Smoke (standard:drama, 1727 words)
Author: Frank Alexander	Added: Jun 24 2003	Views/Reads: 3317/2531	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Two women who lost their husbands in a tragedy. One of them deals with it in a rather unorthodox way...

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


Carol carefully took the four steps that led down from the terrace and
kept silent for a while. It didn't really matter what she said. Mia 
wouldn't listen. They still were best friends, but the dead of their 
respective husbands had driven them apart. 

“I didn't believe a word of it,” Mia continued. “I mean, just look at
the papers. They are filled with words like “domestic problems”, 
“difficult upbringing”, “extenuating circumstances” and all. It is as 
if there are no criminals anymore. These days everybody is a victim of 
anything! And don't expect psychiatrists to deny that. They just jump 
into the market and make a fortune keeping the carousel going.” 

“Now you are exaggerating. Today's society is a demanding one...” 

“Sure, defend him as well. But I still think that if you can't handle
the life you live, you'll have to step out of it instead of killing 
innocent others. And the more I thought of that, the more I came to the 
conclusion I couldn't leave it at this.” 

Carol turned her head and squeezed her eyes. It was as if a knot was
tied to her stomach. 

Mia held still, took a pack of cigarettes from her coat and pulled one
out. She lit herself with a miniature gun. Carol looked at the barrel 
that produced the small flame and shook her head. 

“That is quite a strange toy to see in your hands.” 

Mia looked at the lighter and shrugged her shoulders. 

“You're the one who's always telling me to lighten up. And he loved it.
Don't you want to know what happened?” 

“What would you do if I said no?” 

“I'd force you to listen.” 

“Then what is the difference?” 

“I want to talk to my friend. Not to some distant goat who could just as
well be my counselor.” 

“You know I'm not. What happened? Or should I ask what you have done?” 

Mia took a hard draw and exhaled a big cloud of smoke. 

“I had to gain his confidence. I just had to know what was really going
on inside that monstrous brain of his.” 

“Did you go visit him?” Carol couldn't hold back the astonishment she
felt. 

“What did you think? Ever since Robert died my Sunday afternoons are
quite filled with nothingness. Yes, I started visiting him.” 

“And they allowed you to talk to him.” 

“Not right away, they didn't. The first thing I did was contacting his
doctors. I introduced myself as a writer who had read everything in the 
papers and was now writing a novel about it.” 

“Did they actually believe that?” 

“I used my maiden name. They had no reason not to believe me.” 

Mia lit another cigarette and looked at her gun shaped lighter. 

“He is not allowed to have a lighter with him, or even just one match.
Whenever he wants a smoke, he has to ask the warden.” 

“See? He isn't in that place for no reason.” 

Mias smoking became agitated. 

“A psychiatrist, any psychiatrist, just keeps on looking for anything in
his books that fits with the patient he has before him. Next thing he 
does is basing all his theories for supposed cures on that. They don't 
fool me. All the conversations I had with those doctors? I didn't 
listen to them. I nodded and smiled and pretended I was taking notes. 
But all I was interested in was the man who killed my husband.” 

“But what did you want? Did you expect him to take your pain off your
chest like some kind of Jesus?” 

“If his mind at the time of the shooting was as absent as they tried to
tell the jury during the trial, the guy would by now at least show some 
remorse, don't you think? Killing one man is not something your mind 
can easily discard, let alone killing two men.” 

“And was he repentant?” “He is now, I should say.” 

“It don't understand you.” 

“Today was the last time I visited him.” 

The women had reached the edge of a black pool. They held still, the
noses of their shoes close to the water. Mia looked unnoticing towards 
the center of the pool. 

“They tell me this pool is at least ten yards deep.” 

Carol watched her. The knot in her stomach got tighter. 

“Mia? What are trying to tell me?” 

Mia put her hands in her pockets. When they reappeared she held a
miniature gun in each hand. 

“I spent moths talking with him. Time and time again did I listen to him
talking about how bad it is to be a victim.” 

She now looked Carol straight in the eye. Her gray eyes were almost
literally spitting fire with anger. 

“But all those moths I also had to listen to his pride. How easy it was
to get the rifle onto the company's premises. How he enjoyed the moment 
when he produced the gun when he was standing in front of them. How he 
savored the expression of fear and astonishment on the faces of his 
soon to be dead colleagues. How much pleasure it did him when he opened 
fire.” 

Mia looked at the small guns in her hands and put one of them back in
her pocket. The other one she held up and she looked at it against the 
dark red sun. 

“One shot,” she said. “That was all I was given.” 

Carol followed Mias gaze and the knot in her stomach made her sick when
she began to realize what Mia had done. 

“Did you...?” 

“Do you know that there actually are people with compulsive behavior?
One of his fellow patients throws his dinner-set against the wall, 
every time he finished his meal. It's made of hard plastic so it won't 
break. But it makes quite some noise, I can assure you.” 

Mia kept silent for a minute or two. 

“I couldn't listen to his stories anymore. I hated the sound of his
voice, the way he cleared his throat. I hated the look in his eyes, 
which was one of pride.” She glanced down at the miniature gun in her 
hand. “All I had to do was to wait for the right moment. He never knew 
what hit him. I only lit his smoke, as usual.” 

She pulled her arm back, threw the gun into the black pool and watched
the rings growing wider until they completely disappeared. 

“But...how can you walk away with murder?” Carol stuttered. Mia laughed
sarcastically. 

“The rest of his life he will be looking with one eye. Every time he
looks in a mirror, he'll see the consequences of his deed. That is 
good.” 

She looked a long time at Carol, who was ultimately stunned and unable
to move. 

“Murder?” she finally said and she didn't hide her disappointment. “I
fail to understand how you could even consider that.” 

Then she shook her head, turned around and walked back to the terrace
without saying another word, leaving Carol to her own thoughts. 

Original title: “Vuur.” This translation © 2003 Frank Alexander /
administered by FAN-Publications, The Hague, The Netherlands. The 
original Dutch story was previously published in “Golfslag” a 
collection of Dutch and Belgian short stories (ISBN 90-5757-028-9) 


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