John Krygelski - The Aegis Solution

Anarchy is craved by the best among us for what it affords — and by the worst for what it allows.

Neve Walker stared out her bedroom window at the darkened landscape, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her hand, almost involuntarily, clenched into a fist, crumpling up the sheet of paper containing her handwritten note, as if a part of her mind wanted to prevent the chaos her words were certain to cause.

Drawing a deep and shuddering breath, she attempted to force at least a degree of calm into her agitated mind. Reluctantly, her eyes shifting away from the window view, Neve looked down and noticed the balled-up note she held tightly. With exaggerated slowness, her fingers opened and she dropped it onto the bed. It was ineluctably a symptom of her mental state that the wad of paper assumed the characteristics of a wrecking ball as it crashed into the quilt which had been handmade for Neve by her mother.

Focusing what remained of her dwindling reserve, with deliberate motions, Neve meticulously peeled open the wad and, with her fingertips, gently smoothed out the paper, mindful of the poignancy as a tear fell from her cheek onto the page.

Satisfied, she turned to the nightstand to stare at the one and only picture placed there. Clipped into a cheap frame, which she had purchased with her allowance years ago, was a badly taken photo of herself, sitting between her mother and father. Although, in the time since, she had been given many posed portraits taken by professional photographers, this shot, snapped by a tourist who had happened by, was still her favorite.

As she gazed at the picture, her mind traveled back, as it had so many times before, to that wonderful day. She and her parents had gone to the Renaissance Festival. It had been her idea that they dress for the occasion. Her mother was resistant to the idea at first, but her father prevailed, as he always did. She still vividly recalled their stifled laughter as the stranger asked if he could join them at their picnic table while they ate, their mirthful reaction caused by the unlikely juxtaposition of images he presented.

“It’s not every day,” he said to them, sensing their amusement, “that you see a Vietnamese guy dressed as a court jester from Olde England.”

The four of them laughed, and he joined them at the table. This was, she reflected wistfully, back in the period of their lives when such a thing was still possible.

It was then, just as he sat down, that Neve decided she wanted a picture. She dug the disposable camera out of her maroon velvet Victorian satchel and handed it to their new guest, asking if he would mind taking a shot of the three of them. He cheerfully agreed and stood up from the table, backing away as he stared through the plastic lens, trying to capture the group within the frame. Satisfied, he stopped and, rather than asking them to say “cheese,” remarked, “You realize that I am Vietnamese, not from Japan, so no guarantees about how this picture will come out.”

They all burst into laughter, and he snapped the picture.

Neve stared intently at the photograph, trying to burn the image into her mind. Her father was to her left, his face stretched in a broad guffaw, a massive turkey leg hovering in front of his chin. Because the stranger was also laughing as he snapped the shutter, the camera had jiggled and he had cropped off the top of her father’s head, concealing the leather hat with the flamboyant purple plume affixed.

To Neve’s right, sat her mother, wearing the green velvet dress of a noblewoman, with a lace parasol perched upon her shoulder. She had not yet noticed the large gravy stain on the filigreed bodice, acquired as she had just previously eaten beef stew from a bread bowl.

Neve’s eyes then fixed upon her own face in the picture. Despite her objections earlier that morning, her father had prophetically insisted that she dress as a princess, rather than the Robin Hood-esque character she had planned. A beautiful rhinestone tiara was clipped into her tousled hair, cocked at a slight angle and looking as if it would soon fall off. Around her delicate neck hung a matching necklace, which disappeared into the open neckline of the pink chiffon gown. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, her mouth wide open in mid-laugh, and Neve…even on this day…was still able to recollect the total joy she had felt at that moment.

But it was only the memory of joy which came, not the feeling itself. Such had been the case for quite a long time.

Tearing her eyes from the photograph, she looked down at the pistol on the bed.

How unfeminine! she thought to herself, knowing that most females kill themselves with pills.

Neve had considered that option during the agonizing stages of planning she had gone through and decided that pills were too uncertain. The available resources at her father’s disposal were so overwhelming; she did not want to take the chance of being discovered early and a miraculous intervention occurring which might save her putrid life.

The steel butt felt cold as her fingers wrapped around it. The barrel tasted of gun oil. With one final glance at the nightstand photo, she pulled the trigger.

Almost before the reverberations of the gunshot died down, the bedroom door was kicked open and two Secret Service agents burst into the room, skidding to an awkward stop as their trained eyes instantly absorbed the horrendous scene.

William Walker stood at the podium, his eyes not focusing on the faces before him, his mind reticulating out the whir and hum generated by the jumble of recording equipment all aimed in his direction.

He began to speak and found that his throat was tightly clenched. Pausing, Walker took a small sip from the glass of water which was ready for him next to the microphone stand. It took three attempts before he succeeded in swallowing. Tentatively, he cleared his throat and began. His voice was not of the timbre and vibrancy this group and the whole nation had become accustomed to. Many of the broadcast reporters witnessing the speech would later comment, as they made their on-the-air analyses, that William Walker, President of the United States of America, sounded weak, tentative, even beaten.

“I want to begin by thanking the millions of Americans, and our friends around the world, for the prayers and expressions of sympathy that my wife and I have received over the past weeks. I cannot tell you how much they have meant to us during these very dark days.

“The loss of our only child, Neve, is an experience no parent should ever endure.”

Walker paused and stared into the distance at some unseen vista, causing a silence which quickly grew uncomfortable for the reporters and technicians in the room.

With multiple blinks of his eyes, the President refocused and continued, “Only God can possibly explain the reasons for her decision. And those answers will be kept from us until the day we join Him…and, I pray, once again see our beloved daughter.”

Walker hesitated a second time, but only for a moment. His back visibly stiffened and, as he began to speak, his voice revealed a trace of its former power.

“Many of the religions of the world, including my own, believe that suicide is a sin, an offense punishable by an eternity in…in a place other than Heaven. In the days since this horrific event occurred, my wife and I have prayed to God that this not be the case…or, if it is, prayed for lenience from Him.