The Magnetism of Being Fractured

by poeticsinema

You don't see Alejandro live his life. You can't tell apart the ruse between the human and the wolf. But beneath it all - the violence, his rage, and his vengeance, there are parts from his past that still resides within him. In the privacy of his own company, there are parts that he allows himself to recognise.

1. A favourite meal

He didn't wake up this morning hoping a white shirt would undo the atrocities he'd committed. It was linen, draped over his aging body like a shroud. Death had always been an elusive neighbour. Always looming, lumbering between his periphery, but never inviting him in.

The street lights create shadows in the wake of his stride. It is in his code to never linger in the same place for too long. He doesn't have a favourite meal. Nor a preferred place for coffee, or a watering hole to drown in his poison. He'd be easy to shop for at Christmas.

Standing at the punch table, swallowing punch

Can't pay attention to the sound of anyone

The bell chimes, denoting his entrance. The music decorating the background of the bakery continues in a low timbre. For such a low baritone, it is uncharacteristically upbeat. This place is two blocks from his apartment. He'd come in once, maybe twice, for coffee. He heads to the counter, greeted by a warm smile and a What can I get you?

There are eyes that follow him.

He has gotten used to looking over his shoulder. It was Death teasing him, he has come to reconcile. Sometimes in mere hints, but other times elaborate. He'd come close once at coming to greet his enigmatic neighbour. A collection of sand and dust encroaching his lungs, and the beauty of darkness surrounding him. His bones had been shattered beneath his sagging skin. Penance for his deeds.

He remembers banging violently at Death's door - thumping, begging, crying. Take me in, there is a desperation in the howl of this broken man, there is nothing left for me here. He weeps, first beneath the cold of the desert winds, and then through its scorching heat - in, and out, and in again into consciousness.

But Death wasn't kind, nor was he forgiving. Death looks down on the beggar's worn hands, sees the blood of his wife, his child, and his rage. Fingers, ones that had once held the gentle hands of his daughter's, that welcomed the loving embrace of his wife - are only stained by the residue of the dead. Too dark, Death said from the other side, too dirty.

Consciousness, although unwelcomed, drove him from death's door to a town, and then the city. Patched up, restored. Back where he came from.

He doesn't stay in a place for too long, but he returns anyway. Where the dust has collected in the barren apartment. Where the shelves have been decorated with a collection of sorrows - a fresh instalment for the remainder of his nights. He takes his sleep on the leather couch that night - the very one Graver had sat on to unleash the beast. He has never used the bed.

Despite the eyes, he sits in the window that stares out onto the street. Wolves down his cinnamon roll in under a second. The juxtaposition of a killer and his bun. He drowns the sweet that is sticking to his teeth with coffee. Black. No sugar.

The night is suddenly cold when he steps out. The sheen of his wedding band catches the light of the street lamp. He clicks the plastic lighter to warm his worn out soul. Inhales.

The chatter begins to dim as he strolls back to his apartment.

What he's got is half a wish granted. That even though he is not dead, it has become a fact to the world that he is. Erased. Cleaned. There were people high up in the arrogance of this broken bureaucracy that could validate this. The confirmation of his departure.

Alejandro Gillick does not need a different face. He does not need a different name. A man, once a wolf in the land of wolves is now a ghost. Merely lingering in the periphery of the living.

He takes his sleep on the leather couch again.