's just—" A breath catches in my chest and I let it out slowly. I've never felt such intense emotion. 

They wait patiently.

"It's just—" I shake my head and laugh at myself. "Wow. This is a bit much." I take another breath. "I'm just so—thankful."

My daughter grips my hand. "I am too. My father was dead, and now he lives."

"I don't know if I'm alive yet, honey, but things have certainly changed," I say, returning the squeeze of her hand.

Ferran's voice fills the room. "Bring forth the fatted calf!"

Everyone laughs.

The conversation at the table slowly picks up again, and I am thankful that I am no longer the center of attention. Story after story is shared, and I share a few of my own. When my daughter shares her stories, I hang on every word. Oh, how I've missed her!

A knock at the door pulls Ferran from the table. He must be the official greeter for the home. I look forward to getting to know him. While it hasn't come up, I'm sure he's my grandson, which makes me wonder: where is my daughter's husband? There is no indication that he is here at the table. I pray she has not done as I've done.

In the doorway to the dining room, a man appears with Ferran at his side. I stare at him in stunned silence. It's Joshua, back from the dead. I knew it would happen. I know well of the resurrection power of God, but to have him appear here, of all places… And his face is happy. He should be angry at me for not doing a better job of keeping him safe. I was convinced that he would never speak to me again!

I stand and the room becomes quiet. All eyes are on me. "Joshua?" is all I can get out.

"I didn't get a chance to thank you for bringing me home," he says with a smile. His eyes scan the room. "I see you've met my family."

"Your family?"

I look down at my daughter's joyful face. 

"Yes, father. Joshua is my husband."

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