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Consequence
By Paul Benvin

Walking to work was a welcome change for Craig Johnson. Every once in a while he just wanted to leave the stress of stop and go traffic behind and enjoy the scenery. That’s what he was doing this morning, admiring the sun as it rose above the trees, casting elongated shadows on the sidewalk. On his way he stopped and bought a coffee at the local doughnut shop, a rare occurrence seeing as he was always stuck in gridlock at this time. Everything seemed to be right with the world on this incredible day. As he rounded the corner, he sipped his drink and reminisced about all the malevolent things he did to that woman last week. How she had pleaded for him to stop and that she had a small child at home. Please don’t hurt me, she had said. I’ll give you anything, she begged. Damn right she did. She gave him everything and more. When he was finished with her she had two black eyes, a broken nose, and three broken ribs. What was her name again? Oh yeah, Marlene. She was a real wild one.

Craig brought his hand up to his nose and noticed it was bleeding.

“Well I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he said as he pulled a tissue from his coat pocket and dabbed it at his nostril. He had a ringing in his ears that was steadily growing louder, and now his vision began to blur. It came on almost at once and made him so lightheaded he had to sit down. Suddenly a sharp pain shot through his left arm, and he let out an immediate yell. The sensation coursed through his body, causing him to double over. Flashes of anguish now penetrated his entire body from head to toe. No longer was it isolated to just one particular area, but hit every inch of him all at once. A few bystanders that had noticed Craig’s plight now rushed over to offer their assistance. He was in such distress he couldn’t even talk, and the blood from his nose was now covering the front of his white t-shirt.

“What happened,” a professional looking woman asked in a shaky voice.

“I don’t know,” said a man in a neatly pressed business suit. “He was just walking by and sat down. I never saw anything.”

“Jesus, he’s bleeding pretty badly. Someone call 911,” said someone else.

Craig began to cough and retch as the pain steadily drummed at his body in its unforgiving melody. It felt like his entire being was in a vice that was steadily getting tighter. The street was now filled with concerned onlookers, each one expressing their amateur opinions as to the cause of Craig’s predicament.

“It’s a brain tumor,” said a young looking man wearing a read and black flannel shirt.

“No way, this guys in deep shit,” said another man wearing a dark blue running suit. “Brain tumors won’t do that to somebody.”

“Help…me,” Craig managed to croak out as he clutched at his throat.

In all the commotion, no one paid any attention to the small child standing across the street with the demented grin on his face. His mother, standing behind him with a comforting hand laid gently on his head, still displayed the grotesque bruises covering her face. Clutched between the boy’s tiny hands was a crudely made doll, and with every squeeze Craig writhed in agony.

“Die,” the little boy whispered. “This is for my mama.”

With one final compression of his hands, the man across the street-the one that had made his mommy cry-was dead.

When the paramedics arrived, they covered Craig with a white sheet and carted his lifeless body away. The police took statements from the witnesses, and before long everything was back to normal. No one would remember Craig Johnson a week from now, and as the last of the spectators left the area, one proud mother and one loving child walked off hand in hand.