The Duel - Part 3/3

(Part 1 - Part 2)

III

“Pechorin, let me explain” said Grushnitsky as he casually threw the pistol aside. “I am not the man you saw twelve hours ago.”

Pechorin was finding it difficult to grasp any feeling, let alone why Grushnitsky just spared his life. Grushnitsky proceeded to tell Pechorin about his transformation, its stimulus and how he had a new thirst for life. He was gesticulating excitedly as he recounted the events since their last meeting, but Pechorin couldn’t hear anything. He had stopped listening ever since Grushnitsky dropped his pistol.

He was furious that a cretin like his brother had managed to shatter him with such ease. His brother had, without effort, exposed the demon within him. This was an insult he could not endure. The loathing of his brother was now insurmountable. He couldn’t bear the thought that this man had found salvation, whilst he was damned to endure the monster within himself.

He felt betrayed. He thought he was ‘important’, but realised the world kept the reality of his insignificance insignificant. “Is this who I am doomed to be?” thought Pechorin, staring intently at the ancient pistol in his hand. He knew he had a choice, but knew that choice was made for him long before.

Grushnitsky had now reached the end of his plea. “I have gone through much today, and have decided to dedicate the rest of my life to rectifying my mistakes, the first of which will be our brotherhood. Brother, do you forgive me?” Pechorin looked up from the pistol.

“No.”

Grushnitsky’s lip twitched, and his face twisted into genuine bewilderment when Pechorin lifted his arm and pointed the pistol at him.

“My turn.” said Pechorin, already assuming the stance of a professional marksman.

“Sir I must object! We don’t know if this pistol is the faulty one or not! Sir I beg you to forgive your brother and leave this madness behind!” interjected Fyodor.

“No. He wanted a duel. I am a man of my word and shall give him one”

Grushnitsky, paled seeing his brother so bloodthirsty and obliged. He placed his hands by his side, and looked at Pechorin with those eyes which tormented him so much.

“I’m sorry it came to this” said Grushnitsky. Pechorin stared at his brother down the barrel of the pistol. He realised that regardless of which pistol he was holding, faulty or not, it would not have made a difference to the outcome at all. Grushnitsky's forlornly expression showed that he too understood this.

“Sorry? I wish I was too, Grusha” said Pechorin, as he pulled the trigger.

The Duel - Part 2/3

(Part 1 - Part 3)

II

Pechorin had chosen Fyodor, the family butler, as his second. Pechorin took a deep breath and tasted the familiar kerosene acidity which dominated his childhood. He and Grusha would come to the docks, playing hide and seek amongst the crates and cranes. The ships, now undisturbed stood silently in water so still it appeared frozen. It felt staged, surreal. Was this a tragedy or a drama, and did he have a say as its protagonist?

His thoughts were interrupted by a scurried shuffling up ahead. “Finally! They’re here. Typical lateness. Are the pistols ready Fyodor?”

“Yes Sir. I have loaded both as instructed. Are you sure you don’t want to know which one is faulty?”

“I’m no cheat Fyodor”

“Of course not Sir. Both pistols will discharge in an identical fashion but only one of them will successfully fire a bullet.”

Pechorin was surprised at his own composure. His only preparation for the duel was to put it into his diary, as a matter of habit. He wasted no second during the day thinking about it and immersed himself in business. He was disappointed that even now, with the approach of his opponent, his heart beat slow, almost intentionally lackadaisical.

Grushnitsky was accompanied by Alyosha, a young labourer on the docks. Both were short of breath as they stopped in front of Pechorin.

Pechorin was taken aback. Grushnitsky was a transformed man. It wasn’t his clean shaven face or carefully sculpted hair. It wasn’t the healthy glow in his cheeks or the crisp tailored suit. Pechorin only noticed all of this after he looked into Grushnitsky’s eyes. There was an intense shine to them, the crystal clarity of a new-born man.

Pechorin’s heart began to play a faster beat. Seeing his brother so positively changed had awoken in him revulsion and disgust. He could taste the hate in his mouth and any part of him shocked by it was quickly smothered. He didn’t want his feelings to show, so took a short step towards his brother.

“Grushnitsky, I trust you are ready?”

Grushnitsky’s face horrified Pechorin. It was beaming, and featured a smile contoured by dimples.

“Yes Pechorin. I am ready” said Grushnitsky with confidence. Fyodor then gave a pistol to each man.

“Heads or Tails?”

“Heads” said Pechorin, his beady eyes not leaving Grushnitsky for an instant. Fyodor flipped a coin, and saw that it was Tails. Neither opponent flinched, both intently looking at each other. Pechorin grew increasingly unsettled by Grushnitsky’s innocent, persisting smile.

“The rules are as follows. You are to stand 10 paces away from each other. Mr. Grushnitsky will take the first shot, Mr. Pechorin the second. You are allowed to inspect the weapon if you wish Mr. Grushnitsky.”

“There is no need.” said Grushnitsky. Fyodor shrugged his shoulders, and counted 10 paces between the men. Pechorin couldn’t take it any longer. Shooting a drunken vagabond was one thing, but this? He wanted an explanation for this betrayal, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask for it. Grushnitsky raised his pistol and aimed it with a steady hand at Pechorin.

This didn’t happen as he had hoped. Pechorin lifted his trembling hand, the open hand oscillating in synch with his racing heart. He suddenly realised that death is a contradiction; acting as the ultimate wake-up call in its capacity as eternal sleep.

Grushnitsky’s smile turned into a grin. With one smooth movement, he raised his arm into the air, pointed the pistol at the sky and fired.

The Duel - Part 1/3

(This story is heavily influenced by "A Hero of Our Time", "The Brothers Karamazov" and the movie "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford")

(Part 2 - Part 3)

I

Pechorin sat in his study, reclined in a chair and stared at the ceiling. He could still hear them downstairs, his father’s wake now in full swing. “How many eulogies does a dead man need?” muttered Pechorin. His guilt laden heart responded with heaviness. He loved his father, more so than his siblings. It was he who cared for him when he was diagnosed with cancer whilst his siblings squabbled over potential inheritance.

It was for this that his father had given him the entire shipping company upon his death. Pechorin held his breath as he heard a speech finish below, only to be replaced by another. “Where were these parasites when he needed them?” exclaimed Pechorin, the carvings in the ceiling blurred as his eyes pooled.

“You’re the parasite” hissed a shadow by the door. Pechorin closed his eyes, carefully wiping the resultant tear tracks. His movements were intentionally slow, and the silence accompanying them had almost muted time. Now sitting up, Pechorin looked at the sulking shadow and forced a smile.

“Grushnitsky! My brother! What a pleasure.” said Pechorin.

“The pleasure is certainly not mine.” growled Grushnitsky. He was visibly more drunk than usual; his dishevelled beard complemented his fraying suit. Pechorin stayed silent, trying to decipher the drunkard and his scheme.

Grushnitsky wobbled into the study and planted himself in front of Pechorin. He slowly bowed, until his face was level with his brother’s, their eyes locked. Pechorin held his breath; the stench of alcohol laced with vomit was one he wasn't familiar with. Grushnitsky’s eyes were black, soulless, their emptiness made Pechorin uneasy.

“I demand satisfaction.” said Grushnitsky, an inappropriate pause pervaded each syllable.

“What?”

Grushnitsky, without flinching lifted his finger and pointed at a pair of pistols, the pride of their father, which hung above the fireplace. His lifeless eyes remained fixed on Pechorin’s.

“You want a duel?!” gasped Pechorin.

“Yes.”

“This is the 21^st century Grusha. If you have issue with me you see my solicitor.” said Pechorin, calmly. Grushnitsky’s face warped into a terrifying grin.

“Just like Dad you are. You are a coward.”

Pechorin was immediately up on his feet, his face betraying his anger. His pride was his Achilles heel, and Grushnitsky knew this all too well. Pechorin could feel the adrenaline poisoning him. He could see that his brother wasn't joking.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“I’ve done nothing to deserve this. You’re drunk Grusha.”

Grushnitsky vocalised his grin, a cackling laugh ensued.

“I despise you Pechorin. I despise that you have what I have not. I despise the fact you are alive. It would have been a wonderful day if both you and father were in that coffin.” slurred Grushnitsky. His words had visibly shaken Pechorin, who at this point had succumbed to his dented pride.

“You know one of the pistols can’t fire.” muttered Pechorin.

“Ah! So you’re considering it! Wonderful!” said Grushnitsky, his face epitomised malice as he began to pace the room. “That’s the maaa-aagic of it. One of us gets the faulty pistol. We proceed with the duel. Fate will decide the rest.”   

Pechorin’s mind was hard at work. His conscience was unusually silent, and his long suppressed hatred of his brother materialised in an overwhelming wave of anger. He knew his brother did not stand a chance; Pechorin was a highly skilled marksman whilst his brother would most certainly be too drunk to hold his bladder, let alone fire a weapon. At worst he would intentionally wound his brother, maybe in the shoulder, as a warning.

“Meet me at the docks at midnight. Bring your second.” said Pechorin solemnly.

Grushnitsky forcibly grasped his brother’s hand. Pechorin felt his brother’s soiled hand rub against his soft palm. Grushnitsky winked at his brother, spun around and ran out of the study.

For the next few minutes, Pechorin stood in the same spot, his eyes staring at the pistols and his mind trying to make sense of it all.  

I'm Sorry, but I'm not Sorry

I’m tired of cringing every time I read the news.  I grit my teeth before I open the BBC news website, or secretly pray before I pick up a paper.  Yet there it always is; ‘Islamist takeover of schools, pupils unprotected’, ‘Pregnant, Christian, Sudanese doctor to be hanged for apostasy’, ‘Halal meat sold by Pizza Express’, ‘British Muslims fight with Syria extremists’, ‘Muslim paedophile gang caught’, ‘Abu Hamza extradited, sentenced’, ‘ ‘Honour killer sentenced’. When will these intolerant, bigoted murderers become extinct? When will I stop seeing Islam portrayed so badly in the media, and when will the media stop poaching all it knows about Islam from a raving, lunatic minority? When is the government going to stop finding even more ways to push their ‘Islamist’ agenda?

Last week I was sitting with my work colleagues, watching the news. I was the only Muslim in the room. They begin to cover the approaching capital punishment of Meriam, a Sudanese lady who renounced her Muslim faith and became a Christian. She was due to be killed, by ‘law’, for apostasy. I started to cringe again. I wondered, should I speak out about this, clarify that this is not what my religion is about? After all I am a Muslim, and this lady was scheduled to be killed in the name of my faith. One of my colleagues commented about how awful this was, and I latched on to her comments, nodding along as I assented, echoing her words. I quickly quipped that I didn't feel this represented Islam.

This didn’t make me feel better. On the contrary, I was suddenly immersed in even more shame. I felt like I had just betrayed someone. Truth is, I had betrayed more than just ‘someone’ and I knew it there and then. With my quasi-apology, I had betrayed my faith. Why did I feel this urge to apologise for an undertaking which I am vehemently against, of which I have no input and relation to? Shouldn’t I be proud of my faith as it is, proud enough not to feel responsible for the madness exuded by other ‘Muslims’? This was the root of the problem. I couldn’t explain the source of this collective ‘responsibility’ for the actions of all Muslims. It’s not like the average Christian on the street is in need of apologising for child abuse in the church.

This ‘guilt’ comes as a result of an aggressive media presence of ‘Muslim’ scum and their actions, an unquenching thirst of the media for more of their material, and the government pushing an unprecedented alienation of Muslims. 10 years ago, it would suffice to say I was a Muslim. Now, thanks to all this unwanted attention, people (Muslim or Non-Muslim) want to know if you’re Shia or Sunni, believe in stunning animals before violently slaughtering them (whilst singing random Arabic incantations), believe it’s ok to kill someone because they leave Islam, believe in ‘Sharia’ law or think girls can’t do PE unless dressed in cloaks.

They’ve won. Once there was a time where collective responsibility was possible, where you felt you could speak out for your fellow Muslims. Now, Muslims are so radically split in their beliefs and practice that some factions will refuse to acknowledge others as Muslim. As a ‘moderate’, you have to explain yourself, wear a badge saying ‘I’m one of the good guys!’, otherwise people will think you aspire to have a hook for a hand. This need to explain yourself, to separate yourself from those dangerous, puritanical and beastly extremists insinuates that there is disunity in Islam, when the reality is there was no unity to begin with (with the extremists that is). It gives the impression that Islam, moderate and evolving Islam, is crumbling whilst the truth is those bad eggs crumbled away ages ago. We have nothing to apologise or feel guilty for. Any semblance of guilt and we are caving in to pressure from both extremists and government.

So I’m sorry, I will not apologise, dear work colleague, for the actions of the Sudanese government. I will instead join you in their condemnation.  

Quantum Brother

His awkwardly adorned frame swayed apologetically, as if ashamed of its owner. Saul, his overseer, negotiated the various felled trees and planted himself in front of him. His heart choked in the shame. He knew that Saul reveled in his authority, preying on fear. Saul smirked, sensed the tension and knelt to wipe the moss off his bright red wellies. Each tortuous second felt like an eternity. Finally, satisfied with the state of his boots, Saul stood to do what he did best.

"Hank. You are behind schedule. Again." said Saul. He took pride in his usage of silence, pausing regularly to add drama. 

"I can't -"

"No. No Hank. Wrong answer. Try again" growled Saul.

"This axe -"

"No! Is that what you're going to tell your wife when I sack you?" 

Hank paused. Saul wasn't bluffing. 

"No sir. I'll get it done sir. I promise sir."

Saul took a step forward, leaning into Hank's face. His breath, laden with gin, poured into Hank's soul.

"To call you a piece of shit is an insult to shit. It is an insult to the pigs that eat, grovel in it and the maggots and flies that thrive in it. At least it serves a purpose. No, you are beyond comparison. You are pathetic beyond familiarity. You will live nothing, and be nothing."

Hank had ceased to listen. Somewhere in the midst of the abuse, he finally found tranquility. He couldn't understand it, but his body certainly did. His body had known all along that today was the day he be born. Call it what you will: fugue state or psychosis, Hank's body was on autopilot, fueled on an angst and hunger long suppressed. 

Saul is still preaching.  It is a one way conversation;  delivering a tremulous speech worthy of a theatrical soliloquy. He begins to stutter, his voiced laced with fear and the hopelessness of betrayal. He had seen the transformation happen inside Hank, his eyes now  alight with primal fire. He also saw the axe rise in the air. This didn't happen as he had planned. It was the fault of the world for keeping the reality of his insignificance insignificant. He lifts his trembling hand, the pointed finger oscillating in sync with his racing heart. He realises that death is a contradiction; acting as the ultimate wake-up call in its capacity as eternal sleep.

Hank held the axe above his head. His brain, accustomed to tackling tree trunks, calculated the trajectory and power needed to slice Saul's neck off clean. Saul saw the axe angle towards him. He crumples to the floor, his voice quavers into a whimper, his demands reversed into pleas. 

Silence ensues. Hank slowly lowers the axe, Saul tortured with every passing second that the axe stayed in Hank's hands. He lets it drop by his side, hitting the soil with a soft thump. As Saul descended into relief stricken tears, Hank turned around and sat on a tree stump, staring at his hands.

He marveled at his callus ridden palms, the leathery texture grafted by his axe. It was all he had to show for a life in which he was largely absent. He looked up at the sky and thought:

What if, in some parallel universe somewhere, his quantum brother had chosen to live earlier than he?

Recruiting

(This short story below is inspired by one of the same title by Nabokov… and is entirely fictional. I wrote this when I was in a café and saw a man on his laptop.)

I was sitting in a coffee house one Saturday afternoon. I was not alone in being alone, sipping on a ‘medium’ coffee in the corner. Far across the saloon sat a man who, in his blandness, was a perfect recruit. I almost pitied the man. By walking into the coffee house he had unknowingly walked into the trap of my imagination. As I watched my oblivious prisoner I couldn’t help but smile. How little he knew of his crucial role in the moments that followed!

He was a well built man, the breadth of his shoulders filled out a dark, corduroy blazer. He wore a black cap, which in the context of his blazer and shirt gave him the vibe of a retired, celebrity sportsman. His graying beard was as sharply chiseled as the shape of his jaw and his orbits were contoured with wrinkles. This combination of facial features gifted him a permanent contemplative expression, duping not only his friends but also his work colleagues into believing he was highly intelligent. This unintentional mask, a result of years of bafflement and confusion, had resulted in his promotion to Manager of the malfunctioning human resources department.    

So here he was, struggling on his laptop in the corner of a coffee house. His missed deadline stared angrily at him through a spreadsheet on the screen. He had realised the night before that the numbers were not adding up. It was in desperation that he was staring at the spreadsheet, hoping it would cease its antagonism and save him from his boss. He blamed the spreadsheet because he couldn’t blame anyone else. He also surrendered to the idea his brain was more inanimate than the numbers that tormented him.

He was the subject of a cruel joke. This spreadsheet was an editable omen of his future, one that foretold his redundancy as things stood. The cruelty came in the fact it was his incompetence that paralysed him into being a spectator to his own failure.

He stopped seeing numbers. The spreadsheet blurred away into his reflection in the screen. He studied his own face and for a moment smiled as his mind began to wander. He remembered the first time he saw his wife. He was trying on the very same black cap he was wearing, angling it on his head whilst posing in front of a store mirror. He caught her watching him whilst he was pouting. His eyes locked onto hers. Her face betrayed a character of innocence and longing. She flushed red at the reflective encounter and before she could even turn around in shame, he strode towards her and asked her out.     

That was five years ago. Her naivety coupled with his idiocy was a recipe for ignorant bliss. Life seemed easy, a stream of coincidental events recycling the past into the future. They revelled in the monotony that shaped their love. When one has low expectations of oneself and one’s worth, it is easy to be content with any level of monotony. She never tired of his face, and he of her laugh. They walked the straight line of their life, unaware of the precipice that lay ahead.

How was he going to tell her? All he knew was he had to. He closed his laptop and slid it into his bag. I watched the hero of my story get up, with the intellectual expression on his face which plagued his life. He took slow, calculated steps out of the coffee house and directed himself towards his flat. Each successive step propelled his confidence. His heart raced as he got to the dingy stairwell leading to his home. Adrenaline was now overcoming the inertia of reluctance. He steps into his hallway and stops as he sees his wife.

She stood in front of him, her face a pale mirage of the first time he saw her that fateful day. Her hands were behind her back, stretching the stained apron draped around her body.

They stared at each other, dueling with the knowledge that what was going to be said would change their lives forever. He didn’t have to wait for her to speak. He saw the reflection of her slender back in the mirror. He saw the reason for her silence in her hands and she saw that he knew.

She was holding a positive pregnancy test.

The Not So Normal Attachment

‘I definitely enjoyed it but can’t see myself doing it’. I gave this diplomatic, yet honest answer to the Consultant Psychiatrist on the last day of my 6 week placement. Truth is I was grateful it was my last day and as we walked to the wards, I couldn’t help but remember all the things which made this such a mentally exhausting attachment.

My first day was vaguely disturbing, a good reflection of how dangerous naivety can be. My firm partner and I thought it was a good idea to clerk someone in the acute admissions unit. It didn’t seem too bad. A few patients loitering around a glass box which ‘sheltered’ the staff. They would bang their fists on it from time to time, asking to be seen by someone. We picked out the least rowdy person from the crowd and decided to speak to her in the kitchen as there was no other room available at the time.

My partner and I were confused. This lady seemed perfectly normal, almost pleasant to have a conversation with. Why was she here? She didn’t seem to know. All of a sudden, things decided to get pretty sinister. A man spotted me from outside the kitchen and rushed towards me. He put his face an inch in front of mine and stared into my eyes. I was perplexed. Now what? I told myself to keep calm. He smelt awful. My eyes darted around the room in the ridiculous hope something would magically intervene. This didn’t please him at all. He told me not to move my eyes off his as it disturbed him.

So here I was, locked in an epic staring contest with a man in full invasion of my personal space and sense of smell. Meanwhile, the patient we were speaking to was being accused by another patient of being a spy. This didn’t go down too well. The shouting attracts another patient into the room, my saviour. This newcomer, almost randomly, prods my invader in the back and claims he owes her 20 pounds. He answers the accusation with a right uppercut to her face, which she dodges by falling into the fridge. Chaos ensues as the glass box of nurses empties into the kitchen. My saviour comes up to me saying I should act as a witness when she takes the incident to court. I look at my partner and we flee the scene.

The subsequent days were far less dramatic but just as confusing. I came to the conclusion that I wasn’t talking to people or even ‘patients’ on the ward but to the conditions they were afflicted by. I was talking to Schizophrenia, Bipolar Affective Disorder and Depression. It was like speaking to a puppet whose strings were tangled. The confusion eventually resolved into a chronic sense of helplessness. I am a heavily empathetic person, and empathising with an irresolvable emotional façade had become a terribly exhausting, guilt-ridden experience. I remember in particular feeling terrible after speaking to an elderly suicidal lady. All our efforts to encourage her fell flat in front of an eerily rational approach to suicidality.

What I should have realised at the time was that my naïve attempts at understanding these people were both futile and frankly patronising. My feeble mental stamina is not worth an iota when compared to what they are going through. You can’t empathise either. Saying ‘That must have been difficult’ is an offensive statement to make. It is impossible for someone of my background to imagine what their experiences must feel like.

It wasn’t always like this though. There was always an intellectually challenging patient. One day I was trying to figure out why a man in front of me thought he was the Messiah. His indefatigable belief mixed with outrageous and plausible theories made me question myself and whether this man was indeed ‘The Awaited One’. It was that surreal an experience. You only really appreciate how blurry the definition of reality is once you speak to someone who can’t tell the difference.

So it was with relief that I finished the attachment. Safe and sound in a world where ‘normal’ was far easier to define and less guilty to be.