The End, By the Sea

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"GIT AWAY FROM HIM!"

The two little boys, neither older than ten, shouted as Pintel came pounding out of the shack, shirtless in the early morning and a hatchet in his hands. He came at them like a thunder head, face red on top of a circle of graying hair, and the boys scattered just like birds, running back towards the village on bare feet. A cold autumn wind blew over the rocks, making the sea behind him roil and claw up the sand, never quite able to reach the crooked little shanty house on the shore, though it did try. The boys disappeared into the bare trees and Pintel stopped, hatchet sagging to his side and the wind biting at his weathered skin.

Slowly, he turned back to their prey, a battered scarecrow in a good oil skin coat. Ragetti looked back at him glassily, corner of his good eye jittering. Blood was running into the glass one from a cut on his forehead, filling up the surface and running out again like tears, dripping off his chin onto the breast of his coat. Pintel took a few cautious steps towards him, and Ragetti suddenly blanched, one hand coming up to touch the gash on his forehead, smearing his fingers in the blood.

"You saw them, didn't you?" Ragetti pleaded.

Pintel knelt down next to him, smudging the blood away with his palm so he could get a better look. "Yes, I saw them."

Ragetti's jaw started to tremble. "Th-the men with the….the things in their heads…. They're back…Look what they did to me, Pint!"

"I see it." Pintel said. He slipped his arm around Ragetti's ribs. "Up we go. Come on." He said, pulling him up with him, and Ragetti cooperated, shakily. "Lets get ye back inside."

He guided him, carefully, and Ragetti kept twisting to look behind him, very real panic turning his mouth into a grimace. Pintel didn't look to see. The boys wouldn't come back, not so soon. Later, perhaps. And when they did, Pintel would be waiting for them with the hatchet.

"Up the step." He said, because Ragetti wasn't paying attention. The man looked down, face still jittering, and carefully lifted one foot up onto the step, then the other, and they were through the door. Pintel slammed it behind them, and Ragetti jumped.

"Sorry." Pintel muttered. "That was me."

Ragetti didn't show if he heard him. He put the heels of his hands over his eyes and groaned, stumbling blindly the short distance to the bed and sitting down on it. Pintel pulled a tin across on the table and pried the lid off. Inside, he kept a few rolls of clean bandages, and a curved needle and thread, just in case. After Ragetti tried to cut his navel out with a boning knife, it had seemed like a good idea.

He took a roll of bandages from the old tin and went over to Ragetti, kneeling by the bed.

"Alright now, just move yer hands and we'll git this taken care of." Pintel said gently, and pulled on Ragetti's wrist. Ragetti shrieked and clawed out blindly at him, raking his fingers over the side of Pintel's face, but he'd long since chewed his nails down. Pintel recoiled, and sighed, cursing at himself.

"Right. Stupid of me." he muttered.

Ragetti put his hands back over his eyes and started rocking back and forth, whimpering. Pintel sat down with his back against the bedframe and rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. It was too early for this shit. Ragetti screaming out there had woken him from a sound and much needed sleep.

"What were ye doin out this early, anyway." Pintel grumbled, not really expecting an answer. Ragetti just kept rocking back and forth, back and forth, the mattress creaking tiredly under him. Pintel could sympathize.

He'd looked hard to find a proper mattress, you know. And worked harder to afford it. He'd discovered he could afford a lot of things, when he really needed to. He'd bought Ragetti that glass eye, after all, though years too late for him to enjoy it. He'd found him a coat so maybe he wouldn't shiver so much, got him good food, though he never ate it. He said there were worms in it.

Sometimes, when he could steal it, he brought him morphine. It didn't make him better, but it did make him sleep, and that was almost as good. He had to plead and cajole the boy to let him inject him, and when he finally did Ragetti would cover his eyes and whimper. Pintel knew he thought it was poison. He only let Pintel do it because he loved him.

It was a hell of a thing, that he loved him enough to let him kill him.

He remembered the last good day Ragetti had had. It had been, what, a year ago now? Too long. The boy had sat looking around the shack, like he'd never seen it before, an awful expression on his face, and Pintel could understand why. Eventually, he'd put his hands over his face and started to cry, hitching so hard Pintel thought those starved ribs of his would break.

"P-P-Pint—" Ragetti'd gasped, looking up at him with those miserable eyes. "Pint, I think there's something wrong with me…"

It was the last time he'd been clear enough to know it.