********
Foreword
********
Oh right, this is still in prelude mode
like the last two chapters.
Disclaimer: Everything associated with
Sailor Moon is in no way, shape, or
form owned by me. I don't intend to
make any money off of this; that's up
to the larger than life corporations
out there. All that jazz about Sailor
Moon in tons of disclaimers out
there apply.
email: doniswong@hotmail.com
Rated:
R (mild swearing, violence, and sexual innuendoes)
"Clean"
Chapter 4
A Portrait of a
Killer
A fanfic
by
Don
It comes so easy. A flick of a wrist, a
wiggle of a finger, a jerk of a
forearm - I almost feel like a crook for
charging my outrageous sums. But
then, if people want to pay me, who am I
to turn them away? Who am I to
disregard money?
It would be sacrilegious to not honor
man's inherent drive for
satisfaction.
It would be a heresy to inadequately pleasure my beloved.
My beloved... Fondly, I caress her picture
sitting atop my large oak
desk; I stare into it, feeding off of it,
letting its nourishment seep into
my bones. Her beautiful summer sky blue
eyes peel away the darkened clouds
above while her long, golden hair
radiates like the sun, basking all in
unheard warmth. Arms spread to the
heavens, I wonder if she is an eagle
taking flight or a rain goddess
calling forth her elements. Which indeed,
for a clear reply would confound
me utterly: her wings let my heart soar
while her elements, elements of
love and happiness, rain down upon my
bloodied hands, making them
clean.
Is she mortal on God's
land or God on mortal land?
Which indeed.
My soul
leaps at the very thought of her, of her lush lips and flawless
figure.
How I long to hold her in my arms, to idle the night away on floor,
couch,
or bed. How I yearn to please her, to see that smile - oh, that
wonderful
smile! - and know my crimes be born of undying love...
But alas, she sleeps in my bedroom,
covered by down and silk. Disturb
her torpor I dare not, for once she
wakes, she will plead I cease what I am
about to do and come to bed. Defy
her? Not a nerve nor a fiber in my body
dares so. I will give up at her
slight prompting and find joy in her arms.
My hands will remain unstained
for one more night...
However,
they have stayed clean for long enough. I have not the heart
of an angel -
like my beloved - but the twisted essence of Death. In them I
find my
other calling: a calling to murder and mayhem.
Come now, the night is young and my hands are itching. Wish
my
excursion Godspeed and my beloved goodnight.
**************
Montreal is certainly beautiful. While the
summer heat bakes everywhere
else to a crisp, this place remains
indifferent because of its geographical
position. Somehow, global warming
has made this place nicer, taking away
the harsh snowy seasons and
replacing them with mild rains.
As the sun sets in the western horizon, I lean on the security
railing,
almost as if to touch the red star. They say that the pollution
makes for
the beautiful sun set.
So much to see and so much time to spend. Released from my chains
of
duty and depression, I am free to roam wherever I please, whenever
I
please. A few weeks here, a few months there, freedom was never so free
to
me, not even during my teenaged years.
Walking down the bustling street, I take my time to do some
window
shopping at this commercial smorgasbord. Everything imaginable
lines the
streets, everything from simple but alluring street delicacies
to
mock-upper-class clothing. The food and the clothes don't interest me
much
- I've tasted and worn better - but the little trinkets do catch
my
attention.
I bend down
and take hold of a small ivory ring, one uncracked and
unblemished. Quite
an unusual piece. Given that elephants went extinct a
few hundred years
ago and that ivory doesn't keep well, this is a treasure
many times
over.
"How much?" I
ask the woman sitting behind her makeshift counter.
Leering behind her tarnished eyepatch, she
grunts and yells in a
banshee's voice, "Twenty!"
"That's it?!" I'd feel bad if I
were to buy it at this price.
"Fifty!"
For
once, I should keep my mouth shut. "Fifty it is."
Throwing down a few bills - bills which
are quickly snatched - I go
further down the street and turn a corner.
From her post, the old hag
stares at me with a strange look, in her fist
clutched my money. Regret -
I've seen the expression many times before.
Regret for a loss not meant to
be, regret for something not regrettable
till lost.
I want to return the
ring, but human greed takes over. Indulgence of
the highest degree
overwhelms my humane respect. I figure my money would
buy her and her family
a number of decent meals, maybe even a few other
trinkets.
Be my mind split between selfishness and
shame, now is too late to
change anything. I let myself wander too far
away; I can't find my way
back. Perhaps another day when my demons aren't
as vocal, I'll find myself
wandering these streets and find the old hag;
then I'll return her ring.
For
now, I'll consider this a gain, a justifiable gain.
Lifting the ring up to the waning light, I
read a neat line of writing
strewn on the outer portion of the
ivory.
"T'was grief felt
before grief known."
I'm
sure the old hag could relate to those words... perhaps why she
looked at
me with those relenting eyes too.
Ahhhh, my heart gets the better of me. Not knowing where I am, I
turn
around and begin winding around city blocks and alleyways, trying to
find
that woman again.
Over there was it?
Maybe
around there?
Damn this bazaar!
One street looks like the other! While one belches
with excess of people,
another lays abandoned! How could a place be so-
"HHHHEEEEEELLLLLPPPP!!!"
My ears perk like cat's, battle senses
kick in. Without so much as
thinking, I transform - though strangely this
be one of the abandoned
avenues - and leap to the roofs, making my way
over to the source of the
desperate scream.
Sailor Venus has taken over.
There! In one of the dark crannies of this
place! More screams emanate
from the alley, but I doubt anyone cares;
trouble is the last thing anyone
wants to get into in this land. With
gracefulness brought forth by a
thousands years of existence, I quietly
scamper to the roof above the scene
and peer down.
Yes, yes, classic damsel in distress. She
backs away to the
trash-filled dead end, all the while waving her hands
about and wailing for
a caring soul. Her eyes are as wide as a skeleton's
sockets; apparently,
whoever is approaching her is a forbidding figure to
say the least.
That brings me
back to the problem at hand: the reason for the
screaming.
At first, I don't see anything, only
darkness. Then, a ripple appears,
a ripple like that of a cape or cloak.
The shadows in the alley obscure my
vision, but I soon make out the form
of a man wearing all black, like an
emissary of Death. He wields a
formidable sword - didn't know people used
swords anymore - coated with a
non-reflective substance. He wears a mask,
one reminiscent of Endyimon's
back in his youth, though this killer's is
dark like the night.
Slowly he approaches. I can readily
discern his pleasure in every
wretched scream and pathetic plea; the
joyful spring in his step every inch
he sidles closer is testimony enough.
What a sadistic bastard! To not only
kill but take joy in killing!
Obviously, he knows not of pain, for if he
did, he would not be here
reveling in the misery of another.
He would not be killing in the first place.
No one who knows how painful it is to
suffer would allow suffering.
I
know not who his victim is; I care not what she has done. What lies
before
my eyes is a murderous demon and helpless soul. The woman may not be
one
worth saving, but this twisted assassin is worth killing.
Taking aim at his heart, I charge a deadly
beam of my crescent energy,
check the trajectory, and let it soar.
I expect a flash of light and moment of
silence. I expect the thumping
of a body - that son of a bitch's body. I
expect the screaming woman to
look on in surprise, then run away. I expect
an easy job.
But life isn't
always what we expect.
Within
the split second of my attack going from my fingertip to his
chest, the
killer lurches aside - apparently aware of my attack - and
instead of the
golden light piercing his heart, it glides through his
shoulder. He grunts
loudly, clutching his injury, and looks skyward in my
direction.
The shadows cover me, revealing only my
visage and golden hair. He
starts but recovers his fumble in short order.
Wasting not word or action,
he throws an object to the ground, an object
which produces a bright flash
and smoke screen.
No! I wasn't expecting this! Relying on my
instincts, I jump into the
fray, hoping to catch the man trying to escape.
As I hit the ground, I am
treated to a sickening slash and a bloody croak.
The audacity of the
mongrel! He used the diversion to help kill his
victim, not escape from me!
Immediately, I know I'm not dealing with a common street thug or
an
inexperienced killer. Caution must be my guide.
There! Shuffling of feet against the wall!
He's trying to climb over
the dead end while he still can! Blindly, I hurl
another Crescent Beam in
his direction, one that results in another grunt
but no fall of body. My
bloodlust urges me to take to the roofs; I can
easily catch a doubly
wounded man.
Good sense, however, holds me back. Killer I can catch another
day;
human life leaves but only once.
As the smoke clears, I am treated to the gargling noise of a
young
brunette choking on her own blood. Her throat is cleanly slashed ear
to
ear; there is no other mark.
************
Who was that deadly, deadly killer?!
Who?!
The way she moved -
cunning like a fox.
The weapons
she used - unfortunately I know not.
The fighter's instincts she had - honed to split the behind hair of
a
rat.
By luck I am still
alive, either by luck or mercy. Who, praytell, who
did old man Gilbert
hire to protect his woman?! Why did she not strike when
I dispatched his
other guards?!
Ahhh, by God are
these wounds terrible, searing. For all intents and
purposes, I won't be
doing anymore jobs for the next few weeks - or at
least, until I get to a
doctor. That Angel of Death be skilled in the ways
of her master, but she
is no bodyguard. No, had her mind been set on
protecting old man Gilbert's
woman, the whore would still be alive. This...
this THING seems to be
after me instead.
My employer
better pay me well after this fiasco, that is all I can
say. When my
payment comes, I will disappear until I heal, until that
monster lets her
guard down. Then I will settle the score. No one shall
ever threaten my
place and live to tell about it.
I am Death's only emissary, that way it will
remain, for I-
"James?"
A
light flickers on followed by the slight pitter patter of slippered
feet.
No! My love! She must not see me like this, like a wounded lion.
Quickly, I bite back the pain and meld
into the darkened shadows of the
living room. Perhaps she will think it
the house settling or maybe some
other noise. Perhaps she will come down
here, see nothing, and return to
bed.
My dear Marianne, please don't come any further... for your own
good as
well as mine.
"James?" she calls again.
At last she reaches the bottom of the stairs. Cautiously, she
scans the
room, trying to reassure herself that no one is waiting to
ambush her.
Don't worry my
love; no one knows we live here. My dealings with the
underbelly of the
world are much too pathetic to be in your presence. No
one would know
you're here, save me. You need not be afraid.
Suddenly, her eyes light up. I follow her path of vision and
give a
slight jump myself. Blood - blood from my wounds - has spilled onto
the
wooden floor, pointing a trail to my hiding place.
Thoroughly horrified, she jumps for the
light switch and shouts, "Who's
there?!"
Only me, my darling, "Only
me."
Her features soften,
replaced by a sense of relief, though the relief
short lived. Now that she
sees me, her heart skips a beat - maybe even two
or three - from my
wounds.
Concededly, I limp back
to the couch and sit myself down, continuing
with bandaging the gaping
holes. "Go back to sleep," I say, not wanting her
to see the
gore, "They're not as bad as they look."
Face a stoic board, she looms over me and
asks, "Where were you?"
"Accident," I reply out of habit, though the reflex not
completely
untrue.
"Why do you have to always lie to me?" whispers she, her eyes
closing
to stop the tears.
We've been through this before, many times before. "What do you
want me
to answer, darling? I was out killing somebody? I was out slitting
a poor
girl's throat? I was out drinking with the guys and shot a mob
boss?"
"No, James,
no... You swore you would never do this again. You swore
that after you
had enough money, you would stop. Look around you! You have
more money
than those people who hire you! Why do you lie to me? Why don't
you stop?"
"Do you think I take joy in watching
people suffer?"
"Yes!"
We
stare at each other, unmoving, silence reigning supreme until I
muster
every ounce of willpower to break its grip. "I don't like to see you
suffer."
"But what about others, James?"
She turns her back to me, trying even
harder to hide the tears. "What
about others? Don't forget that I've seen
you do it before. You take joy
in a person's squirming, crying..."
"But I don't like to see you suffer."
"Does it look like I'm
suffering?!"
"Yes."
Rising
from the couch, I tenderly wrap my arms around her body and kiss
her on
the cheek. I taste a hint of salt water, so I carefully wipe the
stream of
tears away from her unblemished face. "My conscience aches..."
"As does your arm and
leg."
"... and
believe me, I do this out of love..."
"Love for me or for Death?"
"... your suffering is all I need to
know..."
"Then you
still don't know what suffering is."
"... when will you believe my uttered words, 'I love
you'..."
"When you
start acting, not uttering."
"... and see how my crimes touch me too?"
"There are no crimes in your eyes;
only sacks of gold and money."
"You injure me, Marianne. Have you no eyes to see that I am
wracked
with pain at your rejection?"
"My eyes tell a different story, one of a man deceiving
the one he
loves for fortune."
"Then you don't see the truth-"
"Fine! I may be blind, but now I will
open my eyes! Do you, James -
love of my life and bane of my conscience -
love blade or beloved?!"
My mind stumbles at the blatant question. I am unable to answer
for
that split second; my tongue is somehow held back from giving the
answer I
want to give.
She
takes the moment of forced hesitation as a sign of indecision.
"I thought so," she hisses,
"Thirty years James, thirty years we have
known each other. Besides
my mother you were the first person I saw! We
were born on the same day,
on the same hour, on the same minute, at the
same place! Had fate not so mercifully
decreed, we would have been
siblings! You and I, we know each other
through and through. We love each
other through and through. But day after
day, year after year, you lie to
me James, lie like a fiend! I accept you
for who you are, but I cannot
accept what you do to others! I thought I
could change you with kindness,
but now I see I was too kind! Why do you
not see your wrong?!"
"Because I am doing it for you."
Heart wrenching sobs shatter my resolve
and I buckle. "If it pleases
you," I beg, slowly making my
towards her, "I will give up my profession of
Death. It would be
safer for me too, given another of equal or greater
ability has appeared
on the scene."
But my
words fall on deaf ears. Like the boy who cried wolf, I am
ignored because
of my past transgressions. With a swing of her hand, she
slaps me to the
floor and makes a dash for the front double doors. She
flings them open
like an artist unveiling her work and indignantly stares
into my wincing
eyes.
"Liar," she
cries once more, "How many times have you spat those words
to me?! If
it takes my rejection to stop your bloody rampage, then I gladly
serve you
my hate and spite on a golden plate! I would rather forsake my
love than
see ten others lose theirs!"
In her white, silken nightgown, she rushes to the streets, but
even
before she can get to the porch, a sound I dread shatters the quiet,
sleepy
night.
A loud,
single, whip-like sound.
"Marianne!"
An
abrupt scream accompanies a dull thud; my blood boils in my veins,
further
aggravating my wounds. This is but a mere dream, I say, a mere
dream!
Surely I have lost too much blood and this is only a hallucination!
My
instincts - my dreaded, pinpoint instincts - have for once failed me!
The
thud was only of the door closing... only the door closing and nothing
more.
Hurriedly, I crawl in her direction
screaming, "Marianne! Marianne!"
No answer.
By
chance she left already? Yes, yes, that's it. She's left already!
She was
sure infuriated at my antics; a quick departure would not be
unlikely.
Just like her too, to speak her mind and storm off. What a
kidder,
no?
"Marianne!!!"
I crawl closer, leg and shoulder numb from the pain. You know, maybe
if
I crawl fast enough, I might even catch a visage of her walking off
down
the street! Yes! When I make it to the porch, I'll see her sneering
at me -
oh that wonderful sneer! - and I'll call her back! She'll listen,
I know
she will! She'll... She'll...
... be dead.
Lifting my eyes up, I finally succumb to the dreaded reality. The
whip-like
sound was a weapon - any number of weapons - and the thud her
body on the
wooden porch. Her arms are spread out like she was about to
embrace me.
Her face is serene save the trickle of blood flowing down the
corner of her
mouth.
Her body is perfectly
intact except for the huge hole in the chest from
which steam rises.
"Marianne!!!"
I cradle her limp head in my arms and cry.
Cry, cry, cry, cry, cry! I
cry like a baby, I cry like a woman, I cry like
a widow! Please say this a
cruel joke, one played by vengeful gods and
immoral goddesses!
Bringing my
lips to hers, I sneak a kiss, perchance to find a sign of
life. Instead of
warmth surging forth as it usually does when we kiss, a
severe chill
freezes my marrow and thickens my tears.
My Marianne... my beautiful, lovely, angelic Marianne... come
back to
me... it is all I wish for...
I take back my insincere words. I relinquish my post as
Death's
emissary. I return all my wealth to its rightful owners.
I'd do all of that and give my life to see
you flutter your eyes.
Wake up,
damn you! Wake up! You can't be dead, no, not like this, not
while hating
me, not without some last words. At the least, give me the joy
of hearing
your wonderful voice however soft!
... at the least, forgive me for what I have done...
But I know all is in vain... thirty years
our love has been cultivated,
nursed... thirty years, all to end in an
instant by the whim of some
cowardly finger.
I swore to protect you, but now, I see I
have failed miserably. As God
as my witness, I will avenge you. For me,
dying is not an option. Those
cowardly bastards will have their day, have
their day to taste my blade for
all they've done to me.
All they've done... what do I mean, "All
they've done?" Your death is
"All" enough!
I wish your soul Godspeed, Marianne. As to
me, there are long nights
ahead, and the seed of vengeance has only begun
to sprout.
************
Alicia Ramses, wife of notable charity worker Gilbert Ramses.
She was
twenty seven, he is forty seven. Classic gold digger scenario but
they
maintain the marriage was an unbelievable fairy tale. She was killed
by an
assassin - a rather famous one at that - who was most likely
contracted by
one of Gilbert's enemies. The killer is still at large,
beware all citizens
of this city.
Amazing what one can learn from the newspaper.
"Yeeeaaahhh, darn shame,
eh?"
I cock my head and
peer strangely at the middle aged waiter.
"That Alicia Ramses," he says, pointing to the
headline of my paper,
"She was a beaut, eh? Had it made too living
with old man Gilbert and all,
eh?"
Smiling at the man, I spout a quick, "Yeah, what a
shame," before
moving onto another subject, another more interesting
subject. "I'm new
around and I just don't get why everyone's crying
over this."
He replies
with a short laugh, albeit boisterous and loud. "Ma'am, it's
best you
don't know either!"
"Enlighten me."
He scoots into the chair across from me and begins weaving his story
of
underworld politics and regional common knowledge. Turns out this
Gilbert
fellow, though great giver, is a fairly questionable character.
He's like
Al Capone to Chicago or Al Paccino to gangster movies: he owns
Montreal. Of
course, power struggles between smaller factions occur all
the time, only
this certain round particularly hurt the mob boss, both
socially and
emotionally. People making a big deal out of this are either
truly grieving
or grieving in order to rub salt into the wound.
Amazing what one can learn from a
waiter.
"Confounded,
eh?"
I shake my head and
press on. "Who's this killer? Must be pretty
effective,"
effective... yeah, that's a good way to put it, "if he can take
out
all the bodyguards."
"Ay, nobody really knows. Only a few people - those big
important
people - know how to contact him. Heard he's been around for ten
years at
least; never fails to get his mark." He coyly sidles closer
to me and
lowers his voice to a mysterious whisper, "Makes one think,
eh? Could be
your neighbor, your best friend, your father, even your
lover, eh?"
"Why
don't you tend to your business before you try your hand at mine?"
I
point to the growing line of impatient customers growling at the door for
their
breakfast.
Like a slapped
servant, he hurries away and leaves me alone to finish
my meal.
A mysterious assassin who works for the
crime syndicate... Sounds so
cliche. Where's the private eyes in
trenchcoats and corrupt cops chewing on
donuts while looming over a body?
Yeah, this is cliche alright. Classic mob
boss, classic murder, classic
"Who-Done-It" scenario - almost gives me the
urge to step aside
and let some other brave soul handle it, like MacGuyver
or Dick
Tracy.
Almost.
No use in denying that a sadistic animal is
on the loose, one not even
a bomb made of Bisquik can stop. This might as
well be my first good deed,
my first baby step toward some kind of
redemption.
Never was a better
time to start than now.
Folding
up my newspaper, I throw some money on the table and make my
out to the
streets. If I'm going to find out who this mystery meat cleaver
is, I'll
need a list of suspects.
Guess
it's time for Sailor V to make a sudden comeback.
**************
"James, James, James... How in God's
name did you get this way?"
I grimace at the doctor and grunt, "Accident."
"Sure," he breathes, "I
always fall on things that impale my shoulder
and thigh, eh?"
"Just shut up and do your
job."
No more snide
remarks left, he returns to busying himself with his
medical equipment.
I'm guessing a few shots here, a quick run through with
his surgical tools
and I'll be fine. Oh, right, and don't forget the
obligatory
"Don't-strain-yourself" speech.
"Well," he says holding a big, long, needle like
object, "I'm going to
have give you a few shots to get the wounded
area numb enough for this
laser here to do its job. Then, I'll graft some
skin and meld it back
together. I'll stick a few artificial bone implants
in there too; they'll
last until you actually heal." Firing up his
laser, the doc puts on a pair
of goggles and prepares to give me a
thorough thrashing, but before that,
"Oh, right, and James? Don't
strain yourself after this operation. I'd hate
to see all my work go to
waste."
"Of
course."
"Now close
your eyes chap, you might not want to see this."
Thirty minutes
later...
Shrugging on my
coat, I wince at the tenderness brought by the doctor's
surgery. My limbs
will not be a hundred percent, but they'll do; vengeance
waits for no man,
not even the one seeking it. If I'm going to find out who
killed my
beloved Marianne, a great deal of investigation must be done.
Time to pay a visit to some friends of
mine.
Never trusted them much,
but when there's enough cash in front of their
faces, they'll sell their
mothers in a-
By accident, I
crash into a woman; we both fall over, landing in an
undignified
heap.
"Excuse me," I
dejectedly reply, slowly getting up as to not tax my
wounds.
The woman lifts her head - her golden
crown - and peers at me with two
globes of sapphire blue eyes. My heart
skips a beat. Then another. My God,
this angel's appearance reminds
of-
"Sorry," she
quickly apologizes, "I just wasn't..."
"Have we met before?"
A questionable look breezes by her face, a
look that brims with
tiredness of the situation. "No, and I'm sure of
it. I really have to go so
could you please-"
Beside myself with ghostly recognition, I
grab hold of woman's hand and
say, "Do you know the name
Marianne?"
"No,"
she answers firmly.
"Are
you related to the good family of-"
"NO."
"Do you know my face?"
"NO! Now leave me be!"
Alas, I am but grabbing at straws. What's
the chance of Marianne alive,
or better yet, her having a long lost
relative I've never met? Slim to
none. Slim to none.
Thoroughly embarrassed, I release the
doppelganger's hand. "Sorry," I
apologize, casting my eyes at
the ground, "I... I completely lost myself in
the moment. Excuse me
for my brash behavior."
Sad, sad, sad... so pathetically sad to see her eyes in all who
pass.
But I can't help it; every blonde head, every blue eye - they remind
me so
much of my lost love, lost to the coward's bullet. Can I help but
laugh at
myself, laugh at myself for being so naive?
So cowardly?
So hopeful?
Can I help myself?
I can't, so I let out a short, sad,
pathetic laugh. Sounds like a noise
only emitted by the conceited, but who
am I to view that label in negative
light? Without her, without her love,
without her warmth, without her
conscience, I might as well be a conceited
shell.
It's a step up from
wherever I'm presently at.
Turning away, I hoarsely whisper, "Sorry," once more, hoping
to make a
quick exit in the confusion. I've already embarrassed myself
enough in
front of this young lady, no need to demote myself to a pansy by
bawling
like a baby in her presence.
So I run, just like how any person would handle it. My blood
may be
cold as ice but because of that, my heart is as brittle. Achilles
heel of
the killer - we don't defend against emotional breaches very
well.
Twisting and turning
through road and rue, I end up on a small
fisherman's pier. Dank deadwood
cracks under my shoes, the only other sound
my tears slowly falling to the
hollow ground. Here I can be alone, cry to
myself, and beat myself up over
what-ifs and what-nots in perfect privacy.
I can be with Marianne, if not
in body, then perhaps, maybe... just
maybe... in spirit.
My legs automatically give out; I slump to
the wood, nearly bursting
through it with my sudden shift of weight. My
hands shake uncontrollably,
memories of her blood caked over them invade
my mind. Her lips - her cold,
cold lips - pressed against mine for one
last time - the odd feeling surges
forth and envelopes me. Steam from the
warmed water rising into the cooled
air reminds me of the steam rising
from her chest, her mangled chest.
I remember, though remembrance likely since the event recently
passed,
but I don't want to remember. It hurts so much to live with this
emptiness,
this unfulfilled gap, this sense of guilt.
To see thirty years of life, love, and
utter perfection uprooted before
your very eyes... it's... it's...
A hand comes to rest on my shoulder.
Normally, I would spin around,
perhaps throw a short elbow and roll away
to have more room to maneuver.
But no. I don't feel like fighting today.
The fleeting train of vengeance
has left its station without me, leaving
me behind to eat the bitter dust
and stale wind. My resolve has abandoned
me to my own device of torture,
the conscience.
My, my, my, but I'd rather bear the wounds
of an army than hear my
inner demons...
... maybe this nameless hand will silence them for me.
"I believe you dropped this,"
sounds a cool, gentle voice. Another hand
appears from behind holding my
wallet. "Couldn't you have run a little
slower? I don't bite... at
least, not anymore."
"Thanks," I mumble, my voice trembling like a scared little
kid.
Weight shifts, making the
old wooden dock creek with agony. A gentle
thump later, I am treated to a
concerned look by the woman I left behind
mere moments ago. She smiles at
me like a goddess. Her radiance seems to
bounce off of the water, plunging
the rickety dock in a soothing, peaceful
light. The birds chirp louder,
the water looks clearer, and the air is
crisper - she breathes life into
these comatose objects, restoring them to
their former glory.
It's amazing, beautiful...
Even without saying a word she reminds me
of my dearly departed
Marianne...
"It might not be my business to pry," she begins, "but
it's not every
day a grown man runs away crying like a baby, so I'm fairly
curious about
your state of mind."
I glance at woman and sigh. "You won't care. Besides,
piling my
troubles onto you won't help you any."
"But it might help you."
It sounds like something she would say, so
brimming with hope and
concern. That kind of heart is rare in these days,
rare enough that a man
would be lucky to even come in contact with one. Am
I so blessed as to see
two infinitely merciful souls? "Are you sure
you aren't Marianne?"
She
rolls her eyes and shakes her head, "Who is this Marianne you keep
referring
to?"
"My love,"
I reply, "She was recently... taken."
"My condolences."
"As well as mine."
Like so, we talk through
day, soaking in the abnormally peaceful
surroundings. Shooting the breeze
- I believe that's what Americans call
it. She asks about this, about
that, about me, about Marianne, about life
in general. Though answers deep
and personal, I feel comfortable around her
and let her see my true self,
the one with the sensitivity and sadness. I
can tell she feels sorry for
me and hates to see my suffering; perhaps she
hates to see it in all human
beings. There's a sense of goodness abounding
in her, a sense of hope in a
world where there is none. In that respect,
she is so much like Marianne,
so happy, joyful, and... and... wonderful.
"You would have liked Marianne," I say while skipping
a rock, "You two
think so much alike."
"And how do you think I
think?"
"I think you
know how I think you think," I wink mischievously, "All
believing
in the world and such. You're an optimist, unafraid to work
toward
changing the world for the better."
She laughs at my comment, laughing like it's the funniest thing
in the
world. "So you think I'm a saint or something?!"
"Something like that."
"My, my, my... people can be so
wrong..."
Thinking
turnabout is fairplay, I flip the question around and ask,
"What kind
of person am I?"
Her eyes
gloss over me, picking apart my every moral fiber, appraising
me like a
general or drill sergeant; I stand tall under her scrutiny, stand
tall
like I have something to prove. Already I consider her an equal though
we've
only know each other for five hours. There's a special quality in
her, one
that invokes trust, friendship, and love.
Absentmindedly, I wonder if she really is an angel, someone
Marianne
sent down from heaven to help me with my wounded heart and
mind.
"You're a good
person," she says after a long silence, "Not many in
this world
have the ability to love and grieve like you. I know you're one
of the few
souls with a heart because of the love you have for Marianne."
Now it's my turn to laugh! If only she
knew... If only she knew...
************
It's funny how things just kinda take off.
This morning I was hell bent
on reliving the life of a crime fighter, but
tonight, I feel like doing
nothing but lounging on a large armchair and
talking...
Plus it's raining
outside, so James' house is more than a comfortable
shelter from the
elements.
Speaking of James,
what an unique character, no? He's mysterious and
dangerous, but at the
same time quite intriguing and passionate. I guess
the best way to
describe him is negatively seductive - he draws you to him
through faults
and weaknesses. Only hours ago did we have our first
exchange, and now,
I'm sitting in his lavish abode, listening to his pains.
Feels like I'm intruding somehow. His love
of thirty years just died
and I'm here looking like I'm swooping in for
his heart. Real smooth
Mina... Real smooth...
As the grandfather clock tolls six, James
gets up from his seat and
stretches. Noticing the time, he offers me his
hand and says, "Would you
like some dinner? I know this nice seafood
place not far from here."
I really shouldn't. I'm intruding as it is and accepting him would
be
leeching off of him. I really shouldn't overstay my welcome.
Besides,
there's work to be done, murders to be solved, and killers to be
brought to
justice. Procrastinating will only lead to more bodies and more
problems.
"Yeah sure.
Thanks, James."
Stupid,
stupid, stupid!!! Maybe I should think before I open my trap
from now on,
or at least keep my hormone induced thoughts in check...
Hormone induced? Did I just say,
"Hormone induced?"
"Hm?"
Oh
great. "Sorry, nevermind."
Shrugging off my Freudian slip, I grab my overcoat and wait for
James
to get an umbrella. "Are we going to walk or drive?"
"Walk," he replies, "It's
very close by and I thought a walk in the
rain would be..."
He blatantly lets the rest of his sentence
taper off, half stopping
himself, half expecting me to finish it for
myself. I decide to let it
slide, letting it mean nothing but that of a suspended
thought. Words mean
nothing unless people assign values to them; his words
are nothing as long
as I don't think about them.
This is but a mere dinner, I tell myself,
a fee for my troubles;
afterall, I did return his wallet, I did comfort
him in his time of need,
and I did accompany him back to his house. This
is a friendly gesture, a
casual thank you for a shred of pity and
patience. I should start taking
life at its face value and stop looking
into deeper meanings; subterfuge
only produces undue head and heart
aches.
What I don't think
cannot hurt me...
Clearing his
throat, James hooks my arm and opens the door. It's
raining outside,
raining hard, so hard in fact it's hard to see. With the
sun set and moon
clouded, the droplets of water turn into black sludge, as
black as the
hollow night. They seem to be products of the dreary
atmosphere, like
projectiles thrown by ungodly creatures to muffle the
senses.
Tonight, there will be more
accidents.
Tonight, people will
cower in their mansions, homes, and sheds, waiting
for liquid death to
pass.
Tonight, all life in this
battle field will drown. The grass will die,
the birds will fall from
their nest, the squirrels will freeze, and the
homeless... the homeless
will drown in their own fluids, drowned from a sea
of uncaring,
unforgiving, and undying peers.
Makes me wonder why I'm out here at all.
"Shall we?" James says, smiling brightly. I
nod.
With the flick of his
wrist, the black umbrella opens and shields us
from the relentless pellets
of water. Suddenly, I can see again, the rain
much less imposing. We walk
slowly, huddled together to keep the warmth
from escaping; it's natural
reaction, nothing more. Indeed I do feel
warmer, much warmer, like I was
standing next to a fire. When I look up, I
see his peaceful face, icy
features of yesterhours melted away, emotional
turmoil all but
disappeared. While his dark trenchcoat, dark eyes, dark
hair, and dark
umbrella blend in with the night, his heart glows with
unheard of passion,
illuminating everything under his protection in
rejuvenating
companionship, friendship, and love.
I should know being the Senshi of Love and all.
He is a fighter this James character. He
picks his battles well and
defends his home till the end. A person like
him is born to do great
things... or terrible things. For all my years of
living, I have only seen
his kind of aura, poise, and demeanor once, that
kind of heart which
pulsates with determination, trust, loyalty, and
innocence. I've seen it
once - seen it in Usagi - but no more.
Now, I see it in James, but only...
only... different, like he had to
work for it.
"Tell me," I whisper, breaking
our comfortable silence, "Why did you
love Marianne?"
Instead of adopting a mournful tone, he
speaks wistfully, happily,
almost as if she were still alive, quietly
listening to our friendly
bantering. "She's the person I want to be
but can't be, you know what I
mean? She's everything I'm not. I can't put
aside my..." He pauses,
undoubtedly to edit some information,
"... my faults - my selfishness, my
greed, my addictions - and see
the world as she does. I want to be able to
be like her because it's much
happier, much more fulfilling. When I walk
into an empty room, I say it's
barren, dull, and boring. When she walks
into an empty room, she says it's
private, soothing, and peaceful. I want
to be like that... but I
can't." He flashes a longing glance my way and
smiles lopsidedly.
"I can't be like that," he repeats, "so I'll settle for
loving
someone who is like that."
"Next best thing, no?"
"Having the best is great, but second isn't bad at
all."
I grin at his past
statement, noticing his progression toward his
previously lofty dream.
"But second," I remind him, "is the first loser."
"Or the second winner," rebuts
James, fully caught on to my subterfuge.
"It's all in
perspective."
... It's all
in perspective...
It's all in
perspective.
How true is that?
One man's fun is another's hell, no use denying it.
For all our greatest moral,
social, and economic accomplishments, we can
never navigate around human
nature, the ignoramus part of us that finds
truth in subjectivity. While a
bum would be perfectly happy in a small
apartment, a rich man would see it
distasteful and filthy. While someone
may think they're helping, they may
not be - history has taught us that
scathing lesson many times, all the
way from the Crusades to the Witch
Trials to the Vietnam War to... to...
the Purging.
I can't think
about it without cringing... but it also reminds me of a
penance I set for
myself just this morning...
"Mina, are you cold? You're shivering."
"It's nothing," I murmur, hiding
my uneasiness by pulling my coat
closer to myself, "I'll live, at
least till dinner is done so I can die on
a full stomach."
Bemused, my newfound friend hugs me
closer. "You would've loved
Marianne. She had a full stock of those
morbid little quips; used them like
they were tattooed on the back of her
hand."
"I am not
morbid!" I playfully fire back.
"Uh-huh," he nods sarcastically, "It's all in
perspective."
"You're
damn right it's all in perspective!"
"Yeah, the right perspective and wrong perspective, i.e.,
mine's being
right and yours being-"
For that, I slyly stick my foot out to trip him, to give him a
face
full of mud water and acid rain. Call me morbid will you...
"Let's see if you still think I'm
morbid after you kiss the pavement."
"Wha? Sorry, I wasn't paying att-"
SPLASH!!!
*******************
Six
months later...
*******************
I'm sure the days go by faster. Isn't it
always the case when you're
having fun? It's another one of life's little
ways to screw you over,
because, as they all say, "Life is bitch.
Then you die."
But I'll
accept it. Time is one of the things I have plenty of. Think
about now
I've earned my right to be a carefree and contented spirit.
As I lay on the bed in my silken
nightgown, sun shimmering in from the
translucent curtains, I breathe a
relaxing breath, one that fills my mind
with anticipation of the day
ahead. Such has become my morning ritual for
the past few months, to wake
up and see how good life can be. I've seen the
underbelly of society, seen
it all from its impoverished multitudes to its
corrupted aristocracy. I've
always thought from a negative viewpoint, from
the bottom of the emotional
hole. I've always been faced with adversity -
broken hearts, broken
families, broken cities, broken promises, broken
friendships - and it
makes me focus on gaining physical, social, and
emotional ground, never
allowing me to enjoy what I have.
I'm beginning to take stock of myself and stop living in the
future
because... because... the future is never certain, no matter how
much I
want it to be.
I'm
living in the now.
I've realized that now is the only time a
person can live.
Call me
selfish. Call me blind. Call me stupid. Call me anything you
wish.
None of it changes the fact: I am
happy.
Brushing off the
dreariness of sleep, I amble downstairs, hoping to get
a cup of hot tea or
coffee, something to wake me up. Before I even sidle
down the last step,
the pungent aroma of French Vanilla assaults my senses,
nearly jump
starting my drowsy mind on smell alone.
James is out of bed, undoubtedly going about his daily
routine.
Actually, his daily routine doesn't consist of much; it stops
when we see
each other. From there, we play each day by ear, succumbing to
every whim
and fancy imaginable by our fluttering hearts.
I hear the clank of a fork and the scooting
of a chair as I enter the
kitchen. "Good morning," James greets,
planting a playful kiss on my cheek.
Already he has dropped everything,
everything from his food to the morning
paper: all of it for me.
Isn't it great to be in love?
We hold each other tighter, savoring in
the warm, cozy, fuzzy feeling
it brings. I sigh contently at the precious
moment, swept away by the
simple yet oddly comforting gesture. "I'd
like to wake up like this
everyday," I quietly murmur, almost in an
utopian daze.
"And so you
shall," he promises, "forever and a day... that is, if
forever
and day isn't too long for you."
"No. It's just right."
We stay like that for an eternity, maybe even two, never
moving, never
tiring; being together is enough to occupy our minds and
bodies.
Yes, love is great; it
makes everything else so much more wonderful!
Look, over at the window! The sun - dull and filtered - shines
as
bright as it did a million years ago. Take a whiff of the kitchen!
The
coffee aroma - excessive and overpowering - calms to a mellow
scent,
filling the room with morning's freshness. And outside! Even the
dew
covering the grass simmers like diamonds - hundreds of thousands
of
majestic, flawless diamonds.
Then, after the steam stops rising from the coffee and the dew
evaporates,
James raises his head and interrupts the romantic silence. "So
what
do you want to do today?"
"Give me a few minutes and I'll tell you."
"You need time to think?"
"No."
"Why then?"
"I'm enjoying this. Don't ruin the
mood."
*************
Karma... I never believed in it. Who in this day and age would
believe
in the ludicrous idea of "What goes around comes
around"? If such was the
case, the entire world be one barren rock,
devoid of all life because of
every living thing's sin: survival.
Read the Bible a few times, in my
infantile years of course, and even
then it didn't make much sense. Some
people - those religious, pious few -
told me that the book boiled down to
"Treat your neighbor as yourself."
Ha! Not very practical advice, no, not even rational.
Still, while impractical, irrational, and
illogical, these ideas are
true. Nothing may make sense, nothing may
resonate with my spiritual
nature, but my rejection does not make them
false.
It is especially hard to
deny when proof of such words drag me to a
screeching halt and stare me in
the face.
As I stand today in
front of Marianne's gravestone, I prepare to close
the first chapter of my
life and begin anew, one with Mina. These past
months have been a
confusing maelstrom, mixed with hearty doses of regret,
happiness, guilt,
innocence, fury, and love. I always thought Marianne
would out live me -
my death, as I envisioned, would be early and unnatural
- so I never
considered what I would do without her.
When she lay dead in my arms, my instincts told me to cry and
weep for
eternity, to hold her memory in my heart like an undying flame,
hoping,
waiting for her soul to find its way back to me. I thought the
reaction
natural, required by some unwritten law. Thirty years of childish
rivalry,
puppy love, dates, arguments, and reunions all disappeared like
wisps of
smoke; my heart shut down then and there, never expecting to turn
back on.
Imagine the guilt I
felt when deadened emotions, locked away, held for
one and only one
special person, rumbled back to life... and for a woman I
had never seen.
I thought it wrong at first, unnatural and sickening. I
ignored those
feelings my heart poured forth and went about my dirty
business of vengeance.
I thought I couldn't love anymore.
But now I realize that love can happen
anywhere, anytime, any place. Am
I being unfaithful? Perhaps. Am I being
selfish? Maybe.
One thing I
cannot deny is life's inherent drive for happiness, for
everything to wrap
up in a neat little package. I loved- No! I still love
Marianne...
That's what drew me to Mina.
Those two, they're so much alike in the
ways they talk, act, think, and
feel; one is synonymous with the other. At
first, Mina peeked my interest
because she, in my mind, WAS Marianne. I
loved Mina because I love
Marianne. The former was my desperate lunge for
whatever pathetic remnants
of old love remained. I took advantage of her,
used her as fuel for my
stubborn mind, used her to reject reality.
She quickly proved to be much more than an
object of remembrance.
From
smile to gait, she is her own person. She lives in the shadow of
none
other: when I realized her worth, I faced reality. She allowed - and
still
allows - me to face the world, the world without Marianne... Only
instead
of facing the world whining like a little baby, waiting for my
beloved to
show up at my side, I stand tall and move on.
She gives me strength. She gives me purpose. In return, I give
her
myself.
It just so
happen she fell in love with me and my faults. I guess I
remind her of
someone too.
Thus, from death
born new life, from sadness rises happiness. Even in
the darkest of times,
life isn't bad; what God takes with his left, he
returns with his right.
Although Marianne lies forever in the cold earth,
her spirit lives on in
my heart, mind, and soul...
...
not to mention in the eyes of her heaven sent angel, Mina.
And now, what I hold in my hand is the
final piece of this vicious
cycle, the thing that started me off on this
voyage of life. Ironic it
should be death, vengeance, but I'm sure God has
a great sense of irony.
Let me read it to you, Marianne. Let me rest your
soul in peace at long
last.
"Dear sir, you are invited to the annual 'Masquerade Charity Ball'
by
the gracious host, Gilbert Ramses. Dress accordingly and appropriately
for
this occasion which will take place blah, blah, blah..."
You get the picture. I was never good with
words.
For you Marianne, a
measure of retribution - I know your death was his
doing, I just know it.
Months I have mulled over the question of who, what,
why, and how: he is
the only suspect. Him and his deadly... deadly
killer... I've asked
everyone, listened to every flapping jaw and moving
lip. I know not what
and how, but who and why are as clear as crystals.
For you Marianne, my beloved. I bid you a
farewell and a peaceful,
restful goodnight, hopefully one less fitful than
ones you've had in this
mortal realm. As to me, the sun is rising: I must
seize the day.
***********
I run as fast and as far as my legs can take me. The mask...
the
terrible, dreadful, inhuman mask finally reared its ugly head today,
its
perch set on the face of James. Months I hear not a peep from that
cold
blooded murderer; months I read not a single snippet of kills or
marks. I
thought he all but forgotten, lost to the injuries I had brought
upon him.
Little did I know I
was sleeping with him.
I...
I... don't know what to say, what to think. One second I was
dressing for
a ball, the next and well, I'm here, sobbing like a kicked
dog. And like a
kicked dog, it hurts. The wound, the memories, the pride -
it hurts so
much I want to lay down and die.
I remember, way, way back when, there was an American movie about
a
rape. The investigator arrested who he thought was the rapist and
asked,
"What's worse than rape?!"
The guy behind the prison bars looked at
his captor with steely, war
hardened eyes and whispered, "When you
find out, you'll know everything,
won't you?"
He eventually did find out what was worse
than rape.
Betrayal.
The only thing worse than being violated
is being violated by someone
you trust... but trust doesn't express the
bond we shared. I loved that
man! Do you hear me?! LOVED, I say! For once
in my life, I found somebody
who would be by my side no matter what. For
once in my life, I found a
constant, someone I could hold on to! For once
in my life, I found someone
who was not just infatuated with me, but who
also took me for who I was!
Do
you have any idea how it feels to live a thousand years, waking to
the
sound of your own breath each and every day? To open your eyes and find
no
one but yourself, to see love but know it not in grasp, to fight and die
for
life but never reap its rewards!!! What did I ever do to deserve such
torture?!
What did I do to be like a horse, baited by a carrot tied to a
stick,
forever seeing but never receiving the prize?!
What did I do to taste what I've protected for generations then
to have
it taken away?
It's cruel... unjust... UNFAIR!
Why?! Why of all the people - the drunks, the crooks, the poor,
the
dumb - did it have to be James?! Why couldn't he at least find the
courage
to show me his dark side?! That way, my dreams would have been
aborted like
unwanted children, uplifted by the root before they could
even see the
light of day! No, he didn't tell; he had to live two lives,
the one of a
lover and the one of a killer! He had to have it all: the
thrill of life
and the chill of death.
He used me, played me as a fool to satisfy some insatiable
drive for
more, more, MORE! I... I...
... I was weak. I am weak.
Above that, I was stupid to believe in love, especially for a
pathetic
sap like me. After all that time, haven't I learned that nothing
turns out
my way? Damn it, I was born to be a defender of justice and I
even fucked
that up!
I
think I need some time, time to myself, time to forget about the rat
races.
You know that feeling, don't you? That
feeling you get when your soul
becomes some sort of black hole, sucking in
every emotion floating out
there until sensory overload?
Yes, that's how I feel. Legs fleeing in
blind terror, hands quivering
with anger, heart arrested by betrayal,
spine stiffened by hate - yes,
that's how I feel. That's all I feel, the
tsunami of love relentlessly
crashing into my useless levies. Every breath
I take sears my lungs and
powers the juggernaut of confusion; I grow
weaker by the second under its
depriving control, weaker like a wounded
murderer.
As I limp away from
this town ready to find a new hole to crawl into, I
just realize how much
we are alike James and I. It is that likeness that
drew us together and it
is that likeness that crushed me.
Two killers...
Two insatiable
drives...
Two stubborn
minds...
Two injured
souls...
Two pairs of soiled
hands...
My, my, strange
bedfellows indeed. We are the same, he and I, and I
hate him for that. How
did I ever love him when I couldn't even love
myself?
The portrait of a killer is like none other painting.
First, you begin with a canvas as
dark as his heart.
Then, without rhyme or reason, you draw a man,
Any man will
do.
How does this man
look? Simple? Ugly? Charming?
Does his eye gleam with feral prowess?
Does his mouth curl like
Achilles' lipless smile?
Do you have a clue?
Strange, my friend, is what the
painting says.
How alone this
bringer of death, to share this perch with none.
Stranger still, my friend, is
how much this man
Resembles you.
**************
Author's
Notes
**************
Recently, I KNOW my writing has gone downhill. If you have any
requests
to make, critiques to add, please mail me. Next installment, I'm
looking for
a return to the first chapter, which is what I consider my
best. Still, I
hope you enjoyed this story; it was a great stress reliever
for me.
-Don.
