The Movement

Chapter One - Part 3

Troy stood up quickly and shouted at the old man in his manufactured, deep voice to intimidate him.

“What is this about? What do you want from me?” growled Troy.

The old man ignored Troy’s questions, walking to the bench where Troy had sat a moment ago. The old man let out a long, tiresome sigh. Troy waited for a reply with his hands out of his pockets, ready to grab his concealed gun from his waistband. Despite the bitter temperature, Troy began to sweat from his active nerves and adrenaline pulsing throughout his body.

The old man’s head quickly snapped up from the ground, his cold eyes beaming directly at Troy’s as if the old man was trying to read Troy’s mind.

“You didn’t bring my sign, did you?” asked the old man.

Intimidated, Troy took a step backwards.

“No, I burned it before my wife saw it. Why did you send it to me? What…what does that even mean? How do you know where I live?” he said.

The old man chuckled an ageless laugh and leaned back on the bench, both hands posted out in front of him on his cane, piercing the frosty earth between his large black boots.

“None of that matters now, Troy,” he laughed. “I sent you that sign because I know how people work, how they think, how they truly act on the inside and how they resist those inner thoughts to prevent their escape and effect on their outside lives, which ordinary people never suspect. I know what you believe in and I know what you used to support, and still do. But you possess a fierce outside resistance that has infiltrated your mind and has convinced you to believe that you no longer remember your contributions to The Movement. But you and I know the pure truth. You’re not fooling me or your true inner self, Troy.”

Troy’s nerves continued to rattle his thought process. The old man acted as if he knew, it seemed, everything about Troy. That is, everything that Troy didn’t know about himself.

“I…I…I don’t know…who you are or…or what you’re trying to make of this,” stuttered Troy, proceeding with more questions through a stammering pant. “Look, who…who are you? What do you…what do you want from…from me?”

“I don’t want anything from you except your truest beliefs, Troy. All I want is the truth,” he stood firm.

“Exactly what…what is it that…that you…you want to…to know?” asked Troy.

“I want to know how you were the only one who escaped the killings. How you were the only one from the inside who didn’t get persecuted; who didn’t get caught; who didn’t get punished for his beliefs or actions—the same ones that we embraced in every aspect of our lives. The beliefs that would have changed the world for the betterment of humankind—if they had been fully adopted and we had prevented the counter-revolution that we feared and worked tirelessly to prevent. You know…the counter-revolution which you set into motion, you coward!” shouted the old man, pointing his long, thin finger at Troy.

“I…I have no clue what you’re talking about!” said Troy, now more irritated and frightened by the old man’s lecture than interested in it.