Double-Click Flash Fic (6 page)

He could get out through the shotgun seat, which is unoccupied, but he chooses, for some reason, to remain where he is and conduct his conversation through a crack in the window. Honda steps out of her car and walks around so that she is on the other side of BMW’s window. She’s not injured, and neither is he, by the looks of it. They talk, then each pulls out their cell phone and makes a call. Some minutes pass. Honda hangs up her phone and waits for BMW to finish. BMW talks for a long time. Then he makes another phone call which is equally long. Finally, he too hangs up and resumes conversation with Honda.

It’s hard to make out, but he is pudgy, with pink puffy cheeks and a small forehead. He wears Coke-bottle glasses, and his eyes are set deep in his face. She is slim to the point of nonexistence, with a pinched look on her otherwise pretty face.

After more talking, Honda goes back to her car and retrieves a notebook and a pen. She goes back over, then stands there, shivering in the cold while he watches her jot down her information. Her writing arm trembles. The snow continues to fall. She hands the notebook and pen over to him, and he takes his time writing down his information. She continues to stand. Continues to shiver. He tries to suppress a smirk, but she doesn’t notice the suppression nor the beginnings of his self-satisfied grin.

It’s unbearable to look at this, to tolerate this. It doesn’t take a genius to realize the ramifications; any driver can tell you that if you’ve been in an accident, you stay put. Moving the vehicles away from the original scene and not flagging down witnesses means that anything could have happened. He said, she said. At best, both of them will be found guilty for the accident. At worst, she may be found to be at fault for something she did not do, was only subjected to by forces beyond her control. The damage could have been inflicted by either car, judging by the state of the car doors. And judging by the crafty look on the man’s face, he knows how things stand. She, on the other hand, looks shell-shocked. She’s never been in a car accident before. She must be no older than 20. He must be in his late 40s.

I walk over as they’re talking and gently tap her on the shoulder. “Bad scrape you got into.” She turns around, astonished. BMW’s face deflates.

I
would be indebted to you, gentlemen of the jury, if you excused my client’s absence from these proceedings; he has been struck with a brain fever, an affliction which visits him occasionally, and which speaks to a deeply rooted infirmity that has plagued him for the larger part of his life. Oblige, if you would be so kind, to hear my testimony, for I speak not only as an advocate, but as a medical practitioner who had the responsibility and privilege to serve as caretaker of and confidant to M. Meursault in his most trying moment. I intend to prove that his crime was committed from a position of deep disease, and that he cannot be held accountable for his actions, gruesome though they may be.

My client stands accused of murdering by gunshot a man of Arabic descent whose name, by request of the slain victim’s family, shall be omitted from my testimony. Meursault and the murdered individual had no prior relationship before the alleged murder; in fact, the date of the murder was the first – and last – time either had seen the other. They were perfect strangers. The gun was fired once, then four more times, and according to a witness, the accused appeared neither angry nor glad before, during, or after the event; he appeared, in fact, emotionless and, as this witness put it earlier, “eerily detached from his actions, as if some unholy spirit were guiding his hand.”

Meursault has always been an outsider, a stranger to the society he lives in. And as my clinical report states – please turn to page 14 of the document in front of you – Meursault “suffers from the pathological inability to feel or express empathy … Grief and happiness alike are foreign to him, and he lives isolated from and out of touch with the real world.” It is my professional opinion that Meursault suffers from a heretofore undiagnosed case of psychopathy, and that far from being a calculating killer with evil motives, he is the victim of a mental illness which, though incurable, can be treated and controlled within the safe confines of an asylum.

I put it to you, who are most astute judges of human frailty, that Meursault’s crime was not premeditated; for when a person is incapable of acting rationally and is victim to a perilously weak mind, he cannot in good faith plot a murder. In such a state, a man can only harm those around him by pure accident, and, in the ensuing bedlam, annihilate himself too. If he is not absolved of his crime and treated immediately, he is sure to commit suicide, and it is from this fate that I most wish to save him.

D
ear Preremoval Risk Assessment Officer,

I am writing this letter to inform you of my desire and intent to obtain permanent residence status. I have severed all ties with Georgia, my country of origin, and established a home in Canada. I work as a Human Resources Generalist with the Distresa Placement Agency, where I am a valued and respected employee. I am financially independent and able to provide for myself; I have been attending school and studying English throughout my time here, and I plan on enrolling in university and studying medicine.

When I first arrived in Canada, I lived for some time in a basement apartment while attending ESL classes. I soon obtained employment as a secretary, but unfortunately, I was let go within months. I received the call on a Friday, informing me that there was no need for me to return to work. The following Monday, I received another call, this time offering me a new job. I believe that this was simply a divine miracle and has strengthened my belief in God; He helps me in every difficult situation I find myself in. He turns people’s hearts to mine. Currently I can afford a one-bedroom apartment, and I do not rely on my parents for financial assistance – just the opposite: I want to help
them.

In Georgia, I have nothing, and I do not recall with fondness the time I spent there. I had no close friends there, no one who could understand me or help me resolve the problems I so desperately wanted to solve. I had little money; my salary was just enough to cover rent for my apartment in the city. My parents would pass on food items from the village, but that was it. There was simply no future for me there …

Now I can take care of all my needs and help others who are in need, because, having gone through what they are going through, I understand them better. For a long time, I could not forgive those people who had caused me harm and pain. It is only here, with a strong belief in God, that I could finally forgive them, and come face to face with my problems. Though it was difficult, I forgave them, with Pastor Mstislav and me praying together and talking about what happened. I am very grateful for the time he spent with me, and continues to spend with me. He helps me so much and in so many ways. His sermons instruct me and uplift my spirit. He is like a father to me; I can come to him with any problem and he will always listen and offer helpful advice. I respect him very much. My life belongs to God, and I cannot see myself without my brothers and sisters, without Pastor Mstislav, without my church. I am bound to them, because they all played such a positive role in my life.

Here, in Canada, I began my life with a clean slate. Everything changed, I became a different person, and I live by God’s priorities now. Here, no one knows about my past life in Georgia, and I can put that painful period out of my mind forever. In Canada, everything is new, everything is better … I thank God for this opportunity to have everything I have now.

I feel very near recovery from the painful events that I endured in Georgia, and can be a productive member of Canadian society without fear or shame. I am capable of enjoying my life again, as I feel truly accepted and valued here. In Canada, I am surrounded and supported by the Pastor and church members, coworkers, friends, and teachers: all people who care about me and my well-being. I love this country and its people, and would like to make my future here, a future that includes a family of my own.

Nothing awaits me in Georgia. If I were to leave Canada, I would have nowhere to go, no work to support me, and no one to rely on. I would be a single woman with no prospects and no opportunities for a decent life.

Please take into consideration that I have established myself financially, culturally, and socially in Canada, and that I love this country. I know that my destiny is in your hands, so God bless you in making this decision!

Respectfully,

Nastasya Ulyanovna

O
nce upon a time, there was a young woman who lived too much, loved too much, and cared too much. Everything she did was done with energy and optimism, with youthful innocence and growing maturity. She took herself seriously, but not too seriously. Her days were spent surfing the digital seas on her computer and meeting with happy friends in real life. She was a diligent, nerdy student who always finished her university essays on time. Some of her friends thought her boring – that is, until something interesting happened to her. Suddenly, the world flipped upside down. Our heroine was inflamed with passion and rose to the highest mountain, dropped to the deepest ocean, and flew back and forth, between the skies and the waters. Nothing could stop her. She had the power. But she forgot that she was powerless. The warm season passed and the cold season found her dashed to pieces on the rocks at the foot of Lake Ontario. She lay there, broken, through the long, cold, lonely winter. One day, when there was a thaw on the land, the lighthouse at the other side of the lake began to blink a bright light. The young woman, still in pieces, stood up to look. The light shone in her face and made her smile. She lowered her gaze and looked at the water. It was blue, clear, softly waving. First one foot, then the second dipped into the lake. She started walking into it, and felt the waves buoy her up. Walking, walking, dipping, floating … And then she walked on the water. She did not fall. She did not fly. But walked with a sure step. Then she started running. Faster and faster she ran across the water, broken pieces jangling, towards the lighthouse. Towards the light. When she got close, she slowed down, then stopped. In the sand, at the base of the lighthouse, she stood looking up, and the light fell on her like a warm blanket. She turned into a beam of light and shot out into the universe as fast and as sure as
E
=
mc
²
.