Five Different Stories - Soul Decisions

By Griffin Graesky

Decisions made in the soul are the ones that last the longest and hardest to correct. But that is where the true self resides.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781387759088

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Five Different Stories - Soul Decisions

Five Different Stories

Soul Decisions

By

Griffin Graesky

First Edition, Spring 2018

All rights reserved under international law. This anthology is an original work of fiction. Names and characters, places incidents, situations and circumstances are all the product of imagination and have no basis or relation to anything in reality, or any person living or not. Any similarities are strictly coincidental. No part of this anthology may be reproduced in whole or in part without express permission given by Griffin Graesky.

Email: [e-mail]

Dedicated to those who love original fiction

A Souls Ruin

A size nine man’s leather loafer with a size nine foot inside it, crashed down over and over again on the head of some poor guy like a hydraulic controlled stamping machine, stamping down on fabricated metal moving along on an industrial conveyor belt. Smash, smash, smash. Smashing down over and over again while the other civilians looked upon it all, their faces contorted, unable to look away as their eyes took in the complete horrific spectacle. And they were stilled by fear because they saw the gun and the badge hitched up in the waistline of the foot’s owner. The poor guy on the ground was a regular at the bus stop with the rest of them. They all knew each other from the bus stop. And they knew he was no criminal.

The loafer and the foot belonged to police Detective Bob Whitman. Liters of Kentucky bourbon had been poured down his throat earlier by his own hand, and was now swirling around in his belly and pumping through his veins. It clouded his mind and vision, simultaneously though, it awakened and fueled the unquenchable, fervent rage that Bob loved to feel, and needed to feel, so that he could stomp on the head of this or any other pick, innocent or not, with fearsome vigor and enthusiasm. His partner pulled him back, with a lot of effort, but this was not the first or second or even third time Bob let the drink lead him astray. It had been happening regularly from before he even became officer Bob.

C'mon Bob, this will end your career and you know it, it’ll end mine too dammit!

One of the others at the bus stop pulled out a cell phone and started recording, another person grabbed the phone from them and dialed 911.      The male civilian on the ground was motionless, with his face destroyed. Blood trickled from every orifice. An ambulance arrived on the scene, then uniformed police in a patrol car moments after. The paramedics jumped out of the ambulance as Bob's partner pulled him further away. Finally, Bob's partner got him back into their car. Bob was in the driver’s seat and he screeched off. As he drove he reached over into the glove compartment and pulled out a flask, the contents of which he immediately threw down his throat to keep his buzz going.

His partner Detective Smith had seemed to have sprung a pair of balls and decided that was the last time.

Fuck-it, I can’t ride with you anymore, enough of this shit, I need my pension dammit!

Detective Smith used to believe in the great blue wall of silence, the brotherhood and all that jazz. But Bob Whitman did not deserve that loyalty as far as he was concerned. At least not anymore. This madness was regular fare for officer Bob. That’s what they used to call him when he was a young beat cop, walking proud with a smile on his face.

He was on the ground in the inner city, walking around the different hoods and turfs, making sure the street level trouble makers saw the blue uniform and watched their manners. But his blue uniform was also noticed by the eligible ladies that used walk those same streets. Must have been about five years now since he met a beautiful woman, the only one of those eligible ladies he ever took seriously. She liked his proud cop smile and his proud blue uniform, he liked her smile as well in her nurse’s uniform.  But that smile Bob had, it hid his true nature. A nature that came to full bare when he became, Police Detective Bob Whitman. 

Today was the last straw for his partner.

You are a train wreck that already happened man, completely off the tracks, I can't roll with you anymore! Smith said again to drive it home.

Just then they had a near miss with another civilian crossing the street.

You see, hollered Bob, they just pop out from nowhere. That guy had it comin'.

Your fucked! his partner yelled back, that guy was standing at a bus stop, he wasn’t about walk into the road or J walk or what the hell ever you yelled when you slammed on the breaks and jumped out of the car scaring the shit outta those people. You know what? Just stop the car! Detective Smith knew talking to Bob didn’t work, reason itself was lost on Bob, so that was it.

Fuck off, you want out so bad you can jump! slurred Bob.

I'm outta here! said Smith.

Without missing a beat, Smith jumped out of the moving car and rolled on the street because he knew he could make it. He used to be a soldier and had survived and experienced worse exits and more. He became a cop to keep the action going, but deep down he did like helping people. Being partnered with Bob made him forget that part of himself.

Good riddance to bad trash. said Bob out loud as he just kept on driving.

Bob looked briefly in the rear view mirror to see Smith get up unscathed and brush the street dirt and debris from his gray suit, then he sped up and tore down the boulevard.

Bob screeched to a halt in the driveway of his home. He opened the car door and fell out of the vehicle onto the ground. Then he stood up and slammed the car door shut.

He staggered to his front door and got it open, once he got inside he proceeded to yell out.

Hey!

He went into the kitchen and slammed his hand on the counter hard and loud a few times. His wife, Maggie, highly timid, wearing her nurses uniform came running into the kitchen while putting a clip in her hair to keep it up. Bob was at the stove looking inside a pot when she saw him.

It's chicken stew. said Maggie.

Bob stuck in his hand and scooped out a glob of stew which he pasted into his mouth. No couth or courtesy, not a plate or a spoon, not even a dash of compunction.

Tastes like crap. he mumbled as bits of food dropped onto the floor by his feet.

I'm sorry I was running late.

He turned to her, yeah, running late. he repeated.

He walked toward her. She backed up as he got closer.

There was a bruise under her eye. The make up just made it look less severe, but did little to hide it all together. As Bob got closer to Maggie, she finally backed into the wall and braced herself for impact and pain. Nothing happened. Bob laughed as he drunkenly sauntered past her into the living room.

In the living room he sank into a leather recliner and pulled the converter from the side. He also had a fresh bottle of scotch in his hand by that time. He ripped off the top and clicked on the TV.

Maggie entered shortly after.

I'm covering Mary's shift again, so I won't be home till tomorrow morning. she told him.

Hmpf, whatever. Bob mumbled.

Ursula has already eaten; she's gone to bed now.

Ursula was Maggie's seven-and-a-half-year-old daughter, and Bob's step daughter.

Maggie left quietly out the front door. After a moment, Bob's eyes looked up at the ceiling, then he raised himself to his feet. He slowly climbed the stairs. And stood at the bed room door of his step daughter Ursula. He turned the handle and then pushed the door lightly. The door creaked open.

Inside the room was empty, the strawberry shortcake bed sheets were tussled, and the pillow was missing. Bob sat on the bed with his bottle of scotch at his side.

Get out here! he yelled.

Nothing happened, just silence.

I said get out here now! If you make me open that door...

Slowly the closet door opened and a little girl emerged.

Now come over here and help daddy off with his pants.

The little girl approached Bob on the bed.

A month later, Robert A. Whitman, stood in front of the trial judge that adjudicated his manslaughter case, where he force-fed an innocent civilian that meal made of his size nine leather loafer.

It was a trial by judge, no jury. Being a cop, he figured that there would be better odds for him if there were no people in the jury box staring and gawking at him while his socially aberrant behavior was described in detail. He was wrong. The judge slammed his gavel, then spoke.

Robert A. Whitman, I have found you completely and utterly guilty of aggravated manslaughter. Your culpability in the death of the innocent victim, whose family wants his name to be kept anonymous, is undeniable. I can't believe a man like you has been a Detective on the police force of this fine city for as long as you have, behaving as you have. You are a disgrace to the traditions of law enforcement that make civilized society possible in this day and age. Now, the sentence that I’m handing down may seem unorthodox, but I feel we need to set an example, to send a message, that the men and women of law enforcement are held to the highest standard as front line representatives of our justice system and civil society in general, having the power of life and death over the average citizen. Such power should not be taken lightly or abused even in the slightest neither have anything to do with the appearance of abuse. The men and women who wear the badges of law enforcement are the Vanguards against chaos and anarchy, not the purveyors of it. You are now remanded to custody where you will immediately begin serving your sentence. Twenty years, no parole!

The judge slammed the gavel with such force it broke, and it was final. The judge then gathered his things and quickly left the room, shooting one last look of disgust and disdain at Bob.

Within seven hours Bob Whitman was an inmate at a federal penal facility. The transition was seemingly easy for him. He fought his cell mates and fellow inmates regularly. He fought inside the showers and in the prison cafeteria at feeding times — he fought outside when yard time came up. He was the first inmate to have fought in all the recreational spaces, and eventually became rather