My Hand Mitten

by Austin Thacker

  “I found it scrunched in the back,” cried Mary. “I had to finish it. But I—” Mary began to bawl again. Mark slid his hand into hers.

  “But you what?” whispered Mark. Mary rested her head on Mark’s shoulder, rolling it as a gesture of self-shame, catching her breath to finish her sentence. Although she tried, during irrepressible tears the words were no better than breathless gasps.

  “I, I couldn’t paint Tom,” Mary cried as her face fell back into her knees like she were a guilty child. She was referring to the little swan in the painting, symbolizing Tom and his acceptance into the family, the endless years together as a family. Yet every time she picked up the brush to paint, shade, and complete this final addition, the black swan, she couldn’t. The black swan seemed to glare back, to shame the entire painting as a symbol of deep remorse for her lack of saving Tom. The black swan’s glare reminded her of why she had originally painted that canvas: for the endless, joyful years to come once the two returned from Kuwait, a dream that would never happen. Completing the painting was deemed pointless, and she knew it, guilt running wild as she stretched her will further and further to complete that final animal, the black swan, knowing that its simple, solid black color now made it the focal point of the painting, and her fingerprints also turning the original symbol into an idea she never dreamed to plan. With the people laughing in the buildings, the wall’s graffiti welcoming Mark’s return, the two swans kissing, and the incomplete, glaring black swan to the side, the painting was complete. Mark kissed the back of her head.

  “Mary, he will come back, you will see him again. I know Tom inside and out, he survived, just please believe me,” Mark said, completely unaware of his own shockingly deep and therapeutic denial. But Mary continued to cry, her gasps for air never more than a second until she cried profusely again. Seeing her destroyed, Mark came forward and gently wrapped his arms around her and began singing a song lightly into her left ear. It was a lullaby that fell in the melody of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Mary stopped crying when he sang, and listened.

  Umbrella, umbrella please don’t go, you keep me away from this cold snow, I’d have no protection so please hug me, or I’d run to the old apple tree. Umbrella, umbrella please don’t go, you keep me away from this cold snow. The wind is strong, this is true, but you’d hug me, and I’d hug you, so umbrella, umbrella please don’t go, you keep me away from this cold snow. The rain is wet, it makes me cry, but with you we’d get by, so umbrella, umbrella please don’t go…

  Mary whispered the last verse with Mark. “You keep me away from this cold snow.” They stared into each other’s eyes with equal understanding until Aaron walked in and turned on the light in the room.

  “Is everything okay, guys?” exclaimed Aaron with a concerned face, completely unaware of very direct social signs.

  “Yes!” said Mary while quickly lifting herself up. “Just talking about life.”

  Mark tried standing up but was unable to. Mary quickly looked at Mark and reached her hand out with great concern. She struggled as Mark used her supporting hand as leverage off the ground. She could not support his heavy weight all on her own. Aaron ran over and finished the rest, grabbing Mark’s second hand, and together they pulled him to his feet. Mark wobbled when he began to stand again, and everyone burst out into belly-aching laughter.

  “Well,” Aaron said energetically, “the bar is having a happy hour, and—”

  “Aaron,” Mark plainly remarked, “I’m on eight pills, an antibiotic, and steroids. I can’t drink.” There was a nice, crisp silence as everyone froze and thought of a solution. Then Aaron spoke again.

  “Applebee’s is having a happy hour.”

  They all laughed and disagreed in their own individual ways. But thirty minutes later, Aaron, Mark, and Mary all scrunched over half-off appetizers.

  The Last Day of Freedom

  Mark continued to drive faster and faster. His siren was on, so traffic dispersed in both directions for him to pass freely. Most cars drove only to drive home and watch the storm from a window, as it continued to prove itself as the worst storm of the year. The lightning lit up the sky like fireworks, as the new moon hid in the clouds and as the mountains popped their heads out of the dark after every spark of light drew a path through the air. The rain fell fast and sharp, while the wipers on the automobile wiped the rain off with frantic force, and as the wind periodically rocked the accelerating car. Mark screamed for the police engine to move faster and the people in the road to disperse more swiftly, missing some by an inch. Aaron was three miles behind, speeding as fast as Mark, pushing the car faster than ever before as the wind also shoved his car with hostility, making it slip and slide in every dangerous turn that could be their last. They both passed through Broadway and the coffee shop Tempus Garrapatas. It was their last day of service until the shop closed for good. A legendary coffee organization known for its love to their customers and employees. Mark, through the town and quiet neighborhood, made it to his destination and, without keys, slammed open the door. It was a house bought once he got cancer, out of the military base and into the suburbs. It had two bedrooms and two bathrooms. The second bedroom was for Tom. Mark completely convinced that he would return. But now it was where Mary’s bedridden, sick body lay. Before her isolation, nurses told him he needed to be sterile and scrubbed before entering to see her withered body. Yet as her condition worsened, he was told that he could not see her until she began to show great strides in recovery once again. “Her frail immune system finally disappeared,” Mary’s father told him with a stern look. “You cannot see her anymore; Aaron and I both will not allow it. You would kill Mary by your introduction of germs into her quarantined environment.” We would both die of meningitis, Mark thought to himself. No, I would die of meningitis; she would die from my dangerous touch, if I remember their self-absorbed lies correctly. I will die of meningitis, this is true, but if she’s going to as well, then my death with her is the most joyful opportunity available. I can die with her. We can end our lives together.

  “I can feel her soft lips on my mouth once again!” Mark yelled with a roaring laugh while he walked toward the room. Every step made him more and more excited than the last as his smile extended wider and wider and his heart rose with gripping desire. He began to walk through the living room, past the two chairs that they once shared, past the painting of the swans on the stream. He never glanced over to his left or right and continued moving forward. He was pulled by an unavoidable force, to renew his past for one last moment with Mary. Lightning struck and lit up the paintings, all surrounding Mark from every angle. The swans under graffiti that said, “You’re home, never leave my hand again. I never doubted your return. —Love, your Hand Mitten.”

  Tom was still not fully painted, just a solid, incomplete black swan. The ghosts dining on a war ground while the deformed cartoon-faced soldier cried for his fallen veteran. The swans at the lake, kissing in the sunset, a painting with different shades of blue, of a mother that had lived a short life. Mark made it to the hallway, where there lay three doors. The first one was on his left, the gateway to his room, a room with clothes thrown everywhere in a chaotic explosion of institutionalized thoughts. There was the bathroom farther down to his left, with a tiny window over the dry shower. To the brutal windstorm was where that room led, a final escape from his thoughts, the last resort that led into what Mark believed were seemingly endless storms. The last door was Mary. He didn’t know what the closed door held but imagined a white room filled with a healthy, excited wife awaiting his arrival and warmth, his hand slipping into hers and igniting hibernating butterflies in his stomach to erupt like they used to years ago. Mark passed the first door, slowly making every step as if nothing would disturb the moment, crying with excitement. “My Hand Mitten!” he yelled with exhilaration. The lightning struck again and pictures surrounded Mark, pictures of their wedding, Mark and Tom in their uniforms, Mary p
ainting happily in the sun while she giggled in her white apron, yet Mark was never sure why she was laughing, or when the picture had been taken. He has always been completely clueless as to where the photo came from. Then, finally, there was the painting Mary was working on in the photo. It was only primary colors painted a centimeter thick on the canvas, covering every inch, side, and strand of white. There was no point of the painting, except that it was pleasing to the eye. It was pleasing to see how it was made, and like an orchestra, it was exciting to wonder what the artist had been thinking when crafting their form of art. The complexity of it was more than just a picture—it was a lifestyle. Mark passed the second door without much thought at all, shaking with excitement that continued to build, knowing he could not hold the restlessness any longer. “I’m here!” Mark screamed with shrieks of loony laughter, and reached the doorknob for the third, cracked green door.

  “Mark,” whispered Aaron. “Don’t do this. You’ll kill yourself.”

  Mark turned 180 degrees toward Aaron, who was aiming a nine-millimeter toward Mark, hiding in the shadows. Only the barrel and his body’s outline stood out like a phantom, although ghosts don’t fear, and Aaron, still alive, was overwhelmed with it. Mark let his head fall forward and chuckled lightly while shaking it back and forth.

  “You lied to me, Aaron. You lied about Mary’s illness. Now she’s on the brink of death and you threaten me with death?” Mark laughed to himself. “His logic is pointless.”

  “I didn’t lie, Mark!”

  “YOU LIED BECAUSE YOU LOVED HER!” Mark’s impulsive yell accused, pointing his arched finger across the hall. “That’s right, Aaron, I heard your whispers after our argument! You were going to strike me across the face. It was a dream of yours ever since we met. But you didn’t. Why?” Mark cuffed his ear, as if someone would answer. “Because you loved her!”

  “That was a long time ago!” Aaron yelled back, yet with slight hesitation. “The only reason I love Mary now is because you love her.”

  “So now in our final argument, you become modest? It’s hilarious that with a little pressure, even the most stubborn change!” Mark snarled with his wild grin and careless attention. “Shoot me, Aaron, we all know you can’t,” he hissed, acting again as if there were a crowd.

  “There’s an entire fleet of police officers outside. Where I fail, they’d succeed.”

  “Then don’t fail!” Mark hollered, throwing his arms apart. “Finally grow some balls. We all know Mary will die soon, so there’s no point in—”

  “Don’t put that disease in your head!”

  “Let me finish!” Mark screamed, whipping Aaron’s revolver out from the elastic waist of his jeans. Aaron flinched and fled a yard back, farther in the darkness and past the first door. A flash of lightning struck with thunder a second behind, and Mark’s face was revealed, his broken nose that continued to gush onto his face and clothes, and Aaron’s large Metallica T-shirt on Mark’s broad body, yet stained very heavily with thick streaks of blood. Aaron had changed into his police uniform while racing through the slowly emptying streets, the slightly tight dark blue clothes fitting perfectly around his body, camouflaging his lean structure.

  “Mary will die,” Mark confidently listed, smiling like an entertained hyena. “So I’m not afraid of death. I already know you won’t shoot. Now give me one reason why you deserve mercy from me. Aaron, you pitiful little man, scraping through life believing you are more than just a background noise, something to fill up space. But you are, you are the most worthless voice on the planet.”

  “You won’t shoot,” Aaron snapped with sharp yet glossy confidence. Mark with no second thoughts raised the weapon and shot it in the air. Ceiling chips and fine powder fell in front of Mark’s face, some landing on his shoulder and hair with haste, as his eyes continued to glare into Aaron’s. Frightening, cold tension surged between the two as Aaron finally understood that Mark would shoot him with a smile and, as the basic blueprints of the perfect man, would not miss. But the crackling bullet in the house’s still air was not what Aaron had expected, he dropped his handgun from the tension and screaming in his head with panic as he realized the gigantic mistake that was made. Aaron reached for the weapon once it was dropped, sliding it a yard away from immediate reach. Men around the house jumped from the gunfire, whispers between police officers died off, and they all stared toward the origin of the noise. The first wave of officers ran through the collapsed front door, snapped hinges, and into the living room. The rain pounded loudly on the roof, and a crackle of thunder above shook the house roughly as the hole Mark’s first bullet carved began to leak water onto his head, yet Mark still stood in his spot with a motionless, diabolical glare. Aaron quickly fell to his knees and Mark raised the weapon with form and ease.

  “I’ll blow your hand off if you even graze the grip of that gun!” Mark firmly shouted. Aaron quickly jolted his hands upward toward the white popcorn ceiling. “I’ve taught five other men how to, what makes you think I won’t?” Mark yelled. “Kick it over.”

  “I don’t,” Aaron angrily responded, standing and kicking over his weapon to Mark who, while the weapon was still in motion, pushed the weapon even faster down the hallway, until it smashed into the nearby wall. Three police officers ran toward the hallway and saw Aaron with his hands spread out in the air, but ran back because of his continuous, obvious yet subtle wrist flick. Aaron’s wrist extended his palm back, then forward again to its original straight position, repeated a dozen times without looking behind in a frantic motion. The leader of the three was the police commissioner, Francis Baker, a thirty-one-year-old college graduate. They ran out the collapsed door and flooded front carpet, announcing that Mark had a gun pointed at Aaron, who didn’t seem to want any interference from anyone else. Francis stood at the front door with a few police officers, grazing his black two-inch goatee with a grave, stern face, his mind flooding with ways to prevent Mark’s death. Then, while also speaking into a much more modern Bearcat radio, informing the stationed officers around the perimeter, he began to speak to the small circle of officers around him.

  “First, we cannot leave Aaron in a hostage position,” announced the police commissioner. “This danger will force us to make very serious and precise decisions so as not to trigger any hostile actions. We do not want to give Mark a reason to shoot at Aaron. Mark has been a very nice, gentle man at our station; we all know his kind, yet sometimes repetitive routines.” Some officers let out a light chuckle, all holding fond memories of what Baker meant. “But we all know how aggressive and strong he is as well. So you need to be alert when dealing with this issue. Gentlemen, do not let your memories interfere with your job! Whatever he’s upset about is worth holding a nine-millimeter in the direction of his undeniably best friend. He is not emotionally stable! Aaron, I know, is trying with as much effort as possible to calm him down. None of us know why he is like this, but he is, and he will not respond like the Mark we all have come to know very well. I heard many of you whispering, but no need. We do not know if it was from the accident. It could be an assortment of different reasons, although the car accident and the possibility of head trauma is the most logical answer. That is our best guess,” the commissioner informed them, his eyes bone-dry with difficult force. “Yet we will go in there again, for Aaron’s protection. Know that a split second of hesitation could cost you your life. He isn’t stopping, and, as some of you know, he was trained for these moments. Although he is a community resource officer, he is also a Gulf War veteran. The feeling of a weapon isn’t abnormal to him. Also know that he was the one who shot his weapon and has someone as a hostage, our chief. We have every right to shoot him. But as you know, our goal is to get them both out alive—do not shoot unless you must and do not hesitate your judgment. Since Mark is close to us all, I will also accept anyone who cannot stay, so please speak now if you cannot do everything I asked.” Some officers in the circle agreed easily, but
a few stirred officers, one from the circle and another from the far right side of the house, asked to leave. Still the rain poured harder, and small droplets of hail began to form with a strange and slight cool summer breeze, pounding the police officers’ heads like bullets and thickening the atmosphere even more. Aaron and Mark could hear the hail pounding on the roof and windows, the wind howling, blowing past their bodies from the front door. Their two motionless bodies in a moment of constant, long-awaited tension. Mark and Aaron, two lifelong friends, glaring at each other’s eyes as the moment of testing finally came. Mark’s face dripped his own blood and the drops of water from the roof, his only movement from periodic cynical grins erupting on his face like a constant tic. Aaron, his head down and eyebrows arched in a furious, stern stare, thought of what, if any, options were available to get his revolver out of Mark’s grip. His face was motionless, cautious of the incubated lunacy that has trickled out of Wegman. Then, after a minute of tense thoughts, began the growth of an idea. He could already feel the tormenting pain his body would endure, a shiver traveling up his spine like a hasty millipede and its tickling legs. A simple-minded idea was what he had, which carried the slight potential in saving Mark’s life. The Passenger Effect, Aaron thought. I can fight it. I can prevent what he has always been destined to do, the destiny we damned him to. If he walks through those doors, that cracked green door, we, and three more officers, would all certainly die, until my six-round revolver runs out of its dangerous venom. Aaron’s idea was simple, yet the more he thought about it, the faster his heart sank.

  His idea was to force Mark into one of his episodes of motionless panic, for the chance of a window to open up, for someone to make a feverish sprint across the hallway for the weapon in Mark’s momentarily limp hands. Aaron needed Mark to be in pain, to ignite deep, unbearable regret, knowing that, for Mark, everything worsened with regret. Though Aaron Hudson knew that his decision to escalate the tension could (or would) backfire harshly, he crafted the plan B to leverage Mark into using as much ammunition as possible, to play with the snake and drain its poisonous venom. They both stood with power in their eyes. Aaron’s head was slightly tilted downward, while his two eyebrows continued to arch toward the bridge of his nose. Mark’s nose finally became more crusted with fresh warm blood, but his eyes and quiet, unemotional actions stood as well-known red flags of a sociopath. Lightning struck and they both saw each other’s grave faces.