Anthony Haggarty brushed his teeth the way he always did that morning. Left to right. Right to left. A repetitive motion out of synch with the sound track of his life playing in the background. The whistle of morning coffee. Car engines revving, further in the back ground a bus ferrying kids to school.
Haggarty could feel sounds from point of origin, an unusual talent that served him well. As he scrapped the blade across his face he felt weary. He saw the blood pearl on his chin. It was the first time he had cut himself in years. He didn’t care. Just carried on shaving, rinsed and then splashed some Old Spice on his face. The sting of the aftershave’s alcohol was slight, still it didn't register as feeling.
As he moved into the kitchen he heard his wife droning behind him, and his children laughing. Or it could have been squabbling. He took a slice of toast from the table and slugged back some coffee. Then walked out into the same day. A day that looked like yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that.
The radio in his car crackled as it spurted out missives to people like him. People meant to be saving a world that was falling away from them. He was so tired. Fired the engine. Heard the call. Slid into the road and when he was well away from home flicked the siren on. At one time the sound of that siren would stimulate an adrenalin surge. At one time doing what he did had meaning. Now all he wanted to do was sleep.
Somewhere in the middle of the inner city slum his car screeched to a halt, and rode halfway up the pavement. He looked at the horizon, watched it slip away from him. Opened the door. Stepped out into a world he no longer belonged to.
He heard the gunman the minute he stepped out of the car. Through the commotion, above the city's screaming voice. It was then that he heard the song again. His song. He always thought of that song as his. Written by Bob Dylan. Sung by everyone else. This time the words were soft, sung in a whisper by a woman's voice. Like a lullaby. Like a love song. Like a home coming call.
“Mama, take this badge off of me // I can't use it anymore // It's gettin' dark, too dark for me to see // I feel like I'm knockin' on heaven's door..”
He anticipated the bullets before they came. He could even feel the sound of the trigger squeeze. The first hit him in his back, above his hip. The second in his shoulder. The third in his arm.
“Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door // Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door // Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door // Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door.”
The last bullet hit him center chest and he went down. For a brief moment the world pulled focused. He tasted the blood in his mouth. Heard his wife telling him to take care because she loved him. And his children. Yes they were laughing. The toast was slightly burned. The dog licked his shoe as he walked out the house.
“Mama, put my guns in the ground // I can't shoot them anymore // That long black cloud is comin' down // I feel like I'm knockin' on heaven's door.”
* Knockin' on Heaven's Door" was written and originally performed by Bob Dylan for the soundtrack of the 1973 film Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid. This story is written as a tribute to Antony Hegarty of Antony and the Johnsons.
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