by Brad Oates
"I used to think of myself as a rebel. I don't remember when it started, but my path always went the other way—cutting through the undergrowth of bullshit to the hidden temples of truth. But the irony of being a man defined by his road to redemption is that any effort to change your circumstances makes a lie of your image. So I never stopped to question it. There never even seemed to be any real need—as if my every distant intention was somehow more significant, simply by virtue of it being my own.
"But I guess it didn't work out that way. I blazed my own trails, no doubt. But where have I ended up? I'm an adversary to the handful of friends I have, and a predator to the few remaining women who don't already know better.
"I always thought I was born to be one of a kind," Edgar spoke into the ether, "I just never bothered to consider exactly what kind that was."
The bench caught and tore at the battered jacket beneath him with each small shift, and a slow pounding began to punch through the quiet air. The rumbling dirge welled up to suffocate the peaceful calm, a rising Gregorian chant which brought Edgar a terrible sense of finality.
"It's a funny line to walk—being pulled between the joys and regrets both so inherent in a life well-lived. It was a life of calamity no doubt, but at least I've got my stories. That's one thing I'm certain of; despite all the heinous mistakes I've made, I know I created some decent memories for those poor bastards I left behind.
"I just hope they remember them—long after they've forgotten all the rest."
Another drag, and another swig, yet the squirming feeling in Edgar's stomach would not subside. The smoke burned his eyes, and he knuckled them roughly. He dripped with sweat, and his raw throat protested his continued soliloquy.
"I remember one time, at the end of second year." Edgar grinned with the recollection. It had been a long while since he'd stopped to reflect in any sincere way. "Exams were nearly over, and I knew that in a week the five of us would go our separate ways for the summer. Alex would go to his hometown to do whatever it was Alex did for money, and Duncan would find some highbrow volunteer position to pad his résumé. Emeric would end up burying his face in independent studies for the summer, and I'd be left to carry on the legacy with Jake in their absence.
"There were still a few exams left, as I was reminded so many times, but I thought we needed a special little something to commemorate the end of the year. A celebration of sorts—just for the inner circle."
The air was dry and hot, and every word pained Edgar. Still, he continued, more calm and content than he'd felt in years. "I'd managed to steal most of their notes earlier in the week, and phoned each of them with tailor-made reasons to meet me in the old park by the residence buildings.
"I told Duncan I had big news. He probed for a while but finally acquiesced. Lucky thing, since I'd never planned his excuse beyond that. I just told him I needed him there, and never doubted he'd come.
"I told Jake I'd found a keg; that one was simple. For Alex, I said I'd met some local players who had some interesting things to show him—he didn't even ask any questions, only said he was on his way.
"Emeric was a bit more difficult, I really had to put on a show for him by that point. In the end though, I boiled it down by saying I needed his help, and sure enough, he showed up with the others.
"They were a bit pissed when they realized it was a ruse, and even more so when they found their missing notes in the big pit I'd dug. Well, Duncan and Emmy were. Alex didn't really care, and Jake didn't have any notes to contribute anyway.
"But when I lit the pile up and pulled out the fireworks and booze, they all came around." Edgar's voice strove against him, and came in staccato bursts between brief periods of silence. "We all stood there by the blazing notes, drinking and watching the fireworks.
"Alex said it was beautiful.
"Jake gave an emphatic 'Hell's yeah!'
"Even Emmy had to admit he was impressed.
"And Duncan, he just looked over with a big grin, shaking his head as his face lit up in the reds and greens and yellows of the fireworks exploding high above.
"That was a pretty great night," Edgar finished, taking a quick nip of whiskey to steady his excited heart. "If more of my time down there could have been like that, I'd be a lot happier being here."
But times had seldom gone so well for Edgar. His selfish focus had always conspired to turn circumstances against him, and his blind passion consistently prevented him from learning any legitimate lessons.
"Looking back, the world was never really the caring place I was raised to expect. It didn't eagerly await my contributions, or patiently accept my missteps.
"But it wasn't a cold, manipulative series of events conspiring against me either, even though I often treated it as such. In truth, I guess the world just didn't care. One way or another, it went on spinning in oblivious apathy, unmoved by any of my hopeless failings; asking nothing, expecting nothing." Edgar sighed, easing into his epiphany like a child into an icy bath.
That was the secret, the ultimate truth of Edgar Vincent, which had eluded him for so long: it was all up to him.
"So here I am, in Hell. It's not what I was led to imagine. There's no fire, no whips." Edgar ran his burned hand down the faded length of his old tie. "It's just...me."
Without faith...
"A man is only what he does with his life," Edgar finished the thought.
"I spent so much time trying to create stories to look back on, yet I managed to get myself killed before I had the chance to appreciate them.
I know I made my share of mistakes—more than my share if we're being honest—but still..." Words finally failed Edgar, and with one last puff, he snuffed out his cigarette on the dusty floor of the confessional.
Without his stories, Edgar was nothing.
Shaking his head, Edgar knew he still had a long way to go.
And no shortage of time to get there, he assured himself with a coy grin. Standing, he pulled on his torn and bloody jacket despite the heat. It was dirty and worn—familiar and comfortable. With a crack of his knuckles, he reached up and tugged the collar tight against his neck, causing the old tie to tear savagely at his skin. Straightening his back despite the pain, he struggled to resume the confident posture that had always come so naturally.
Opening the door to his left, the inky fog pressed menacingly against his exit. He shuddered. The dead air without did nothing to quench the smouldering furnace within. Reaching into his back pocket, Edgar pulled out his packet of smokes. His fingers fumbled around in the void of the case, twisting and searching for a comfort that was beyond him now. Finally, he peered in to find it empty.
"Fuck."
Letting the spent pack drop to the floor with an impotent flop, he reached up to massage his throbbing temples. Then, clutching his whiskey bottle tightly in his burnt right hand, Edgar stepped out into the darkening fog of what was to come.
Sunday had arrived. Still, Monday felt a long way off.
About The Author
Brad grew up in the small town of Mayerthorpe, AB, the middle of three children born to Leonard and Elaine Oates. He developed a passion for literature at an early age, and many of his first memories are being curled up on the couch with his parents and siblings as they read 'The Hobbit' and 'The Lord of the Rings'.
This passion only grew with age, and his love of expression and art soon flowed over into an appreciation of music, as well as brief forays into writing.
At 18, Brad moved to Edmonton, AB, to attend the University of Alberta, where he received his degree in Psychology with a minor in Philosophy. After, he started a career in Strathcona County, and returned in his free time to working on writing with a more serious focus on literary fiction. It was around this time that Brad began to foster the ambition of achieving publication.
Brad now lives in Edmonton, AB, with his dog, Bogney. He is a longstanding member of the Edmonton Writer's Group, and enjoys writing at the Tavern on Whyte when he finds the time.
/> On his blog, BradOHInc.com, he enjoys writing a wide variety of genres, and covers numerous topics. In general, he finds himself leaning towards a dark-comedy, literary approach, often dwelling on themes of human virtue, self-deception, and morality-based philosophy.
