Trinity by DB Cox

Trinity
—the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost

Someone is crying-a lonely sound off in the distance, insistent, and
impossible to ignore. It’s coming from somewhere near the tree line, just
beyond the perimeter wire. Why doesn’t someone go out and check on this guy?
Where’s the medic?

Scared shitless, he tries to get out of his foxhole and investigate, but he
feels as if he’s strapped down, powerless to move. He concentrates with all
of his might, trying to make a connection between his brain and useless
limbs, but it’s impossible. The harder he tries, the more frantic he
becomes.
_____

When Harris comes awake, it happens all at once, as if someone has just
thrown open a door. Sweat pours freely into his eyes and his breath comes in
ragged gasps. The fragments of who he is, and where he is, slowly drift into
place. He turns over on his side to check the time. The red digits on the
clock show 6:00. It’s just beginning to get light out. He slides his legs
over the side of the bed, sits up, and feels around on the bedside table for
his cigarettes and lighter. After fumbling with the lighter, he manages to
get one lit and takes his first drag of the day.

For the third time this week, he’s had this same crazy dream-followed by the
feeling that someone has arrived just in time to save his ass from some
unnamed evil. He considers calling his doctor to ask about cutting back on
some of the drugs, but he knows he’ll get the same old ration of shit. “Mr.
Stone, if you stop taking the medication, you’re going to end up right back
in the hospital-blah, blah, nada, nada…”

“So fucking what”, Harris grumbles, “I could use the rest.”

He leans over, snaps on the table lamp and pushes himself to his feet.
Cigarette dangling from his lips, he bends down, grabs a pair of jeans off
the floor and slips them on. Glancing around the small bedroom, he notices
the cardboard boxes he hasn’t unpacked, and a huge stack of books that he
presently has no interest in reading.

Lately, he hasn’t felt like doing shit. He hasn’t even bothered to put in an
appearance at work for over a week, and he’s pretty sure the foreman on the
loading dock hasn’t missed him.

Harris takes a hit off his cigarette and catches his reflection in a grimy,
full-length mirror propped against the wall. He spends a few seconds glaring
at the image, as if trying to place the face-then half-sings in a
low-pitched voice, “tell me, who do you love?”

Still half-asleep, he walks down the hallway to the living room. A tiny
night-light allows him to navigate through the minefield of crushed beer
cans scattered across the carpet. Dropping into his battered recliner, he
clicks on the television with the remote control. On the screen, a
Sunday-morning evangelist is pacing back and forth, sweating, shouting, and
pointing an angry finger at a group of scared sinners.

Harris retrieves an empty beer can from the floor, and jams his half-smoked
cigarette through the opening in the top. Using his hand as a pistol, index
finger aimed toward the screen, thumb cocked, he drops the hammer. A soft
exploding sound comes from his lips followed by a mocking “bullshit”.

As the camera scans the crowd, every face reflects the same guilty
expression, eyes cast downward, as though they’d like to crawl under the
folding-metal chairs to avoid the punishment that could come at any second.
A penalty dished out by some unseen force under no obligation to answer for
itself-absolute, petrifying power.

Feeling exhausted, he leans his head back, closes his eyes, and tries to
rewind the dream that’s been causing him to lose so much sleep. For the last
few days, he’s been catching more shut-eye in this chair than in the bed. He
scans his brain for any details, but can remember nothing except the sound
of crying, and the terrifying helplessness of being unable to move.

In the background, the fire-and-brimstone voice grinds on like a
metal-driven dream. There’s something about the sound of that voice that
really gets under his skin. And that cold, conceited face-the kind of face
he always loved to pound the shit out of when he was sixteen. Back when
every teacher, coach, and preacher were figures of authority and every beer
bottle smashed in a past-last-call parking lot, a salute to his father-his
holy father coming home thundering drunk…

3 o’clock in the morning-rousting everybody out of bed. Ranting and raving.
Promising them the worse beating they’ve ever had. His sister, hiding in the
bedroom closet crying-terrified. Calling out for her mother. Calling out for
him. His mother sitting motionless, a posed mannequin on a beat-up, brown
sofa, while he stands in the corner, helpless. Angry tears rolling down his
face. Inadequate child-sized fists clenched at his side. Both of them,
frozen-in-place too frightened to move into the next room and hold her. They
can only stare at this furious, red-faced bully pacing back and forth across
their living room floor and pretend not to hear-pretend it will end
soon-pretend they recognize this man.

Suddenly Harris raises his head, thoughts rushing around his brain like a
runaway train. Now he remembers-remembers it all-every shitty detail buried
behind the walls of that derelict, little southern mill-house. A thousand
Technicolor images etched into his mind: every whiskey-driven scar fixed in
faded walls, every shattered glass, every meaningless minute spent begging
mercy for every wrong thing.

Old shadows descend on the room like a judgment. Something deeper than
sadness washes over his body, and for the first time, Harris Stone sees
himself as he really is-a broken toy, a defective machine bent by a brutal
hand. He knows something vital has been stolen from him and there’s no way
he can ever get it back-not with overpaid doctors, multicolored pills or
sweet prayers to Jesus. For him, there is no redemption-no road home.
_____

He reaches over, picks up the remote control, and turns off the television.
Pulling himself out of the chair, he walks slowly down the hallway to the
bedroom. He opens one of the cardboard boxes lying on the floor, and
rummages around until he finds what he’s looking for. He pulls the .38 from
the box and walks into the bathroom.

Mind floating somewhere on the edge of time, Harris stares into the mirror,
body trembling under the weight of what he can never set right. Trails of
sweat travel the lines in his face, as he focuses intently on his shifting
reflection-until gradually: he sees his father’s face-hears the menacing
voice-feels his sister’s fear, his mother’s humiliation.

Totally exhausted, Harris closes his eyes. Both arms hang limply at his
side. The revolver feels almost too heavy to lift. Opening his eyes, he
sighs and speaks directly to his reflection.

“Okay old man, it’s just me and you.”

Harris raises the gun, places the blue-metal barrel just above his right ear
and pulls the trigger. Click. Nothing. ClickClickClickClickClick.
Dead-silence. The face in the mirror smiles. Harris Stone screams.

DB Cox is an ex-marine/blues musician/writer from South Carolina. These
days, he can often be found in the early-morning hours bent over a Fender
Stratocaster guitar in roadhouses, honky tonks, and juke joints throughout
the south. His poems and short stories have been published extensively in
the small press, in the US, and abroad.