Why the River? Zach Murphy

Why the River?

Zach Murphy

Shannon sat in her tattered recliner chair and scowled at the cheesy infomercials on the television. It’d been exactly four years since the Mississippi River took her son Gus away. She looked over to the empty couch and imagined Gus sitting there, gulping down the leftover milk from a bowl of cereal.

Gus was a freshman at the state university where he became a victim of toxic substances, barbaric rituals, and a desperate will to fit in.

Shannon’s fight for justice fell into the cracks of despair until her cries went completely unheard. She cursed the Kappa Sigma Fraternity for continuing to exist. She cursed the university for its disgusting negligence and its audacity to ask people for money, and she cursed the river for carrying on as if nothing had happened.

When the clock hit 2 am, Shannon decided to take her pickup truck for a drive to the university campus. Her passengers were a bucket of black paint, a dirt-covered brick, and a ladder.

As Shannon slowly pulled up to the fraternity house where Gus began his final night on earth, her heart sank and her blood boiled simultaneously. She wasn’t going to turn back.

She grabbed the bucket of paint, quietly closed the truck door, and fetched the ladder from the back. She ran toward the house and hoisted the ladder against the front of the balcony. She took the paint and drenched the Kappa Sigma symbol in black. Then she wrote 'Leave before it’s too late’ boldly across the house’s siding.

Her next visit was to the Dean’s office. She pulled up outside, attached a note to the brick that said ‘I’m gonna haunt you until your world knows no happiness’ and tossed it through the office window. The glass shattered like Shannon’s life when she first heard the news about Gus, and she sped off with an ear-piercing screech. She knew that nothing would ever bring her son back, but the rage that constantly flooded her mind had come to a crashing release.

After picking a shard of glass out of her boot, Shannon parked the truck under a shadow and walked across the road toward the river’s edge. The street lights flickered as if they had a secret to tell. She always wondered if Gus was alone when he wandered off. She wondered why he decided to walk toward the river, or if he even decided at all. She wondered if he slipped and stumbled into the river, or if he was just trying to soak his pain into oblivion.

Shannon looked out at the river. The moon reflected upon its rolling ripples. She tossed the paint bucket into the water, along with any notion of remorse for what she’d just done. She closed her eyes as the early morning breeze whipped around her, and the cold water splashed onto her weathered face. For the first time since Gus’ death, a tiny sliver of her soul felt alive.

To Return Home

The bags have been lying on his floor for almost two weeks. He’s always been slow to unpack—this has been a particularly long delay, though. Maybe because this was also his longest trip. Japan, then to the U.S., Canada, Italy, Germany. Between them, others, but not long enough stays to note. Footnotes in a larger experience.

He finally decides to deal with the bags. He begins with the large yellow duffle bag, which has continued to act as his wardrobe in the weeks since arriving home, despite the hulking—and perfectly useable—wardrobe that sits in the corner of his bedroom. He’s been living out of this bag for a long time, he realises. For the first time in years, he can hang his shirts again, and lay out his shoes in a neat row again.

He reaches into the pocket of a pair of paint-stained black pants and extracts a small bundle of cord. He shakes the cord out, and on the end of it, hanging heavier than it looks, is the key. A whisper flits about his mind, an intrusion to the calmness of his unpacking. He squeezes the key in his fist, which he presses to his lips. He’s managed to avoid thinking about this key for a long time. The story, he suddenly remembers. He wrote the story down. He shuffles through the mess of receipts and sketchbooks in his backpack and finds it—a cheap workbook, the tacky cover spray-painted black. He flips through it violently until he finds the page.

April 31st

Tokyo, Japan.

Tonight was strange. My hostel friends and I were celebrating the ascension of the new Emperor, which is apparently a big deal here. That part was great, but I went out for a smoke at one stage, and the old guy, Akira, followed me out. He has this sort of beautiful face, Akira—sharp, high cheekbones, a small, thin mouth. It’s regal. Royal. We were standing there together, and he sort of bumped me and said, ‘You are good man. No Nihongo, but good man.’

Matt Annett

The guy hadn’t said a word to me all night, I didn’t even know he spoke this much English, and he dropped this shit in our dart break. Nihongo means Japanese, I’m pretty sure.

So, I was like, ‘Uh, thanks. You’re a good man too, Akira.’

And he gave this sad smile and said, ‘No. You do not know.’

What the fuck does that mean?

So, the, he pulled this thing out of his pocket, and he said, ‘You leave tomorrow, hai?’

‘Hai.’

Then Akira started saying some stuff in Japanese, so I got out my phone and used the Google Translate voice thing—most of this is the translations from the app.

‘You will take this. This is yours.’ And he grabbed my hand, pressing this thing into it. ‘You will give this to only me, only when I say. No one else. Very important. You’ll give this to no one else.’

By this point, I was a little weirded out. ‘Why? What is it?’ He shook his head and grabbed my phone, said something into the app. It translated to: ‘That is not your burden. You must carry this until I call.’

Then, he gently removed his hand, and it was this small, beautiful key. Its black metal is intricately carved with tiny Japanese characters.

I stared at it for a second, and then I went to put it in my pocket, but he grabbed my wrist and looked me dead in the eyes. ‘No,’ he said and tapped my chest. So, I put it around my neck, and he nodded and said in English, ‘Safe.’

‘Alright, alright … so what happens if it’s not safe?’

He stared me in the eyes again, like he was looking into my damn soul, and he did probably the most ominous thing I’ve ever seen in real-life.

He tapped his chest. ‘Dead.’ Then he tapped my chest. ‘Dead.’ He gestured to the street around us, where there were other people smoking and walking around. ‘Dead.’ And then he put out his dart and walked back inside.

So, now I just have this goddamn key. What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

A shudder runs through him as that whisper emerges … Be scared. Scared like he had been on that night. That’s the last mention of the key for months, almost a year. The pages in between detail his arrival in the U.S., beginning his job there, making friends. Then, the page he’s looking for.

February 19th

Portland, Maine, U.S.A.

This morning I opened the mailbox, and there was a letter in there. On the front, handwritten, it had my name and address in English and Japanese. I was sort of excited (I love handwritten letters, they’re personal), and as I walked back up to my room, I start thinking about Japan, and I remembered the key.

I opened the letter, and sure enough, it was from Akira. His English has apparently improved, and he said that he needs ‘it’ back. He said the time is right, and that his son is coming to Portland to get it from me.

10 pm, Ocean Gateway pier, February 22nd.

When he gave it to me, Akira said, ‘Only me.’ He did not say, ‘Only me, and also my son.’

(But what if he’s gotten sick? Can’t afford to come to America? What if that’s why he’s sending his son? I mean, shit, who else even knows I have the key?)

I’m overthinking this. Meet the guy, get rid of this thing.

February 22nd

Portland, Maine, U.S.A.

Went to meet the guy tonight. Parked the car on Thames St, and as I was getting out, my phone buzzed. It was a text from a private number that said: その手紙は偽物だった。 Apparently, that translated to, ‘The letter was fake.’ So, I froze, looked down the street towards the pier, back at my phone, and then I got the fuck out of there. I just got home, and someone may or may not be about to roll up to my house and fucking kill me.

Fuck.

But no one had. Soon after, he’d left for Europe. He’d treated that night like a bad dream, forced himself to forget it.

He’d never stayed in one place more than a few weeks, which he’d told himself was about seeing more of the world, finding new experiences and places and people. He’d allowed the real reason for this sense of impermanence, this fear of being too comfortable, to become lost. Shoved into a pocket and buried deep in his luggage.

That voice, that sinister whisper, was buried with it. Wrapped in layers of self-deception, until his lie triumphed completely, and he was just another starryeyed backpacker.

But here he sits, his bags half unpacked, key in hand, and that whisper bursts free of its bindings—he’s not home. He can’t hang up his shirts again or lay out his shoes in a neat row. He hangs the key around his neck. He must leave again.

Or what?

Dead.