Nothing is more wretched than the mind of a man conscious of guilt.
-Plautus
Tristan screamed. How could she not? She had never even seen a gun go off before and now someone had been shot right in front of her. The lawyer stood unsteady on her feet for a moment and looked down at the newly formed hole in the left side of her abdomen. She seemed confused as she touched the wound, like she still didn’t believe he’d actually shot her. That confusion quickly turned to rage. She started towards George, murder in her eyes, but her legs would not cooperate. She fell to the floor, a pool of blood forming under her back.
Tristan rushed to her side to help but found herself frozen by the sight of oozing blood. “You shot me?” Jennifer shouted, incredulously. “You m***********! You shot me!” She groaned and gasped for breath, the pain finally catching up to her. Tristan tried covering the bullet hole, but without any bandages she was just smearing blood all over the poor woman. George moved towards the two and Tristan winced away. He put his hands up to settle her and took off his jacket. “Hold this over her wound. Keep pressure on it.” He said, handing the garment to Tristan. “I’ll go find some more supplies to patch her up.” Tristan did as he said and placed the jacket over the bullet hole. She could feel the shock settling into her thoughts. “You should check the custodial closet across the hall. It should have something we can use.” She said, absently.
George turned to exit the room. Tristan shook the fog out of her brain. “Wait,” She called. George stopped and turned back to her, expectantly. She reached into her pocket and tossed her keys to him. “You’ll need these.” George lingered for a second at the doorway like he was going to say something but thought better of it. He hurried towards the custodial closet across the hall.
Jennifer continued to shift and writhe on the ground, but Tristan had been able to slow the bleeding a bit. Still, she looked five shades paler than she had been a minute ago. “Oh, that m***********,” She lamented. She studied Tristan for a moment, as if truly noticing her for the first time. “You just kissed his ass immediately. How’s your home life, by the way? Unrelated.” Jennifer would never cease to amaze Tristan. It was like she was physically incapable of shutting up. “He has a gun and you’re bleeding, Ms. Symchak.” Tristan said, her patience wearing thin. Jennifer did her best approximation of a shrug. “Yeah, but he’s injured and you’re young and…” She trailed off and looked Tristan up and down. “Spry.” Tristan couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “I’m not going to fight him, Ms. Symchak.” She said.
“Oh, come on!” The woman exclaimed. Tristan had no idea how Jennifer had become such a successful attorney. I mean, sure, she could obviously argue her side until the cows came home, but weren’t lawyers also supposed to be able to make deals? Don’t you have to be personable for that? “I’m not!” Tristan replied, as firmly as she could muster. “There’s got to be a better way. He’s not well.”
Jennifer groaned like an impatient toddler. “What are you, some kind of pacifist or something?” She prodded. “Uh… yeah, I guess?” Tristan said, unsure of how that was a bad thing. “I don’t know. Kinda.” Jennifer turned her head towards Tristan in an overly exaggerated manner.
“That’s f****** stupid.”
As George searched for the closet, he tried his best to not think of the horrific things he had done. He certainly didn’t want to think about the fact that the horrific things were likely far from over. He had to focus. He had to find something to cover Jennifer’s wound. He should probably also bandage his hand, he decided. He was starting to feel very lightheaded.
Where did the command to shoot Jennifer even come from? He hadn’t wanted to do it. She was bullish and annoying, sure, but she had helped him in times when no one else would. He could always count on her to have his best interests in mind. Who was he to tell her that she couldn’t try to save herself for once? But he had to. She could be infected. He was almost definitely infected. He had probably doomed her already, just by stepping foot in this building.
And what of Tristan? She was so young. She was so hopeful. At best, he had just traumatized this woman for life. At worst… Where did the command to shoot come from? He couldn’t even remember putting his finger on the trigger.
He thought of Patrick.
Patrick Thompson. Single father of three. His wife had died a few years back. George had given a eulogy at her funeral. How would the kids take this? Probably not well, he decided. They hadn’t taken their mother’s death very well at all. He remembered all the times he had babysat them when they were younger. Beth had called him “Uncle Bore” when she was younger, and baby Frank had always tugged on George’s beard with that strong grip of his. They were adults now, but George still couldn’t help but think of them as children. That made his guilt all the more potent.
Patrick and he had been at a bar before this all happened, catching up after a few years apart. Life always seemed to get in the way of the best friendships. The two had met while working on a construction site some thirty years back. It was the first project that George was allowed to lead as foreman, and it had a rocky start. Patrick was new, but he very quickly became George’s go-to guy. He had an uncanny ability to translate George’s jumbled thoughts into coherent instructions for the other workers. They became an unstoppable team after that, working together for more than four years before the company realized that Patrick could do it all without George. Patrick tried to quit in solidarity, but George convinced him to stay to support his family. In the years since, Patrick had become a successful engineer, spearheading some impressive government contract that was way over George’s head. George had become an ex-con divorcé. Equally impressive on both sides.
Maybe Jennifer was right. Maybe George had just slaughtered Patrick in a moment of temporary insanity. He thought of the laughing, charismatic man he had been talking to at the bar.
What makes a man turn into that?
George shook his head, his thoughts quickly invaded by memories of his friend ravenously gnashing and biting at him. He had to do it. He had no other choice. He had to pull the trigger. That’s where the command had come from. He couldn’t let anyone else turn into that. It didn’t matter what they thought about him anymore.
