Silver Springs

There is a slight chill in the air as a young woman walks out of the courthouse. She walks free after killing someone. She is unsure why. Surely she deserved some form of punishment. In broad daylight she pushed the woman she loved into oncoming traffic. Watched as she was struck. Watched as passersby ran to her aid. Yet, she did not move towards her at all. Why would she? After all, she is the one who decided to push her. Maybe she enjoyed watching her struggle and groan in pain. That must have been what she wanted; she is the one who pushed her, the one who wanted her dead. As she walks down the street—walking, she decided she would only allow herself to walk from here on out because in her mind she should have some form of punishment, so her life sentence would be to never travel by car again—she mulls over these thoughts of how she killed her again and again. Sometimes with interjections of thoughts asking how she managed to swindle the judges to grant her freedom. However, all she can think back on is her crime. There is no recollection of what went down in the courtroom.

As she continues to think, she is not sure she wants freedom. With freedom she could do more harm. Images of pushing her girl in front of the car came to her mind again—reliving the moment. Her hands on her girl’s warm back, a loud thud, screeching tires, and screams. What a sick woman she must be to relive this moment over and over again, she thinks to herself. Maybe she would like to cause more harm. Surely there are more gratifying ways of killing someone rather than the more hands off approach of shoving them in front of a moving vehicle. Perhaps those are methods she should try out. No, she tries to get these thoughts out of her head. She does not enjoy killing. Murder is bad. Must be punished. The young woman repeats to herself as she continues walking aimlessly from the courthouse.

Still lost in these thoughts, she accidentally walks into an old lady. The old lady falls to the ground. The groceries she is carrying slip out of her hands and spill across the sidewalk. An orange from her bag escapes the sidewalk and rolls into the street. The young woman thinks about her girl laying in the street, blood pooling around her.

The orange continues rolling further and further away. Ironically, she begins to go after the orange. The old woman grabs the back of her shirt and she hears a car pass by and a small squelch from the orange being run over. After murdering someone one would assume that such an offense would not phase the woman, but she immediately feels deep remorse and quickly helps her up while profusely apologizing. “I am so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention, I can buy you another orange” she continues to sputter off more apologies. The old woman looks at her sternly and then says “Stop apologizing and pick up my damn groceries for me, just not the ones in the damn street, girl.” The young woman falls silent. Turning away the old woman mutters to herself “Crazy kid, must want to die.” No more words leave the young woman’s mouth as she runs after another rolling orange, trying to save this one from the same fate as the last. The old lady picks up the fallen goods around her, now muttering profanities. “Don’t you run off with my orange now girl, losing one was enough!” She yells at her from a distance, squinting at the young woman as she descends down the hill.

Stealing the orange never would have crossed her mind. She may be a murderer, but she is no thief. As soon as she catches the evasive orange she runs back to the old woman, slightly, and embarrassingly out of breath. This is why not being able to use a car is apt punishment, she thinks to herself. The old lady looks at the orange and then looks at the young woman, a slight scowl on her face. She snatches it out of her hand while still looking at her. “You know, after my fall I think I may need assistance getting my groceries home. Could you help me…” she trails off not knowing the young woman’s name. The young woman nods excessively, not catching onto the fact that the old lady wanted her name.

Maybe this good deed can help offset some of the harm caused by her act of murder, she thinks. Then she shakes her head, no that is ridiculous, helping an old woman does not change the fact that she had murdered someone. Though, perhaps doing this is better than doing nothing at all. This old woman could be another way of punishing herself, the young woman thinks as she looks at the cranky lady walking beside her. The old woman sighs slightly, but lets the young woman take her grocery bag from her arms. “What’s your name?” She asks outright, interrupting the flow of the young woman’s thoughts about self-punishment. “Fern,”she says, slightly turning her head towards her as she walks. “Okay, Fern, you’re going to help me with my groceries.”

The old woman is slow as she walks, every so often Fern notices that she is a considerable amount ahead of her and hobbles back towards her uphill. They lapse into silence. Fern neglects to ask the old woman for her name as she has fallen into thoughts about ways she could harm the old woman, unintentionally abandoning the idea that helping the old lady could be beneficial for repentance. She could trip her again. Falls can be deadly for old people. Fern looks at the old lady as she walks and imagines sticking her foot out and the old woman tumbling down the steep hill. Images of a cartoonish fall flash in her mind—the old lady is a tangle of limbs as she rolls down the hill. She looks forward again. They continue on walking silently for roughly ten minutes.

“Well, aren’t you going to ask my name?” The old lady says to her at last, slightly exasperated. Fern is about to ask when she cuts her off. “You know what, actually I’ll let you go here.” Fern wonders if the old lady can sense that there is something wrong with her. “What? Why?” Fern asks. She is not sure she wants to actually go to this lady’s house, but at the same time she feels slightly offended. However, she remembers the thoughts the old woman just cut off and then a moment later she imagines herself entering that woman’s kitchen, finding her knives and then stabbing her. She now understands her apprehension and promptly hands her bag back to her and begins walking in a new aimless direction. The old woman stops, slightly stunned at the action taken by the young woman. “Wait!” She yells out in her old, hoarse voice. Fern, feeling confused, stops and turns around to look at her. “Come back!” Fern slowly walks back towards her, trying to give her time to change her mind again. Once she gets close to her again she holds an arm out and then examines her. She nods to herself. “You’re allowed in my house.” She turns around and Fern follows her home.