Short Fiction

The Legend of Jerry Keswick and the Killer Butterflies

By Christian Mueth

I sneeze. My head throbs. All it had taken was a grain of dust going up my nostril to morph my nose into a volcano. Yet, I suppose it makes sense. It’s comforting to believe that things with big effect require big causes — yet, even the smallest shifts can change the course of everything.

Gingerly, my hand moves the position of the pot on my gas stove. It hisses, then crackles, gestating the limestone inside of it. Fumes rise. A plume of smoke rises. Anxiety falls upon me. The limestone isn’t burning fast enough. Something more needs to be done.

I turn up the heat.

Something more can always be done. At least, that’s what my Aunt Carrie used to tell me.

She used to run a supermarket. Well, help run a supermarket. She was a cashier, technically. One time, she was forced to go out to the parking lot to pull the shopping carts back to the building. She insisted it wasn’t her job. The manager didn’t care.

A bad feeling rose in her gut when she was walking outside, apparently. When she went to push the carts back to the building, a driver catcalled her.

He totaled his car. Worse, he totaled somebody else’s car.

He also died.

It was all the manager’s fault. If Aunt Carrie hadn’t been forced to go outside? The man wouldn’t have been able to catcall her. He wouldn’t have been distracted. He would’ve lived.

It’s the butterfly effect. If there’d been a simple change in the chain of events, the tragedy would’ve been averted.

The fragility of the world is something that constantly concerns me. All it would take is for me to go to the grocery store, and I might set off a chain that causes a dozen people to die. It’s why I can never leave my apartment. The world can’t afford it. I can’t have all those deaths on my conscience.

I move from my stove and start digging through my piles of laundry. Most of the clothes are filthy. Some of them even stink, despite me having sprayed them with disinfectant. However, I can’t spend today in sweatpants and a t-shirt. It’s too cold. Besides, it’s not how today is supposed to go.

After a bit of a struggle, I put on my old suit. It’s been a while since I’ve worn it. There’s a grease stain on my shirt. My tie droops sloppily. Yet, the suit still smells like it did after the last time I wore it: overpowering cologne, a hint of barbecue, and a touch of perfume.

It smells like Mark, a pig, and Shelly...

I always hated Mark. He was a suck-up to the boss, and a jerk to the entire workplace. Despite me constantly putting in top-notch work, he would always get more of the praise. I was supposed to be transferred to the position of head manager, when our boss retired. Mark ruined it.

Shelly wasn’t too bad, I guess. Sure, she was friends with Mark, even though he was terrible to her. However, I must admit, I might’ve considered asking her out to dinner few times. Professionally speaking, of course.

Then, Mark had to go and propose to Shelly during the office cookout. Such a pathetic display. “You are my everything…” Wonder how long it took him to come up with that one.

I swear, he’d planned it all out to get himself promoted to head manager. That’s what ended up happening to him, by the end of the cookout. Everybody cheered. Me? I had some barbecued pork.

I got nothing.

The company is going through a merger though. The joke is on him. It won’t be the same. Shelly should’ve never fallen for that prick. If I had just changed the chain of events, maybe she wouldn’t have. But, I can’t.

Canned beans are a decent last meal, I guess. I’ve run out of food. I check all my pantries and turn every cushion. I manage to scrounge up a couple of cornflakes and a half-eaten cookie. Hunching over my stove with a can opener, I cut the can of beans open. A plastic spoon scoops out every bean. The limestone on the stove burbles, all the while.

It would be nice if I could have some light to go with my meal. However, the lights have betrayed me. If I were to open a window, to let some light in? I might be seen. Catastrophe would arise. I know, because I’ve hurt people before. I can’t let my existence hurt anybody again.

I started noticing the problematic nature of my existence a few months back. I had just quit my job — most freeing decision in my life — and I was watching a football game at a bar. Tyler Jackson was on the field. He easily had the most potential of any other college player, that season. I’d studied his every play, his statistics, his training regimens, his interviews — he was brilliant. I told everybody as much.

Then, I had to put my money where my mouth was. During one of Jackson’s games, some of the guys asked me to bet. I wasn’t going to say no. I should’ve.

The very moment I placed a bet — the very moment — Jackson was piledriven into the ground by a rookie. The rookie was massive. Jackson? Mash.

It must’ve been me. The cause, I mean. Jackson had to have known that people were betting on him. Counting on him. Jackson’s coach said Jackson had been feeling shaky about it all, before the game. If I had never gone to the bar to take my mind off things? Tyler Jackson would still have a career. Now, all he has is a body cast.

The cabinet over the stove swings open. My hand grips a bright orange bottle. Pills spill out and into my hand. I pour them into my mouth and swallow. A tang teases my tongue.

Bold letters along the bottle say, “two pills a day”. I’ve consumed more than enough to hold me off for the rest of my life.

The limestone gives off a glow. It must be trying to charm me. It’s done brewing. I turn off my gas tank and lug the massive pot through my apartment. I dump it into my bathtub and then grab jugs of water. They glug crudely as they pour in. The limestone turns to a sludge — green. Slimy.

A couple of weeks after seeing the football game, things really became clear to me. I was outside, I guess. The details are very fuzzy as to why. I was carrying a bowl of milk. Or, maybe it was a loaf of bread.

Either way, I was out there. The sun beat down with a fury. Sweat poured down my face. It drenched my clothes. Exhausted, I collapsed under the shade of a tree. That was when a motorcyclist drove by. The glint of my potatoes — yes, I must’ve been carrying a sack of potatoes — caused him to be unable to see. He went tumbling off his motorcycle, and into the street. His motorcycle went careening into the air, and the air went up with the raucous of fireworks.

Where did the fireworks come from? Still not sure. Yet, I suspect that Ralphie had something to do with them. Yes… Ralphie. He was a very odd sort of fellow. Deathly thin at the neck and face, but quite wide everywhere else. Well, aside from at the ankles — he had toothpicks for ankles. I suppose his face wasn’t all thin either. He had a very wide mouth, practically built for chewing the large cigar he’d shoved in it. Was he chewing a toothpick too? See, now I can’t remember.

He told me everything right there and then. He explained that I was a “key reality vectorization”. Everything that occurred in the universe? It was working off me. I was the axis. Each step I took, each word I spoke, each thought… It was all altering the course of all things. Thus, things of immense chaos were occurring, in tandem with things of immense good. Shockwaves were going through the universe, and I was at the core of it all.

While there was good that I was creating, the bad was just as great. Just as bad? No matter, I suppose.

I was supposed to hide. To seclude myself. It was the only answer. There’s no way of ensuring that the bad and good one creates is equal. That is, not without creating a state of pure neutrality. My room was that neutrality.

A few times after retreating into the vacuum of my room, I thought about leaving. Indeed, I did leave at certain times, to be frank. There are only so many times you can run out of your favorite canned foods, before you need to go out and restock. Yet, every time that the temptation to leave the room arose, I was burned by terrible repercussions. As it turned out, the universe was becoming more and more ornery toward my growing awareness of it.

The mixture of limestone in my bathtub is waiting for me. It whispers in my ear, giving sweet melodies that I haven’t heard in years. I tug at the crate sitting by the side of the tub — it’s a mixture of sand and concrete powder. A heave escapes my chest. I lift the crate up, then dump it into the water. The water gags and drools as the mixture disassociates and becomes one.

It’s almost done.

There’s an intense clanging at my door. I flinch, then cower toward the corner of my bathroom. It can’t be them. Yet, it must be.

“Open up in there, Keswick! We know that you’re in there! Don’t make us break open this door!”

Yes, they’re finally here. The agents of reality, come to whisk me away. How had I not heard the wailing of their sirens? How had I not noticed the bright blue and red glow of their steeds, as they approached? I must already be becoming distant from the world. Perhaps my hearing is askew. In any case, the fear flutters away.

Ralphie had warned me about the agents of reality, so many ages ago. He’d told me that they were seeking out men like me — people who can change reality’s course, simply by interacting with it. They want to control me. Use me. Abuse me. Though, I will not let them. Not if I can help it.

I grab the large paddle kept by the side of the tub and begin to stir the mixture. The agents continue pounding. Continue calling my name. Yet, I don’t answer.

There was a time when I remember people calling my name being a good thing. Shelley — she always had the funniest way of saying it. “Jerry Keswick”. Her tongue would always stick on the wick, for some reason. She whisked me away, every time she said it.

“Keswick!”

The pounding is louder now. I stir faster. I’m too close to having everything squared away to be put away. I lift more jugs of water and begin pouring them into the tub. Their melodical splats are just enough to placate me, before I start to paddle again.

Today isn’t my first run in with the agents. Not by a longshot. A little over a month ago, I spent my money to try walking up a building. It was a new trend that had started in town, for whatever reason. People enjoyed walking up buildings — walking up to the glass windows, especially. Odd, assuredly. Nonetheless, I followed along.

That is, I tried, until the clouds started tittering at me. Then, the sidewalk fled from under me. There was a hawkish bird in the street, the size of three trucks at least. It tore up traffic. My eyes filled with tears, from thinking of a way to stop it. Yet, nothing could be done. I was too tired. All I could do was shout.

It was then when the agents showed up. It was the first time I saw them. They tried grabbing ahold of me, with their coarse hands. Their crude, metal cuffs.

I ran, and the sidewalk ran with me. I managed to escape. Though, it was a close call, to be sure.

There have been other such wild experiences, since. I opened my front door one morning, to go to the hallway washing machine. Yet, a squid-like thing had declared dominion over the hall — the entire apartment complex, in fact. I had to flee, even though I really had to pee. Another time, I peeked out my window for just a taste of light. The city was ravaged. The agents were roving through, their eyes looking. Searching. When one of their eyes locked with mine, I shut the shutters.

Thankfully, in here, it’s a haven. None can trespass.

Paddling the mixture becomes harder. The mixture is firmer. I step back, making room for the gray blob that I’ve created. I glow at it, and it seems to glow back at me.

Looking in the mirror, I see a phantom of myself. The person I was several months ago has been replaced by a person who’s gaunter — sicklier. My hair is dried out and frizzed. My skin and teeth are yellow. Though, when I smile, my reflection smiles back. Everything will be alright.

I open the mirror and take the note that’s taped behind it. A hot flash runs through my body as I readjust my suit and tie, and step toward the bath of concrete.

“It’s now or never, Keswick!” the agent shrieks.

“It’s now or never,” I whisper to myself. I place the note on top of the concrete mixture. Then, I place one of my legs in. Another leg. My whole body shivers, as the goop slides over it. I hold my breath, as my face goes under.

I’m being reborn. The universe will finally be made free.

There’s a warbled crash. The agents must’ve broken my door open. Whispers claw at my ears. All the chaos of the world is spilling back, begging me to return. Yet, I won’t join it. The world can’t afford me.

I open my eyes, against the concrete. I should only see black, but I’m seeing sunlight. Pure sunlight. I remember the note.

“Here lies the metamorphosis of a saintly sinner.”

My breath escapes my chest. My body settles into the stone.

“Isn’t the good we create as important as the bad we create?” It’s a rhetorical question Shelley asked me once, when we were philosophizing by the water cooler.

I think that the core of her question was true… Though, only if you do more good than bad. Yet, you can’t ensure that. That is, not without forming a state of absolute neutrality.

Nirvana.

End