The Grand Sacrifice

The night is getting closer and the earth is getting colder. Isaiah is staring intently at each plank of wood he steps to. Every time his left foot sets itself down on the next plank, his eyes lock onto the hole in the toe of the work boot. It is easy to imagine that he got the boots from his friend's dad, or his own. It is easy to imagine that he got the boots at a thrift sale, or, more likely, he bought the boots himself and at some point a hole grew in the rough leather skin; the hole bleeds cold air in to chill his toes. His other boot falls to the next plank, there is no hole in this one. No break in the leather skin.

Isaiah abandons his vigil of the planks as he raises a half jug of wine to his mouth. The wine is cheap, but plentiful. He does not pause his walking as he fills his mouth with the dark red wine. When he drops his hand to his waist, jug lighter, his eyes drift across the world in front of him. The train bridge beneath him has a wooden scalp with two iron bands running its length like two short mohawks on the same head.

The sun is setting behind him, the moon is hiding. Probably drunk on its own depressions. The bridge, with its mohawks, is held aloft by a spider web of iron. The yellow shirt, held aloft by strong shoulders, frame black letters that join in the chorus of the rustling trees, upset by the shortening days, the sun's laziness. The letters read, 'The sun is a ball of gas.' It is the time of year for life to fade, for a shroud of white to drop, a blanket pulled over a body found bloated from the time spent in the water that killed it.

Isaiah momentarily attempts a balancing act, standing with one booted foot floating out to his side, his right foot. The other fixed to the iron rail. It is a one man circus that ends with him demoted from trapeze to clown. He stands a moment accusing the rail and cursing his demotion. The jug finds its way to his mouth, muffling the inaudibles. A long drink.

Isaiah moves the short distance to the edge of the bridge, he spreads his arms, getting prepared for a flight. He stands on his toes, then drops his arms and sits on the edge. He leans forward and spits into the distance between his spot and the water. The spit disappears and his eyes drop to the water, glowing orange gold with a shadow of black encroaching. The water is flowing through the spider web, hemmed in by cliffs along both sides. The water moves freely, hardly noticing the cliffs, the bridge, or the man above.

A solitary white cigarette finds itself alone being placed on the red altar, to be burnt. A heathen virgin used to please the gods. Moments pass, Isaiah's hands search pockets and come to his mouth empty. The sacrifice saved for another moment, the sacrifice sent back to her sisters in the box, in his pocket.

***

The early afternoon sky opens and rain begins to fall. Isaiah's steady walk leads him from the bus to a dark blue house a block away from the university. His stride pauses before he places his right work boot on the first of the cement steps.

Closing the door behind him, Isaiah pulls his hood from his black curly head. "Hey." A perky girl on the couch says over her shoulder. "Sarah is in her room."

"Thanks." Isaiah walks to the stairway leading from the living room to the two rooms upstairs. The plastic bag with the small pink and white box inside bounces off the railing as he begins to walk upstairs. The bag is tied at the handles; he tied it during the bus ride from Walgreens. "Sarah?" Isaiah says while pushing the door open with his left hand. Sarah is on her bed, lying on her side, facing the window opposite the door, her blonde hair a mess. "Sarah." He says again, standing in the doorway. The room is small, the smallest bedroom in the house. A desk covered with books, folders, and notebooks, sits next to the door. A cup with the words 'Imago Dei Village' and 'Crossways' holds the pens and pencils. They had met at the camp; they both were counselors. Sarah is wearing a pair of jeans and a white button up. Her shoes are still on.

Isaiah walks across the room, sitting on the bed with his back to her back. His gaze wanders across the undecorated room, except for a single painting, one he has always disliked. It was a painting he had done of his mother, she had looked sad ever since he could remember. The painting was his attempt to make her look happy, and he hated it.

"Did you get it?" Sarah's voice is quiet. Isaiah, without taking his eyes from the painting lifts the small plastic bag with his right hand.

"Yeah." He lowers his hand to his lap. The dark blue comforter barely moves as Sarah rolls onto her back, elbows pressed against the bed to raise her head relatively equal to his, a shadow position of immortal children. A shadow of those few chosen to be gods, to be trusted with the secrets of eternity, a shadow almost gone. Isaiah turns to her; his eyes bounce of hers and onto a spot beyond her neck.

"What will happen?" Sarah asks after a moment. Her eyes, brown, are hesitant to look in his face. "Can we end it? Can we go back to how we were?" The room seems dim. The light soft green walls crowd Isaiah, holding him place.

"It can only be the same if," he pauses, his eyes pull back to the room and focus on her, looking for Sarah within the brown eyes. "How were we?" She pulls her legs close to her chest, putting her hands around her knees.

"I don't know," she says, "good?" Sarah takes her eyes off of him, afraid of what he will find. She reaches out with her right hand and takes the small white plastic bag from his lap.

***

Isaiah sets himself down on the deep brown couch; Sarah's roommate is watching the same thing as when Isaiah had come in. She looks sidelong at him for a moment, her red cheeks are more red than normal, her mouth neutral in a half frown, half smile. Her eyes alert under straight brows, brows that usually have a strong curve due to the almost constant perkiness that this one usually seems incapable of shaking.

After a thorough inspection of Isaiah, Sarah's roommate turns back to the TV. He never acknowledges the presence of the perky roommate on the couch next to him. Political ads run and he never changes his focus, always beyond the TV, and beyond the walls. Prolife. Prochoice. Economics. Taxes. War. The perky roommate, after the second ad switches channels. She says something grandiose about the importance of one candidate.

"That sucks," the perky roommate mutters, "my foots asleep." She does not look at Isaiah, instead stands and turns the TV off. With the TV off both Isaiah and the roommate hear faint crying coming from the bathroom down the hall. The roommate straightens and looks at Isaiah for a brief moment, then hobbles quickly to the stairs.

Isaiah is left alone, the faint crying the only sound that exists. He slowly sits forward and cups his face with his hands. He reaches down and ties his left boot; it had been untied most of the day. Isaiah stands and looks into the hall. His feet lead him to the bathroom door, where he stands still for a long moment. The wallpaper in the hall is a flower and vine print, an ugly print. He can hear Sarah crying, a soft, almost pleasant sound. Isaiah pulls out his pack of cigarettes, and then puts them back in his pocket; he still doesn't have a lighter. He turns and walks to the front door - its still raining out - and puts his left hand on knob.

"Isaiah?" Sarah's voice is muffled. He turns and sees that the bathroom door is still closed.

***

Isaiah sits on the edge of the train bridge, his legs dangling over the edge. The spring is unusually warm, the moon is full and the water is swift through the latticework of the bridge. There is no jug.

Isaiah lifts a small white cigarette to his mouth, the cigarette burning on the altar of his lips. He watches the smoke float away with the wind. It will never return to the body. A train whistles, sounding the change of shift for Isaiah, and it will not be long before the train will race across his bridge, oblivious to the small man.