Part Two: Father, why have you forsaken me.
I had her now, controlled my daughter's murderer, with a thumb where her eye used to be. Her face was a bloody mess, first getting acquainted with my fist, then just my thumb. I wouldn't let go, hell, I wanted some answers.
"Who sent you?" I asked, my words hitting her like a stampede of goats.
"Bastard. I'll kill you, you bastard, like I killed your little brat," she smirked, half my hand covering her face, blood covering the other half.
"Fine. You just had to make it harder on yourself, didn't you?" I replied. And what I did next felt oh-so-goddamn-good. My hand, her head a ball in it, slammed her, temple first, into Miki's wall, leaving a splash-patterned coloring of blood on the wall, rippling with the new crack.
"Aagh, that's all you've got, old man?" she teased, her blood bubbling audibly from her lips. What a tough bitch. I was going to enjoy this. I had her head in my left hand, and both her arms in my right.
I dragged her to the kitchen. A spare tablecloth went around her body, I tied in so she looked like a mummy from under her shoulders. The green tablecloth went around, around, wrapping around her hands behind her back, covering her breasts, legs, and ass. To me, she looked like a living punching bag. I knotted it and let my fist fly to her again, this time it felt a lot better. She slammed on the floor, and spat out blood.
I crouched just in front of her face, I was getting tired. Sixty-three year olds weren't made for this kind of horseplay. "Just tell me who. You'll live," I sighed, and for a split second meaning it. "Just a name. Who the hell's 'A'?"
More spitting of blood. "Not in this life, bastard."
I rolled my eyes, and got up. I scanned the kitchen for an instrument of pain. The knife I used for breakfast... too small. The plate with apples and cheese... too worthy to be broken. The table. Aha.
I pulled the table over her. She was shadowed by the table now. I picked up the plate and Miki's milk, moved them to the counter. I asked her for a name one more time, followed by another rebellious denial. I smiled as I lifted the edge of the table opposite her head, and carefully placed the lowering edge on her neck. Then I balanced the table in a way that it rested on her throat, and its two legs that lay almost parallel to the kitchen floor.
"Who?" I said, almost wanting her not to answer.
She cussed at me.
I picked up a chair, and slammed it on the high edge of the table. The energy from the chair traveled through the table's edge, flowed down the tabletop, and ended with the full force falling on her throat. She looked like a geyser of red blood.
She coughed, and couldn't stop coughing. "Adrea," she managed to say, in between horrified coughs. I couldn't imagine what 'pain in the neck' she must be going through right now.
"Adrea? The priest?" I asked. What the hell.
Coughing. "Rubalkubara. He gave me a million for some of your daughter's blood, and yours," her reply was more like a wheeze, but it was cystal clear to me.
Adrea Rubalkubara. Love, "A". Sorry, father, but I have sinned.
What the hell, I thought again. A high priest of Prontera, sending out assasins to little girls. He must've forgotten I was an ex-knight. I knew what war meant. He didn't. All he knew was peace, love, the Bible.
"You'd better be telling the truth, assasin," I told her, and lifted the table from her throat.
"I am," she said, and I believed her. She wouldn't lie in between coughs like that. She'd be as honest as God himself.
"Good," I replied, "because I don't want you to go to hell with a stupid lie."
Her horrified eye stared at me as I knelt over her, with a knife. A muffled scream stabbed at the air like little knives, as I used a buther's knife on her neck. Hell, if I wanted a meeting with Rubalkubara, I needed an invitation. Her head was as good as any.