The Unnamed Man - A Short Story
He had a name, of course. But he went to great lengths to make sure no one knew it.
The unnamed man climbed over the stile, hunched and grunting.
He had a name, of course. But he went to great lengths to make sure no one knew it.
Even if I told you, I’m sure he would somehow redact it.
As for myself, your precious narrator, I shall likewise remain nameless because, well, would you want this unnamed man to know you’re telling stories about him?
The fenced in pasture was home to a few pigs, and not much else. But tonight, a black, vicious dog came to greet this unnamed man.
From the farmhouse, the dog streaked through the grass like a piece of midnight itself. The only color on it was the whiteness of its horrid teeth, and the hungry glint in its eyes.
The man stared down at the dog, growling in return. Gray clouds swarmed in the sky but held back their downpour.
Just as it seemed like the dog would leap at the man, eager, hungry, a whistle pierced the air.
The man looked up. His old friend and colleague was standing in the backdoor to the farmhouse.
This other man, he had a name. He went by Jack.
Don’t ask me if that’s his real name, that’s not what I’m here for.
“Jack, I told you we would be having issues if you didn’t keep this dog down.”
“I kept him down just fine. You still have both your hands, don’t you?” Jack asked.
“Yeah, yeah, I do. I’ve really got a problem with coming back here. Are you really so petty as not to let me use your front door?”
“Don’t get started on that. You know as well as I do we have to be discreet.”
“Right. Because climbing over your fence like this, that’s nice and tidy.”
“Tidy as can be,” Jack said, crossing his arms. “What did you come here for?”
Our unnamed friend grinded his teeth for a moment. He had a resolve as hard as they came, but this moment, this conversation made his hands shake. He prayed Jack didn’t notice.
“I want out,” he said in a guttural whisper.
“Out? Out of what? You want out of what, eh?” Jack said with spit coming out of his mouth.
“This! I’m done.”
“You’re not done with anything. Do you hear me?”
Jack’s dog mimicked his owner, baring its teeth in a hideous grin.
“This isn’t what life’s about, Jack.”
“What’s it about then, eh? You think you can go back? Back to what, the real world?” Jack’s caustic words poured out of his mouth. “As if they can forgive you? They’ll throw you behind bars before you can go crying back to your momma.”
“I don’t need their forgiveness, Jack. I’m done. I’m done with all of it.”
“What makes you think you can get away from any of this?”
The man shrugged. “Nothing, I suppose. Nothing except that you know it too. You’re tired of this. Admit it. Do you like hiding out here? Sleeping with one eye open, a hand on your pistol? Never sure who you’re going to have to shoot next?”
“You’re a fool!”
“Yes! Yes, I am! I was a fool to ever get caught up with you, Jack. I’m walking away.”
“I can’t let you do that,” Jack said, taking a step toward the other man. He rested his hand on a hip. A gun, a knife, what did it matter?
A thunderclap broke their tense silence, and the rain pounded down on them.
They stood, staring, one man’s eyes full of anger, another man’s full of guilt.
“I’m done, Jack,” the man said, his voice trailing into a whisper.
He turned and walked back to the farm fence. He closed his eyes, knowing Jack could do whatever he pleased, and he would be powerless to stop it. He expected something. The click of the hammer on a pistol, followed by an unseen bullet. A knife. Something.
Jack stood there, his hand on his hip, staring. Staring. Staring. He wanted to do something, anything. The other man walked away, and over the fence. Jack only stared.
