The world is either black or white, Kyle reflects through the thickening alcoholic miasma of the bar, black or white. And grey; grey shouldn't exist in the world of whishes and make-believe.
Grey is a world for sinners, a word which defines itself as a master of the of the occult tribes and the strums of defeat on a lute of Wiccan wires. He, is a hypocrite; Kyle makes out for himself as he slams his shot-glass against polished oak (bang.) and demands for more of that foul Mexican shit with the funny name.
The bartender, middle-aged and thinning grey hair, gives him the stink eye before he pours Kyle a second glass. Kyle ignores the crossing of the bartender's eyes, focuses solely on the thin veils of vanilla liquid caressing itself against the threshold of ice.
Yes, the world is grey. As grey as the prophecy of wishes and the landscape of desires. Of compliments and cabbages and kings.
He takes a quick shot, the liquid burns and tears at his skin, as his eyes shift unconsciously to a television. Held precariously by a metal hook in one corner of the dingy bar.
There's a game on; team black VS. team white on a plain field of soccer. Or maybe football. At this point, the booze is burning his mind into small little embers, and it doesn't matter which side is winning, or if the match is ever going to not end in a draw.
Doesn't matter, just slam the glass (bang.) and demand for more of that pristine liquid.
The bartender stares at him with a superlative degree, as he pours him another shot.
(He promised himself he wouldn't drink)
Too bad. Did you ever love me or that bottle ever in your grasp?
The door squeaks, and (bang.) shuts, and Kyle is trying so hard not to slam the door. To a lesser degree, as a sound reverberates across the dark landscape of the room, he can at least convince himself that he tried.
He staggers, and his side aches where the bitch had slashed him with a butcher knife. Black and red, and Kyle suddenly finds himself on the edge of a king sized bed.
Slowly, very slowly, he starts unlacing his shoes. A lump on the bed, barely visible through the darkness, shifts and stirs and disturbs the idle hands of the sheets.
"Where were you?" there's a soft thump as the heels of Kyle's balmorals land on a lacquered hard wood floor. Kyle closes his eyes; seems to reflect and retract various expressions of implications. He sighs as another thump crosses the velvet terrain.
"I killed Rosa," Kyle's voice is dripping with remorse, his eyes are starting to burn and his mouth is drying out with the bitter taste of penance. He sheds off his coat, lets it fall so ineptly to the floor, before he suddenly remembers the gash across his lower abdomen.
His remorse is suddenly cured with an antidote.
Brian moans through his own pain, and somewhere off in Tuscany, Kyle smells the blood vomiting and spitting through the air. The velvet terrain of the bed sheets shift in a minor earthquake, opening fissures permeate with an unbridled scent of blood and rot. Kyle wrinkles his nose in disgust as he opens the buttons of his collared shirt; white now stained red.
"Why?" The voice is blighted and inaudible. Kyle shrugs, because he doesn't know why himself.
"I just went over to say sorry," the shirt is now on the floor, and suddenly Kyle is so glad that the darkness of the room hides the open wound. He touches the gash, and his hand tastes the velvet red. Kyle's eyes are quivering and he sinks his head down in between his lap.
"We got into an argument, I forgot about what, and," he's on the verge of tears, and he tries desperately to stop himself, "one thing lead into another, and I just. Shot her. Point blank."
There is an icy quiet lingering through the air, a quiet shattered occasionally by the sonic booms of silver streaks zipping back and forth the landscape of a lone and half curtained window. The thin streaks of light dispel the quaint darkness of the room, and Kyle could almost see the rot festering in the yellowing wallpaper.
"I thought she was your friend," And Kyle could almost hear a fetid contempt in Brian's voice, "there is no such thing as a friend in this world, Kyle." Kyle suddenly feels a liquid ooze traversing over his pants. He's losing blood, and, fast.
"I thought I taught you that," Brian laughs, and the darkness suddenly seems to be choking Kyle.
"I think I was drunk," Even as he tries to slur his words, even as Kyle tries to come up with an excuse for the murder, Brian knows it is a lie. Kyle hasn't drank since the night of 1979, and Brian is just lingering for a chance to strike.
"I thought you didn't drink," Kyle doesn't answer as he drapes his body over the misaligned sheets and ignores the pain escalating on his side. He doesn't care anymore. Maybe tonight, he should just go out and… and drink his ass off. He turns his head to the general direction of Brian's voice enshrouded itself in the tranquil darkness.
A silver streak decides then and there to pass a half curtained window; a thin trail of light traverses across the room and Kyle can immediately see the horror of Brian's face. He blinks, and the image is engraved on the lids of his eyes.
"Did anyone see you?" And Kyle almost screams in disgust as Brian's fetid lips purse on the edge of his earlobe. He's in shock, a deer stuck in the headlights, before he can process the question.
"No," His eyes almost roll to the back of his head as he remembers the scene, "No. And it's kind of weird."
He hears Brian shift closer to Kyle's position.
"How so?" Kyle is reminded of ghouls at the sound of the voice.
"The gunshot. None one in the hotel seemed to notice it. No lights turning on. No one came out of their rooms to investigate," He's calm as he thinks about it, "The world was silent and dead as I... walked away."
And Brian whispers about the wound.
"I gave her chance… and she slashed at me with a butcher's knife."
(He remembers dozing off, and pulling the trigger (bang.) and bits of Rosa's brains are scattered everywhere)
She walked in on us, and you made sure to console her lust for you, didn't you?
Brian chuckles as Kyle hears him shift away. A swoosh and a streak of light, and Kyle sees Brian's silhouette on the edge of the bed, the peeling skin of his fingers grabbing the handles of the drawer to an adjacent nightstand.
"You know why you got away?" There's the sound of a rummage, and Kyle wishes he can lose himself in sleep, "This room is legendary among tourists, you know."
There's a (bang.) slam as the edges of something plastic grazes Kyle's cheek. He realizes with some hesitation that it's a condom.
"Room 215, the wish room," The voice is purring with the venom of enticement; Kyle is not sure he can ignore it for much longer, "My greatest desire… is for you not to be taken away from me, for us not to be separated again. For no one to get in our way."
Kyle feels a trigger next to his head (bang.) and wishes Brian could pull the trigger. His eyes are closed, and he feels Brian's revolting lips.
"Please?"
(There's a dream, and he's drunk and killing everyone he once thought was his friend)
It's simple, they were in the way.
The bartender is skeptically staring at the barrel of the gun.
"Fucks you," Kyle slurs calmly, "I's kills before you, you's know?"
"Rosa. Mila. Iris. Martin. Helena. Thery's alls fuckin death." he holds up his hand and counts off the dead and departed; counts off how many people have gotten in his way. He staggers, and slurs, and the bartender holds up both arms in a peaceful surrender.
"Yours in my's way too, you. You, knows?" He whistles through his vulpine teeth; sharp and venomous. The bartender lets him know he can have anything in the cash register, that he has a wife and two kids.
And Kyle would have let him leave without a scratch if Brian's voice hadn't intervened.
(For no one to get in our way)
He pulls the trigger (bang.) and the bartender slips in his own juices. Kyle's face is idle, stone-like and chiseled. He hiccups, and counts how many bullets he has left.
Just one.
One for someone special.
He slips out the bar; gets lost into a foggy night.
He's moaning, and the pain is so real. He blinks(one . two .bang.) and remembers that he never found Brian alive.
(Room 215, the wish room)
And he remembers that he once wished the corpse of Brian alive. They found Brian's corpse on the shores of Manhattan, and a shattered Kyle couldn't go on.
Remember? you brought me here
He's staring at the corpse, and the words of Dunning came back to him.
(Room 215, the wish room)
Kyle has been staring at the corpse as it rotted and festered with the offspring of summer flies. The pain in his abdomen is overbearing and won't stop bleeding; the pain in his heart is still throbbing and chocking it with its ethereal darkness.
There's a sound of sirens outside, as he realizes that Brian's aegis has exalted itself.
He puts the barrel in his mouth.
one. two. (he pulls the trigger)bang.
i want your Brain Brian
…
disclaimer