It didn't go along as planned on that day. Not at least how Henry had envisioned it. It still perplexed him even now — on the verge of death — how a simple meet-up in the park could lead to his demise. Henry found it humorous because he had expected it, one way or another. People in this line of work — whether they were Made Men or just associates, or anyone who was unlucky enough to fall in — didn't die from conventional or 'peaceful' deaths (although Henry still mused as to whether dying from a heart attack or seizure was 'peaceful') It was such a contradiction; it boggled his mind just as inhumane, blood-curdling screams escaped his lips.
He lay there like an animal, something to be looked down upon, and choked on his own muffled words of 'Help me!' or 'Get off of me!', but these pleas went no-where. The slashes from machetes, butchers knives and cleavers were quick and precise — this wasn't spontaneous and didn't come from thin air. It was planned. Fucking Chinks; conniving little slant-eyed bastards. It had to be them, because the Cosa Nostra had some sort of dignity when it came to taking people out. Henry never imagined he would die like this, ever.
The pain didn't kick in immediately; what made Henry scream was the vulgar, perverse sounds the blades made when they carved into his meat, everywhere. He screamed, throat searing, but he didn't cry. He wondered whether Joe or Vito had already made it and secretly hoped that if they were nearby, they would hear him and get the fuck away from the park. The screams of bystanders started to mesh in with his own; the End was nigh. Henry could feel it. Still shielding his face with his hacked arms — already drenched in the colour of crimson — he still called out for aid like a loser; but he closed his eyes, ready to accept death. Never had he thought it would be this enticing. What he thought was the white light of Heaven (even though he knew his place was reserved elsewhere) was actually the summer sun of Empire Bay, beaming over him. The Chinks still stood above, hacking at whatever was still hanging on his bones.
And after what seemed like an eternity of whiteness, he saw the horrified faces of Joe and Vito. Mouth unable to move, just like the rest of face and body; he simply looked on at the faces of his only friends. Joe hadn't looked this disturbed since Marty's death — poor kid.
"Jesus, Vito," Joe began, eyes starting to sparkle with man-tears, "What kind of animal would do this?"
Rhetorical question, Henry thought. He had been rolled over, smearing crimson everywhere. Henry had never seen so much crimson in his life; it was beautiful. The pain had evaporated long ago, he now couldn't feel anything. He only felt the pain on the inside; heartache of the worst kind.
Why the fuck would I feel sad for myself?
If there was any consolation to Henry right now, he was closer to seeing his father, mother and Bettina. Shit, Henry thought again. It was an all right trade. He never got to farewell Bettina, his wife. At the time it was appropriate to blame work for not being there, but Henry knew it was bullshit now; it was a bullshit excuse. He wasn't there when Bettina lay in bed — face severely discoloured from sickness and a priest constantly hovering over her — because he had started to frequent Freddy's or the Cathouse religiously. Their marriage had broken down well before that and everyone knew that. He attended the funeral, only attended by a few, and kept a blank face; this continued even after her death. Realisations come a little too late, unfortunately.