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I'm posting up the chapters of this uncompleted book as I hope the Steemit community might offer up its criticism (which would, in turn, force me to finish it, honestly). Started in 2008, this was my first foray into novel writing and was my undergraduate thesis required to graduate. The story is about an executioner in the not-too-distant future. Executioners are highly trained individuals with extensive educations built to help them execute their prisoners in the exact same manner that the prisoner's victims died. This is called the law of retaliation or _lex talionis_; you may know it better as "eye for an eye."

Because I was also getting my degree in philosophy, I wanted to explore the ethics involved. While I feel I'm a better writer now and could certainly expand most of this book, I also really enjoy criticism as I'm usually too close to the work to see what's working and what's not (though in this case, there's plenty that I feel is not working). So please...feel free to criticize the work if you'd like, but be constructive about it. Simply saying "this part isn't good" doesn't tell me much; don't hesitate to tell me why it's not good or offer up possible alternatives to make it better.

Thanks in advance!

***

Previous Sections/Chapters:

_Part I_
[Chapter One](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-chapter-1) / [Two](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-chapter-2) / [Three](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-chapter-3) / [Four](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/tgjcj-the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-chapter-4) / [Five](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-chapter-5) / [Six](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-i-chapter-6) / 
[Seven](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-i-chapter-7) / [Eight](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-i-chapter-8) / [Nine](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-i-chapter-9) / [Ten](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-i-chapter-10) / [Eleven](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-i-chapter-11) / [Twelve](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-i-chapter-12) / 
[Thirteen](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-i-chapter-13) / [Fourteen](https://steemit.com/writing/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-i-chapter-14) / [Fifteen](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-i-chapter-15) / [Sixteen](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-i-chapter-16-the-end-of-part-i)

_Part II_
[Chapter One](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-ii-chapter-11) / [Two](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-ii-chapter-2) / [Three](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-ii-chapter-3) / [Four](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-ii-chapter-4) / [Five](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-ii-chapter-5) / [Six](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-ii-chapter-6) / 
[Seven](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-ii-chapter-7) / [Eight](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-ii-chapter-8) / [Nine](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-ii-chapter-9) / [Ten](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-ii-chapter-10) / [Eleven](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-ii-chapter-11) / [Twelve](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-ii-chapter-12) /

***

That guard came back today, the one with the fire behind his pupils. I notice his hair is cropped shorter and dark; it blends into the dark of the hallway. Black military fatigues (minus the camouflage) sit high up on his waist and end at black boots shined to a mirror surface. His chest expands the black shirt he wears, up and out, down and in and his lips do not move, even to grimace. He does not let on if he is tired of standing. 

His body language, however, tells me he is tense, possibly knotted up from laborious days stuck in an office and being told what to do by his superiors. This is more activity than I have seen since being put down here and I have no doubt this is abnormal. I couldn’t say why or why not, simply that his face seems to be constantly asking questions his mouth can’t form. I am the caged animal to his scientific method, an uneasy variable within his world of simple equations. 

We stare at each other through the thick glass partition, neither of us flinching. It is schoolyard politics on a subterranean level and we are both unbending like old Redwoods surrounded by our own hurricanes. He stands, hands behind his back, with the corner of a file poking out from his left side. I sit on my bed, Lotus style, seeing a hazy reflection of myself overlaid around his midsection. It is this image that sticks with me as he turns to walk away. 

It is pointless to wonder what his life is like, so serious all the time. Although, one must consider and factor in his occupation, I suppose. He is probably meticulous, but lonely. No wrinkles to speak of in his garb and he obviously takes care of himself. Perhaps his life is his job. Perhaps it is the other way around. Panzer told me stories about guys like this one, guys so narrow-minded that they forgot the people around them existed. A singularly focused individual would be perfect for his job, a ‘yes man’ walking amongst trash waiting to be incinerated. 

I stare at him until I see the glimmer in his eyes disappear – he is somewhere else now, no longer looking at me, but rather through me. The cogwheels of his intellect are turning round and round, perfectly cut teeth finding residence within the spaces between other perfectly cut teeth while untwisting images and words into coherency. I close my eyes and meditate, leaving him to his thoughts because I have found myself angry at his presence for no tangible reason. I have forgotten my teachings here in Hub 4 and I need to return to them soon as I feel this irrational cancer bubbling to the surface waiting to pop and drown anyone within range. 

Perhaps it is the way he stands there with no words tickling his lips, or maybe it’s because it feels like he is merely examining me like one would examine a rat in a cage. I was never one for the allure of the spotlight, so it’s entirely possible that my deeper vanity is what’s bubbling up beneath my skin and I hate the idea of that being the case. Vanity – what a waste of good emotions. 

I am shaken from my quiet by the glass partition returning to its opaque and darkened nature. The lighting in the room does not reflect well off it and seems to be swallowed whole by the murky substance within. I guess he has left for now, tired of poking and prodding without actually doing so. This close to my last day, I have to wonder if this is what it’s like for the other prisoners down here – do they sit and wait as the unflinching guards watch them in silence from the other side? Is this as off-putting to them as it is to me?

I sat cross-legged and still until lunch. It slid through my door with a suspicious lack of steam and flavor and in that split second, I knew I had another option. I rose from the bed quickly and ran to the door, slamming my hand against it and screamed for Father Josef. I assumed the guard had already walked off as there was no response and I was mad at myself for not requesting him earlier on during my stay. Foolishly, I thought I could fight this solitary on my own. ‘No one wins wars on the strength of one,’ I mumbled to myself, going back to the bunk. I leaned against the wall, wrapping my hands around my knees and drew them close as I waited and counted seconds into minutes, minutes into hours, and hours into ends of days constantly stuck on a repeat of nothing. 

***

The glass partition lost its opaque façade when Father Josef arrived the next day wearing the same serene smile I had remembered from my first day here, one that seemed to outshine the room itself in an unreal burst of honesty. He shook my hand, clasping his other around the handshake itself and cocooning my hand briefly. The smell of oak and pure emanated from his robes as we sat on my bunk and I couldn’t seem to find the right starting place. I chewed on my lip and fingered the sheets of our makeshift couch as I flipped through the pages of the mental diary I had begun almost a year ago. “Are you doing okay down here, J? Or are we just conversing simply to converse?” he finally asked after several long minutes of quiet. 
	
“It’s always quiet here,” I started. “There’s no commotion, no conversation, no nothing. It’s a weird kind of purgatory.” He nodded and said nothing, allowing me to finish whatever train of thought I was riding. 
	
“And no, you’re not just here for conversation, but I’m having a hard time finding a place to start. I promise I’m not wasting your time,” I replied, looking up at him. 
	
“Well, I find it’s best to start wherever the head keeps leading you. If something is constantly at the forefront of your mind, it’s probably best to begin there and see where it leads you.”
	
I nodded and inhaled big and slow. “There is a guard here. He has come to see me on two occasions. He tried to speak with me the first time, but I tuned him out when he fumbled on what he wanted to ask me. I found myself angrier than I had ever been when I was on the other side of the prison and I’m not sure why. I’m not normally an angry person, but his presence was enough to get me twisted up.” I looked at Father Josef and waited. 
	
“Why do you think this is?”
	
I looked at the floor and shrugged. “I think maybe I’m going stir-crazy, as stupid as that sounds. I never get to leave this cell and I never get to talk to anyone about anything. The food is almost always cold and the lights never go out completely. I honestly think I’m using him as a scapegoat for my situation, but not due to the cause of my being here, but rather just the being here – in this part of the prison. Does that make any sense at all?”
	
“Of course. Your situation is not only unique, but requires a unique response. I have read your file and you seem to be, for lack of a better phrase, a model prisoner. You blend in, you don’t cause problems and many of the guards on the other side say that you are always on your best behavior. What you’re feeling right now is a sense of loss coupled with loneliness. _‘If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me.’_ God is always there for each and every one of his children. You must always remember that you are never truly alone.”
	
“From Psalms. I know the passage,” I replied.
	
“Ah! A man of God, then?”
	
“No, a man with a lot of time and a lot of books on hand,” I said ruefully before replying in kind. _“Shoichi was a one-eyed teacher of Zen, sparkling with enlightenment. He taught his disciples in Tofuku temple. Day and night the whole temple stood in silence. There was no sound at all. Even the reciting of sutras was abolished by the teacher. His pupils had nothing to do but meditate. When the master passed away, an old neighbor heard the ringing of bells and the recitation of sutras. Then she knew Shoichi had gone.”_ 
	
A coy smile spread across Father Josef’s face as I finished and he leaned back against the wall. “So many people divide themselves against the theological walls and forget that, whether you believe in God or Allah or whomever, the basic fundamental in all of them is the same – treat your brother as your equal and love unconditionally.” He clucked his tongue and returned his gaze to me. “Would you like to know how I came to be a man of the cloth?”
	
“Absolutely. I find that a person’s history gives insight into who that person is and why.”
	
“I agree. There are cases where one’s history only muddies up the waters of their present, but…I was visiting my grandmother in Chicago some many years ago. A warm woman, conditioned to hug anyone she came in contact with and you could taste it in her cooking, for the woman cooked a lot and well at that,” he said, smiling wistfully. “My grandfather had died before I was born, so I never knew him, but when I’d visit Chicago, she would take me to Lake Michigan.” He adjusted his position and faced me directly, looking off into some unseen memory. 
	
“That summer, she fell ill and remained in bed many days. She would give me fare to take the train downtown so that I could get the most out of my trip, but most days I would pocket the money and play close to her house. I wasn’t afraid of going out on my own, but I had the feeling that if I went too far, something would happen to her while I was out enjoying myself. The irrational thought of a child, of course, but very real to me at the time.”
	
“I remember those,” I interjected. I remembered having thoughts like that all the way up until I graduated high school and then one day, they just stopped as if adulthood had put up a wall to my younger self, keeping the surreal out for good. 
	
“I hid the money in a jar in her guest bedroom, deep underneath the bed where I knew she wouldn’t look. I was sleeping in the basement bedroom, so I figured I was being smart, but she knew. I’m not sure how long she knew, but she kept giving me money regardless, never hinted that she knew. Halfway through the summer, I had to ask her for another mason jar because the other one had gotten too full,” he said, chuckling. “Anyway, we both kept up the façade for three months, playing our cards close to the chest. That August, she couldn’t move from her bed at all and I was essentially feeding her every meal. At least those that she had an appetite for. I didn’t mind, even at that age, but she had called her pastor that weekend and he made a visit near the middle of the week.” 
	
He started wringing his hands together and I could see them redden around the veins popping through the skin. My eyes instinctively shot to my own and I realized we were about the same age, although his face had the look of youth frozen at its epoch. 
	
“They spoke for most of the afternoon with the door closed and I could hear bits and pieces of the conversation, but nothing of any substance. Eventually I heard him gather his things and say his goodbyes. I ran to the guest bedroom and grabbed the two mason jars full of money and stood at her door as it opened. He was older and monolith tall to my young eyes. I held the jars out to him and asked if there was a way the money would help my grandmother get better and he said there was no currency greater than the one he and grandma used, or something to that effect,” he said, waving the hazy part of the memory away. 
	
“He placed his hand on my head and it seemed to engulf me, like a comforting fire falling from his fingertips and I felt weak in his presence. That irrational thinking kicked in again and I realized my grandmother had called this man for a reason and I believed him to be a kind of superman in black and white clothing, able to heal however necessary. From then on, I wanted to be him, be like him, anything that would help me to help others. That feeling never left as I finished high school and I went to Seminary school. And that, as they say, is that,” he finished, clapping his hands against his knees. 
	
“What ever happened to your grandmother?” I asked quietly. 
	
“She passed later that year when I was back at home. Old age had finally gotten her, but she left us in good spirits and that same pastor oversaw her funeral. She was not lonely and I was thankful for the pastor’s presence near her. When I left that August to come home, I no longer felt guilty about leaving her alone, simply because I understood that she wasn’t alone and never had been.” 
	
“And you’ve been with the church ever since?”
	
“Ever since. I have not regretted one day of it. Sometimes I get to see the end result of the work we do through our outreach programs, but sometimes I have to just hope that they work the way we want them to.” 
	
“I should’ve met with you sooner,” I stated. “I’ve been stewing in my own brain juices for so long. I should’ve asked more questions. Thank you.”
	
“You’re very welcome,” he said, his teeth gleaming brighter than the room itself. “But let’s talk about you now. I feel like I’ve wasted your time by talking about me instead.”
	
“Actually, I think that was exactly what I needed. Can I meet with you again before, you know…” I asked, letting the question melt away. 
	
“But of course. When?”
	
“Anytime next week. I think the next few days will be good for some reflection and meditation. Both of which I’ve done entirely too little of these last few months.” We shook hands again and he rose to leave. “Oh, do you know many of the guards here personally?”
	
“I know a few, yes. Some better than others, why do you ask?”
	
“Are they good people?”
	
“They have their moments,” he replied, exiting the cell. “Be well. Until next week.” His shoes clip-clopped along the floor and the door slid shut behind him quietly as the glass went opaque again, blocking my view of the guard station. It was the last time I would see him before my time came in the darkest part of the prison.