Blessed

In a time far before today, there was a period when one war was waged after another. These unceasing wars lasted for almost a century before they finally stopped. Now…if you are from the time that I think you are, perhaps you have never witnessed a war for yourself. If that is the case, I will spare you the grotesque details; if that is not the case, then, well, you already know what I have seen, and there is no need for me to remind you. In any event, this story takes place at a time after all those wars. Every nation, old and new, was using its best endeavors to rebuild its country, and repair all the damage—the tangible and the emotional. The tensions among the countries were still ripe, and memories of war were still fresh in the people’s minds. Every night and every morning, every time someone went to read the news, they would hold their breath, scanning the pages for anything that might tell them the war wasn’t over after all, that something had landed somewhere and killed some people. Everyone remembered something about at least one crack on the street; everyone had a story to tell; everyone was doing anything they could to survive another day—to make a living of some sort.

During that time, there was a happy family of three: a man named Jacob Jones, his elder son Oakley, and his young daughter Quincey. Quincey was nearly ten years younger than Oakley. The children’s mother died soon after giving birth to Quincey; the little girl had never known the face of the woman who gave her life. Nevertheless, Jacob did his best to provide for Oakley and Quincey as much as one man could during social and political unrest. The three got along amicably for a time like that—the daughter was an angel, and her father and brother doted on her. They were not a wealthy family, but they got by.

Somewhere dangerously close to where the family resided, there lived a scientific genius. He was around Jacob’s age, maybe slightly older, but none would be able to tell if they looked at him. The man had only a few cedar-colored hairs on his head, his gaze always seemed murky and unfocused, and the most intact parts of his skin were shriveled at best; the rest were comprised of patches of red and pink, black and purple. He used to have another name, but changed it to Filip Zagorski after the consecutive wars. Another thing Zagorski used to have was a stable job, but that he lost along with the war. Now, he had many little jobs. Like many others, he was doing everything in his power to stay alive; unlike many others, his power ranged too far beyond ordinary means.

The Jones family should have lived happily ever after. Alas, the best people in the world too often encounter the worst ones. Maybe this is the way this world strikes a balance between good and evil, but if you asked me, I would say that it needs more of the good and less of the bad.

Filip Zagorski looked exactly like the mad scientist he was. The reasons his scalp was almost bare and his skin in patches of dying colors were one and the same: whenever he experimented with chemicals whose final product was to be sold as a weapon against human beings, he experimented on himself. So long as he didn’t die, that is. So long as he didn’t die, he didn’t care. The scientist needed to know just how much it hurt, just what effects his works would have. He needed to know the precise outcomes of his products. Of course, that brought him close to death’s door so many times…and yet he remained alive, and he continued being the best provider of these secret weapons.

Wars, you see, never truly end. They are only taken underground as technology advances. Instead of bullets flying through the sky in broad daylight, bloodshed takes place beneath the dirt at night.

One night, the scientist ventured out of his home, looking for anyone, anyone at all, to be his test subject. There was only one reason: he was running out of clean patches of skin on himself. It had rained during the day, which made the air still somewhat foggy in the evening. This was the perfect night to test his new substance, he thought, the humidity would ensure its effects. Just one drop would be sufficient.

By chance, Mr. Jones hadn’t yet returned home when the scientist felt this desperate need for a test subject. Zagorski peered into the Jones residence through a window. He thought it was his lucky day: little Quincey was sitting by herself in her room, and although the door to her room was open, her brother was not with her at the moment. She was playing on her own by the window, and it presented Zagorski with the perfect opportunity. He grabbed the little girl and pulled her out of the window. Quincey screamed at the top of her lungs, partly because Zagorski was just so…hideous, but mostly because she was terrified. At the sound of her scream, her brother rushed into the room. At almost the same time, Mr. Jones arrived back home.

For the next few minutes, everything happened in a blur. Jacob and Oakley Jones fought hard to retrieve Quincey; Quincey struggled for her freedom—and as far as she was concerned, her life—with everything she had; the scientist wanted only to get one drop of his new product into the girl’s skin. He needed only a glimpse of the results, then he would have been satisfied. After all, his deadline was approaching fast.

In the midst of that struggle, a tube of lethal liquids—just one among many—fell out of Zagorski’s coat pocket. Mr. Jones stepped on it by accident, crushing it under his foot. The scientist, being the only person who knew what it was, instinctively stepped away from it. Nevertheless, the liquids melted away the father’s shoe, burning through his skin and into his bloodstream.

That night, Jacob Jones died. It was a quick and nearly painless death, or so Zagorski would tell Oakley later. Having realized that his father was being attacked by something, although not quite understanding what, young Oakley took revenge by attacking the scientist. He managed to mortally wound him, though he did not kill him. The ruckus caught the attention of the police and they were both taken into custody—where they remained for a ridiculously long time, during which Quincey was taken into an orphanage. It wasn’t until the war ended that both men were sentenced to imprisonment for wounding one another.

None of Zagorski’s true crimes were disclosed—not to the court, not by the police. In fact, he suspected that the reason they simply remained in custody for so long without ever being charged or released was related to his underground work. While the results of his labor benefited the state, the state could not simply admit or allow it to be known that it used such weapons against its enemies. The truth behind Jacob Jones’s death was buried along with his remains, never to see the light of day.