Flash Fiction
Innocence is an Unforgiving Mirror
A question of redemption
This is an excerpt from a fictional work-in-progress.
Dezo leaned against the side of his car and watched as the woman hustled her slow-moving companions into their seats. He watched as she maneuvered her van through the congested parking lot and entered the highway’s east-bound traffic lane. He watched long after her vehicle disappeared from his line of vision, his thoughts lost in harsh remembrance.
The same name, Olivia. The same short, coppery hair. The same grass colored eyes — her gaze remaining honest and uncensored. Those eyes were like beautiful green windows through which he could read her thoughts. He knew the moment when the hint of recognition she’d experienced turned to fear.
He’d arrived too late to stop the carnage. The useless, pointless killings that marked his father’s brand of leadership had long since locked down his youthful sensitivity, desensitizing his own humanity. But somehow, a spark of decency still lingered, and at times like this, it burned cavernous holes in his gut. The small, unarmed group of medical volunteers probably hadn’t even been aware that the small village they’d come to help sat on the border of his father’s domain, and a stone’s throw from one of the cartel’s largest drug processing camps.
Dezo ordered the burial of the bodies and then burned the village huts, dispersing the inhabitants to another camp. Then, like a lone Jaguar, he stalked through the jungle seeking something elusive and unnamed.
On the morning of the third day, he turned back in the direction of home, knowing the consequences would grow worse every day he failed to report in. While his father had come to accept his frequent need for isolation, his tolerant nature had short limits.
The last thing he’d expected to stumble across as he trekked through the sweltering jungle had been a girl — a small, unconscious lump of fragile beauty. Her short red hair lay like fringe against her cheek, a cheek that, despite the smear of dirt, was as creamy-white as the wild orchids that grew in the tree moss above where she lay.
Three things hit Dezo at once. First, the incredulous fact that somehow she’d escaped detection and death with the rest of the foreigners he’d buried. Second, despite her petite size — standing, he doubted she’d reach his chin — her well-rounded curves proved her to be a woman, not the child he’d first thought.
The third thought to cross his mind knotted his gut. She lay at his feet, helpless and totally dependent on his sense of decency. In that moment of time, she personified pure innocence, making her untouchable, unattainable. The stark contrast emphasized the differences in their souls, his darkness to her light.
He stumbled back a step as if pushed. Irrational anger cut off his air like hands gripped around his throat. Why had she crossed his path? Why did her very existence condemn his own?
He spun on his heels, resolved to leave her to her own fate. Three determined strides later, a pitiful moan rooted his feet to the ground. The sound scorched his conscience and stopped his retreat.
“Don’t go.”