"First Reformed" (StoryADay Challenge/Day 20)

The Prompt (by Premee Mohamed, who is an Indo-Caribbean scientist and speculative fiction writer based in Canada. Her short fiction has appeared in a variety of venues and her debut novel, ‘Beneath the Rising,’ came out from Solaris Books in March 2020.

Superheroes, community service/non-jail punishment for crime, a secret society. 

In a world where superpowers are real, a convicted criminal is spared a prison term… If he agrees to do community service, enforced by an unknown league of incognito superheroes. But how can he skip town while he’s always under their surveillance?”

*

“First Reformed”

Superheroes are arrogant narcissists. Think about it for a moment.. They swoop in, defeat the opposing force,  save the day, then relish in all the praise. I bet superheroes enjoy the adulation more than actually being of service. That’s why being on the wrong side of the law has always intrigued me. 

“I am tired of seeing you in my courtroom Logan,” Judge Collins said. “This is the last time. If I see you again, I’m sending you to prison.”

“Yes sir, I understand,” I whispered in the courtroom. 

Judge Collins slammed his gavel and I was spared a prison term for probation and community service. I was arrested for driving under the influence, my most serious offense to date. Judge Collins knows me from a pair of misdemeanors from the past, including larceny.  

Community service was set to begin within a week. I was selected to give a thirty-minute presentation to several classes  on the dangers and peril of driving under the influence. A woman named Jenifer Tile would be my direct contact to the community service program. She would be the one responsible to relay progress reports to Judge Collins. 

As I walked out of the courtroom, I saw her stand and walk towards me. 

“Mr. Shapiro, nice to finally make your acquaintance,” she said, giving me a business card.

The business card read First Reformed. “Nice to meet you too.”

She looked familiar. She had long brown hair in a pencil bun, red lipstick and stark black eyeglasses. “Have we met before?”

She pushed her falling glasses back onto her face. “Not that I can recall.” 

Ms. Tile walked me through everything I needed to know to properly get through this community service. She said her progress reports would be truthful, and that if I didn’t take this program seriously, she would be recommending jail time to Judge Collins for my insubordination. Ms. Tile also told me the program was founded by several “substantial business partners”. She wouldn’t reveal their names, saying they preferred to remain anonymous, as all good charitable works should be done as.

The first school I spoke at was in district seventeen. District seventeen is considered to be the most at-risk community of students. These are the kids that come from financial hardship, domestically abusive households, or worse. It was also here I decided I would make a run for it. I’m just not cut out for the straight and narrow path. When I was a child my mother liked to remind me that I was “too troublesome.” Only if you could see me now Mama.

Even in their disguises, I smell their stink. The stink of superheroes masquerading as normal civilians. The man making your coffee could be a superhero. The woman checking you out at the supermarket could be one. The man driving the bus could be one. You just never know. But I like to think I have a sixth sense for these things. 

I had a plan. It formed as soon as I seen Mr. Glover, the gym teacher. He was wearing a yellow full-length rain jacket, complete with a three-button attached hood, because it was pouring rain outside. After I spoke to the students for forty-five minutes, I asked Mr. Glover if he could escort me to the bathroom as I was unfamiliar with the building layout. Ms. Tile was looking down at her phone as the speaker following me was talking to the students.

“That was a powerful speech Logan,” Mr. Glover said, as we walked the hallways. “I love how you transformed your life for the better. You made a mistake and now you’re paying it forward. That’s what it’s all about.” 

This guy seems like a wonderful person, I thought. “Thank you. I really care about the children.”

“I can sense that,” Mr. Glover said. “Here we are. I actually need to use it too.”

I held the door open for him, “After you.” 

He walked in and went into a stall. I pretended to use the urinal. I listened to him finish his business and flush the toilet. As he opened the stall door, before his face could register what was happening, I chopped him in the neck with the space between my thumb and index finger. He coughed and grabbed his neck as he fell backwards onto the toilet seat. Then I grabbed his head with both hands and delivered several damaging knee strikes. That’s all it took. 

I slipped his unconscious body out of the rain jacket and put it on. I jammed his body between the stall walls, so if anyone looked below to see if it was occupied, it would appear vacant. Then locked the stall from inside and fell to the ground and rolled underneath the stall wall. I looked in the mirror. I smiled. This felt perfect. I washed some blood off my hands, zipped up the jacket, put the hood over my head and left the bathroom, keeping my head low and walking swiftly. I could now see lightning blinking through the hallway windows. I walked towards the exit and passed the security guard at his desk.

“Get home safe Mr. Glover,” the guard said.

I waved without turning to him. “Thanks. There’s no place like home.” 

The End.

**This is a work of fiction. Names. characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.