The Bodyguard ("Always" Story #71)

ALWAYS
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is deep beneath the stones of the city. Ahead is a rounded archway. He can’t see very well. He sloshes forward in some kind of thick liquid. It’s cold. It smells. And behind him there’s a squeaking. Probably a small animal with sharp teeth. But he isn’t afraid. He’s beyond that. His skin has grown close to his bones. His eyes have gotten bigger. And he can feel them swelling even more. He can see the plan now. The pattern. The vision. What he’s part of. Up there his wire finally sang and sent him here. That’s why it hardly matters that his arm is bleeding from where he slipped, lost his grip, and the rusted steel mesh got him. He has instructions at last and is doing what he’s told—moving across the city’s wet borders, circling forward toward his post. Committed. Alone. Moving fast and feeling the purity of his motion. His teeth twinkling at the idea that all those discreet nights confined in cardboard were not in vain. His star is finally on the ascent. His ribs jut and shine beneath his dark suit. As he runs forward he feels them pulse brightly against his skin. Blue as tulips. It’s so wonderful he almost wants to remove his suit coat and shirt to let the ribs light his way.

But he knows he can’t. No more than he can take off his dark glasses. His uniform is his uniform. It is so and that is that. He does not get to decide the regulations. Such things come from above. Even if it has become somewhat soiled and torn in places—the uniform is what he was issued and he won’t tamper with it. It’s not what’s done. Besides, his mission has top priority. Certainly it might be nice to have a new suit.
No. He can’t allow himself to even come near such thoughts. He has been called. that is what matters. His comfort is of no concern. Not to him. Not to anyone. He must keep moving. Must shut his eyes, grit his lips, and go forward.

Like always.