Prologue:
It was dark. The only light piercing the incredible dark of the night came from the dim streetlamps. He stayed in the shadows, avoiding that small bit of light. He did not want to be seen.
He had a mission, a duty. It was not one he wished to fulfill. He would be setting into motion something that would be impossible to stop through its wild, reckless course, inevitably arriving at death after passing through pain and tragedy.
He did not want the responsibility of this on his shoulders. It was too much for any one person to bear. Though it was not his fault, nor his decision, he would be easiest to blame. The expression, 'do not kill the carrier', often lost its meaning in the most dire of circumstances. He was also easier to blame than the one who sent him here. He was easier to blame than the situation he was about to begin.
It was not right. The moral thing to do would be to turn around and go. He would face the punishment there instead of suffering an eternal one after his death. His soul would be clean of this intolerable sin. However, nothing would change. If he did not begin it, someone else would. It was inevitable.
Was merely saving his soul worth this? He knew all too well what his punishment upon returning unsuccessfully would be. He had seen it first hand and had heard of it second hand. It was equally, if not more, painful than Hell. If he returned without performing this task, he would face torture, if not death. Was the sacrifice worth it?
He was not certain. His life had not been clean and pure so far, how could he be sure that he was not already condemned to Hell? If he were, a longer life was preferable.
The very idea of returning was enough to send shivers down his spine. The scenes he had witnessed before flashed across his mind, though his face had replaced that of the real victim. He was being slowly bled to death through small cuts and stabs. He was being beaten cruelly and callously. He was having his hands burned until they were nothing more than fleshy blobs sitting at the end of his arms. He was having small parts of his body, such as fingers and toes, cut off. He was dying. His screams were ringing through the room, to the amusement of his torturer.
No, he could not go back with this order incomplete. He could try to run. However, he knew he would be found. Nothing could help him now. He had to make the decision. There were two choices. He could follow orders and face the consequences of that, or he could disobey orders and face the consequences of that action. Neither choice was appealing.
He sighed and climbed the stairs. He stood before the door without moving for a moment. Slowly, hesitantly, he placed a sheet of paper against the door. He held it there for a time.
Was there a third option he had not yet found? He was positive that there was not. He knew the way this worked. Obey and be spared, disobey and be punished. There was nothing in between these two extremes.
He sighed. His shoulders slumped. He knew what he must do. He was too weak for anything else. With a quick, fluid motion, he stabbed a knife through the paper, turned on his heel, and disappeared into the night. It was done.
There was no turning back. It had begun. No one could stop it now, not before it had finished.
Written in blood red ink, gruesomely contrasting with the white paper, the following message was tacked to the door of the Manhattan Lodging House.
The war has begun.
-J