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This short story was inspired by the death of a close friend, who died on the highway the other day. God rest his soul; he was one of the sweetest, kindest young men I ever knew.

In honor of Kenneth Ringway

The rain crashed down over the darkness of the early hours of the sleeping city. Many men and women would roll over out of warm beds, yawn, and wake up slowly to go live mundane lives in 1920’s Chicago, the booming city. They would go to work, come home, eat dinner with their families, then go to sleep. They didn’t have anything to fear. However, that wasn’t the case for the poor parts of the city.
Every day, guns echoed through the dark walls of canyons of buildings, tearing through men’s tissue, blood and bone. Dark windowsills flashed in the light of merciless firing, and the skies wept with their own tears before dawn. Gangs found each other’s territories and killed hundreds of men simply for the title of dominance. Men fell amidst the flood of rain, mixing blood with water on the grey concrete of the pre-dawn darkness. Women screamed from the buildings as they saw their friends and lovers fall.
Chicago ran with blood of the innocent and guilty alike.
Ayden huddled in the dark corner, clutching his little pistol like a doll or favorite toy. Dank, humid blackness filled the primitive shed that served as his dwelling, and a termite-infested bed occupied the far corner. Shaking with the everyday terror that filled his life, he shrank his head back into the thick leather jacket that housed his diminishing shell of a body. Every day, he woke alarmed, lived in horrified suspense, and slept fitfully because of the screams of the dying. Blood spattered the walls of the constantly mourning city and death haunted the streets with an eerie melody. The nearby newsstands had given up on publishing the obituaries every day- there were too many dead to make a personal note to each one. His parents were only two of the forgotten.
The tears of the grey-blanketed sky plinked softly into the oily tins laid carefully around the little shed, making a comforting noise amidst the almost constant gunfire. The sound comforted Ayden’s heart and reminded him of the days when Chicago had known nothing of death, and he’d thought the world might be perfect. Those days were long forgotten in the murky depths of the despair that now ensued. With hunger racking his body, he stood shakily, pulling the thick leather jacket close. His father’s smell was still on it; tears no longer flowed, but sorrowful memories filled the article of clothing. The autumn cold in Chicago was enough to kill- and a thick jacket might just stop a stray bullet, if you got lucky. Loathe to leave for fear of death, but starving, Ayden slowly cracked open the rotting doorway.
A bullet screamed by, foretelling death.
Slamming the door shut in terror, he heard another wave of gunfire ensue the front of the shack and more men suffered and cried out. Would life always be so cruel and fleeting? Could it always dangle hope in front of your eyes, and then snatch it away when you were over the chasm? He almost decided to forego food, but his rumbling stomach insisted that he needed nourishment. Cautiously slitting open a wall panel in the back, he slipped out into a rain-soaked alleyway. Fortunately, this battle site had been abandoned because of the revolting scent of metallic blood and decaying flesh.
Hurrying by, having seen death for six of his twelve years and grown accustomed to it, he murmured a prayer to God that his mother had taught him as a child and held his gun close on the mud spattered Lake Shore Drive. His source of sustenance, a nearby convenience store, was only half a mile down this poorly maintained road, and he lengthened his strides. The kind proprietor, Marcus Savory, always kept back a pitiful amount of food for his little friend. As he passed an opening, like a gaping mouth, a distant tumult reached his ears. Two sounds stood out over chaotic fighting- gunshots and a woman’s broken sobbing. “No, not my son… my baby, my baby…” Two more gunshots and a choked cry marked the end of her misery.
Sickened, he rushed into the safe quiet of Mr. Savory’s little supply store, dimly lit by six dying light bulbs. The yellowed walls matched grayish yellow shelves, most of which were empty. An overpowering smell of cigar smoke reached his nostrils, and he turned to the peeling counter where Mr. Savory himself leaned, smoking. His grey beard made up more than enough for the lack of hair on the crown of his head, and his face was surmounted by thick, flashing glasses. Upon sighting Ayden, a yellow-tooth smile engulfed his grizzly, unshaven face. “Why, et’s young Ayden. Here for yer supper?” The man’s curious accent was warm and inviting compared to Ayden’s common Chicago accent, and his voice was a welcome relief from the dead silence that Ayden had come to be accustomed to. At his nod, the old man reached beneath the chipped pale blue counter and produced a stained brown paper bag. “’Ere tis. S’not much, just something to keep yer skin and bones t’gether.” Handing the young boy the bag, he waited in simple happiness as the boy’s surprise was evident at the two thin slices of bread and apples occupying the bag’s space. To his own surprise, Ayden placed one apple and a piece of bread in front of him and began to eat the remaining one. He was about to protest, but the younger male held up a hand. “You need t’eat too,” he said a quiet, yet pre-adolescent voice that belied his mere twelve years. Mr. Savory was forced to agree, so he ate quickly and eagerly. They exchanged a satisfied smile and a nod, then Ayden left the store with one whole apple still uneaten. The old, ruined bell at the door didn’t ring as he left.
Walking blithely onto Lake Shore, having a tickled stomach from the old bread, he withdrew the bruised apple. The old man always tried his best. He was just about to bite into a still-firm part when the sound of a nearby gun cocking drew his horrified attention. Turning his eyes and lowering the food, his gaze fell on an emaciated older boy who held a dilapidated AK-47 with both hands, trained on his heart. The boy’s breath drifted in clouds from his chapped lips. “Gimme that apple. Give it,” his gruff voice resonated, “or I’ll kill you now and take it.” Ayden could see the trained emotionless immobility to the boy’s face, but fear lurked behind his eyes. Ayden had felt that same fear; how could he survive to tomorrow, would it matter, how would he get his next meal… The fright had filled him. Reluctant to lose his meal, but even more reluctant to lose his life, he placed the bag down on the muddy path with a gentle plop and stepped back, feeling the lake’s icy touch struggle to pull him in. Expecting the boy to let him walk away, Ayden’s eyes filled with terror as the boy squeezed the trigger.
Black gunfire and hot lead filled his mind and vision as the bullets drilled into his defenseless body. That same, metallic taste of his life’s liquid filled his mouth as he let out a small, choking cough. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, rotating, and he saw the boy’s stricken face as he stammered a short apology, burst into tears, and grabbed the food as he ran. Ayden stumbled backwards into the lake’s shallows, regardless of temperature, and watched the rain plop into the water, striking ripples around his numb legs. A small, disbelieving smile flashed across his agony-ridden face as he watched blood seeping into the frigid waves. His own blood. Slipping forward, he didn’t feel anything as he fell, only the cold embrace of the water as he entered. His vision blacked, and his limbs felt as if they’d been cut off. The last thing he heard was the water’s roar as a small wave crashed over him. Ayden’s heart stopped beating, and he died in the cold waters of Lake Michigan, just another death among countless others, meaningless to the world as his body floated in the red water.
But it was not the end. As he drifted through darkness, one thought ran through his head. Have I died? Is this hell? However, as he floated on his back, he suddenly touched something soft, yet solid. Finding the strength to stand, he did, and saw a small growing light in the distance. It was, as one of Mr. Savory’s dying light bulbs, dull at first, but grew brighter quickly. In a short time, it was too bright to look at for long. The inky darkness shrank in fear as light, like the morning’s waking rays, pierced into its nightly shell. More pure light shot into the world’s darkness until all the darkness receded past redemption into a small corner, where it was as forgotten as a dream during the waking. When he looked up, he spotted a bright man coming toward him, as gentle and powerful as the summer sun’s rays. In the light of this man, Ayden no longer felt fear, but shame in light of his own faults in the presence this being’s perfection. He almost turned and ran back to the niche of shadows to hide his shame, but the man knelt before him and took his hand gently. Scars running from his wrist to his palm marred his golden hands, but the man still seemed as if without fault, like a fairytale. A powerful, yet gentle, ancient voice said, “Welcome home, beloved.”
A peaceful smile spread across Ayden’s face as Jesus, the Son of God, led him into the Kingdom of Heaven as a child of God.

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