Moment of Definition

This is Fiction

Many decades from now they would call him the Prince of Peace.

Not as a slur against the Almighty, but as a compliment to the man who followed the Saviour in every which way. Pilgrims would travel thousands of miles to catch a glimpse of his coffin and pay tribute to his memorial. He would be beatified within sixteen months of his death, having performed the necessary quota of miracles needed to accomplish such status. He would be the darling of the Church, having been personally attributed to thousands of conversions. He was said to have had the ear of God. But little did anyone know of the moment that sprouted his conversion. The moment that haunted his dreams, the source of a million Hail Marys. The moment of definition.

Not much was said of his delinquency.

Those in the village were partially familiar with his antics; most had either passed on or relegated the incidents to afterthoughts. Still, there were those who had a passed-on knowledge, household to household, of the future saint's one-time attitude to society. There was a recollection of the moment in question. The daughter involved, of the mother having passed and bearing no children of her own. The story had died the day the boy became a man. But it didn't. It lived on in his conscience and became the source of his nightly pain.

When the rock left his hand he knew he had set forth an evil that he could not stop.

He was riding on his bike with the neighbourhood ratbags. They tagged fences. Smoked stolen cigarettes from the village corner store. They would rob the garages of neighbours near and dear to their parents on the knowledge that alcohol could be found. On this fateful day, they parked their wheels parallel to the train tracks on the outer boundaries of the village. The carriages rarely passed through except in the early hours of the morning. But on this day there was a shipment said to have been en route to Antwerp. Following this was a passenger train utilising the line for the first time. The company that held the license was testing the railways and seeing the viability for passenger travel.

The boys intended to cause damage, as much as they could with the largest rocks they could find. They had a good practice run on the shipment carriages. The dent that Rusty made with his fist-sized boulder made them all laugh in unison. There were eight of them in total. Rusty was the youngest and the one with the biggest impression to make. Juan, Joseph, Deakin, Malcus, Drew, Slatko and Oskar egged him on.

The bravest of them all.

Willing to break the lock of a house to gain access to the goods. The one willing to soil the good name of his parents in search of a packet of smokes and a cheap laugh. The one most likely to end up the rest of his days in jail. Not afraid to fight, not afraid to kill if it made his status in the group worthy of their indefinite respect.

They called him Rusty due to his broken clothes and older demeanour. He was in constant search of the reaction and the damage of the shipment train gave him the reaction from the others that egged him on more so. He bet them all that he could break the glass on the passenger train when it passed through.

"I'll bet you eighteen you can't,"

"Twenty says I can,"

The deal was made, and the waiting began.

Suzanne was a farmer’s daughter who was passing the tracks over to collect empty milk bottles from her auntie’s house in the adjacent lands. The ride was expected to take thirty minutes in total. Fifteen in a return journey and fifteen in her interactions with the auntie and uncle to receive the bottles. She noticed the eight first and was struck by a fear that propelled her to pedal faster so as to avoid the unnecessary interactions. She knew of their reputation for trouble. She was told by her parents, just as all parents in the village reminded their young: stay away from the M-town eight.

"I can hit Suzanne off her bike for thirty," Rusty suggested, upping the stakes.

"Thirty-five you can't," countered Oskar.

They shook hands and the deal was made.

Rusty lined up the eleven-year-old in his sights with the boulder at the ridge of his fingers. He lined her up again and again and watched as her bike manoeuvred out of range, coming back in as he adjusted his arm.

He was satisfied that she was of a sufficient distance. He knew that if he projected with enough force from this angle, at the right speed and velocity, he would hit his target. She was nothing but a moving bullseye.

As soon as the rock left his hand, he knew he had unleashed an evil that he could no longer control. He felt the collective holding of breaths as the others watched the projectile soar through the air at a speed faster than her wheels could outrun.

It moved faster and faster towards its intended target, whose bike sped on unsuspecting. She sensed the danger of the gang but had no comprehension of the pain their actions were about to inflict. It was three metres away, then two, then one. She thought she had outrun them. She was busy concentrating on the route that she would have to take on the way home, an alternate route that would delay her return home and make her father worried. The last thing she thought of was the impact that was about to pierce through her skull causing the fractured cranium and severing the oculomotor nerve, permanently blinding her.

As her body hit the gravel, being thrown from the bike, the boys howled with laughter. Rusty hid his outrage with a smirk and an acknowledgement of the hilariousness of the scenario. He laid out a challenge, and the outcome was as humorous as they had imagined. The money felt like nails as Oskar placed it in his palm. It weighed him down. He was disgusted by it.

"I don't know if she's getting up," said Malcus.

"Let's go!" Slatko screamed.

No one wanted to see up close the damage that Rusty had caused. No one wanted to bear witness to the months and years of rehabilitation that she would have to undergo and the adjusted lifestyle her family would need to engage. She was a distant accident. A tragedy from afar. The less they knew, the better. But it would be Rusty's cross to bear.

The family would move from the village for the treatment needed to assist Suzanne in her recovery. With no witnesses coming forth and no evidence to proceed, the police would choose not to engage in a formal investigation.

Life moved on.

There was no nightly news bulletin. No mid-week column in the local paper. No town hall meeting. No social media update. The assault lived on in rumour and innuendo.

Except in Rusty's mind where it attacked him day in and day out.

He never wanted the title that would befall him. He never wanted to be praised for his good deeds. He simply wanted to atone for the one evil deed that he felt defined him. Even if no one else knew anything about it.

He would die healing the burdens of millions and never have the chance to heal his own.

He would never find a lead that would allow him to apologise to Suzanne.

He would never be at peace for the evil the rock leaving his fist had instigated.

It was his cross.

His defining moment.

His destiny.