The Refuse Chronicles' Preview

Twelve StepsIsn't it ironic that at 7:00 in the evening I need one more shot before attending my weekly AA meeting?I used to be important. Chief Superintendent Nesbitt of the RCMP, Emergency Response Team. A Liaison Officer for an International Task Force. A member of the UNCGSC. Now? Now, after the inquest, trial and psych evaluation I am little more than the washed up debris that I sit in a circle with. The community hall smells stale. Old. Forgotten.The man to my right, Robert, is speaking. I don't know what he is saying. I don't pay attention to him. I need to pay attention. He has stopped speaking. It is my turn now.“My name is Michelle. I'm an alcoholic. I've been sober for a month,” I lie. Muddled Absinthe has long since been ineffective. A shot of straight absinthe in the morning makes my day bearable... barely.They say absinthe causes madness. Hemingway, Van Gogh, Rimbaud; they all drank it. I think that's a lie. Absinthe is the only thing that keeps the madness at bay.Just like I think Alcoholics Anonymous is a lie. Although I verbally agree with their twelve steps, deep inside I know they are lies. You see, I don't believe in God. I can't believe in God. He doesn't exist. I know. I've seen Him...It.Progenitor of Life - the genesis point of all Creation. All is truly a mad and hopeless world. A mindless star-sized monstrosity at the centre of the Universe. Azothoth... Maybe it's the madness speaking. Maybe it's the Absinthe.Idobelieve in a higher power. ButItdoesn't believe in me. It won't help me. It won't help humanity. It won't give me strength. Itisthe corruption. I don't want to examine the past errors. I am trying to forget them, but I know I never will. I don't believe there is any amendments possible.Make the decision to turn our will over to God as we understand Him? That's what got me here in the first place.Can you dwell on something for years, or is that obsession? I've been told not to dwell on it. Dr. Ghattas tells me that I createdIt. A manifestation of my imagination so that I could avoid being responsible - of being to blame. To avoid the guild.Dr. Ghattas is a RCMP psychologist. He is full of shit. The guiltnevergoes away.After four yearsItsmemory hasn't faded. I can still rememberItpulling the trigger. The baby's screams still echo in my memory... and then it was just...just gone.I still hear the baby's cries at night.I remember her father's expression when I shot him in the face. As tired and exhausted as he was, his concentration and focus was absolute. There was no fear. He was memorizing my face.Learning to live with a new code of behaviour? I am waiting for the father to find me one day. I know he's coming. He's memorized my face. It's only a matter of time. I've read the files. The UNCGSC denies they even exist. I know he can't be dead. You see, I'veseenthe dead walk. Although my gun license had been revoked, I still pack. It takes more than a license to wield a gun. I carry my Smith & Wesson Model 5906. Loaded. Always.The woman to my left is speaking:“My name is Jenny and I am an alcoholic. I have been sober for only a week,” her voice quivers as she speaks. Her name is Jen. She's pathetic. Grieving for a husband that goes out at all hours of the night. She carries on like he's dead.Jen has some bureaucratic job at the UN. Often her work takes her to New York City for several days. All expenses paid. What a rough life. What does she expect her husband to do? Sit at home twiddling his fingers waiting for her return like some obedient dog?I shouldn't be so hard on her. I've grown fond of her. I sometimes think she's my friend... my only friend. Other times I know it's just pity.I think Jen's just lonely. I've made the mistake of going out for coffee with her on more than one occasion. Now she thinks I'm her confidant. I know she thinks I'm her friend. It isn't that I don't like her. I don't think I'm capable of friendship. Friendship necessitates hope. And of hope, I have not any.I can see in Jen's nervousness, something's wrong. She wants to talk. Unfortunately, that is a big no-no here. No“cross-talk”. That's fancy terminology for dialog. No speaking to one another. No simple healthy conversation. Not here.We all stand and hold hands. It's the end of the meeting. Robert's hand is hot and sweaty. Jen's hand is cold. Her knuckles feel dry and chafed. She gives me a nervous look before we begin to recite the Lord's Prayer.“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hollowed by thy name. Thy kingdom come, they will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.”The words are all lies. I know even though I recite them.Jen emailed me before the meeting. Asked if I'd meet her for coffee at Pequods downtown at the corner of Metcalfe and Stater at 9 o'clock.“Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”More lies. There is no forgiveness for what I've done.Jen's fingers quiver in my hand as we pray. Something's wrong. I turn to look at her. As she continues reciting the prayer her eyes are fixed on the floor before her. I can see the fear in them.“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.”It is too late now. I have long since been delivered into evil. The baby's cries echo in my memory since the day I pulled that trigger.I have spend decades with the military, police and law enforcement. Most criminals justify their actions. They are the victim. It's rarely ever their fault. Most people – deluded or not – believe themselves to be good.I no longer believe that. I don't have that luxury.Continued to take personal inventory, and when we were wrong, promptly admitted it.I count that as the twelfth step in AA. I know what I am and can admit it. I am like this dirty community hall we meet in.Old.Forgotten.Human refuse.Excerpt from The Refuse Chronicles: Das Ghul © Michel Weatherall 2016. All rights reserved