“You could be honest too if you’d only try”, the old woman said. “Think how wonderful it would be to settle down and live a comfortable life and not have to think about somebody chasing you all the time.”
I pretended to think about what she had said, just to appease her. The poor old woman thought she could somehow change me, prevent her family’s deaths. So, I scratched the ground with my gun, but in my head, I knew I would never be free. I was on the run, whether I liked it or not, for the rest of my life. I used to have a family, but I realized they were not loyal to me; the old woman needed to realize that being independent is the only option in this world.
The secret that this woman would never understand is that I enjoyed the chase, the thrill of being on the run. I felt truly alive, unlike in my previous lives as a worker and husband. I responded to her by saying, “Yes’m, somebody is always after you”, for that was the truth, but I didn’t add that I didn’t really mind.
She looked at me for a moment, then asked, “Do you ever pray?” I almost laughed when she asked that. Why would I, the Misfit, pray? Who would I pray to? My whole life I had had to manage, to make a name for myself, to provide for myself, and nothing or no one had ever guided or aided me. But to keep the charade and offer her hope, I simply shook my head and responded, “Nome.”
Then I heard it. The most beautiful sound: a pistol shot, coming from the direction of the woods. Even better, in the next instance, I heard the same glorious noise again. The grandmother’s head whipped around, and she yelled out for her son. I almost felt sympathy for the old woman. She was starting to grow on me, despite her annoying ethical questions. If she hadn’t recognized me, we might have even gotten along well. That’s why I chose to comfort her a little after she had just heard the sound of her son and grandson being slaughtered. I told her about my life, the one I had before I realized the corruption of the American judiciary system. I even told her of all the horrible things I’d seen, how cruel the world could be.
She rocked back and forth, only saying, “pray, pray”, over and over again. It was no use. With all the death and destruction and corruption in this world, even in the South alone, how could I pray? I hadn’t always been like this, but my first time in the penitentiary changed me. I told her of my captivity and how they had accused me of something I never did. I was in jail for a crime I could never have committed, and I realized that no one was coming to help me and no one was ever going to believe me. So I became the monster that they wanted me to be.
The old woman asked again, “why don’t you pray?” I was baffled at her insistence, but I calmly answered, “I don’t want no help. I’m doing all right by myself.”
Before she could respond, my men came back and they tossed me a shirt. As I buttoned it up, I told her that the crime didn’t matter; eventually you’ll forget what you did and simply be punished. I tried to make her understand why I did what I did, but she still just looked fearful. I sent off the woman and her daughter next. Now that the old woman was alone, without her family, she didn’t talk as much. As soon as we heard those shots again, her fire returned, and she began to beg for her life. She tried to tell me what a good man I was, begged, bargained; anything to save herself.
She was heartbroken, losing her family and all, but I needed her to understand why I couldn’t pray, why I wouldn’t believe. She listened, and for a moment I thought she would comprehend my argument, perceive my inner workings. She looked up at me, directly into my eyes, full of clarity and sympathy, and said, “Why you’re one of my babies. You’re one of my own children!”
As soon as I felt her touch, I shot her. I didn’t want to do it, but she left me no choice. I didn’t want to feel again, to have remorse for her and her family. I closed my eyes and felt a single tear drip down my face; I took off my glasses to clean them and prevent my men from seeing. They can’t understand; they think all of this is a game, a good time. I tell them to shut up.
“It’s no real pleasure in life.”
This was a great perspective into the mind of the Misfit for “A Good Man is Hard to Find.” I like that you added a sympathetic touch to this character by adding background of his family and his wrongful experience in jail. I think you also captured the tone well for this character as a tough, rebellious figure but with also an unstable heart leftover from his past trauma: why he is repelled by the grandmother’s suggestion to pray. This whole rewrite is already so good, but perhaps you can change the sentence when he heard the pistol shot the first time. It seemed rather abrupt and pulls the readers away from the connection between the Misfit and the grandmother. The fact that he thought the shot was a “beautiful sound” doesn’t seem to fit too well, so maybe go straight to how they witness the death of the grandmother’s family.
ReplyDeleteMhmmm, I really liked your characterization of the Misfit. The part about the gunshot being beautiful was interesting too. Was it supposed to portray his mental state and how he wasn't quite right in the head?
ReplyDelete