The hinges rocketed back and forth, loosening with each rebound. Splinters of wood shed as if skin from where the doorway was being scratched. The expected sound of men hollering ensured his suspicion.
They were here.
Lucas Bevard scrambled across the floor. Any earlier attempt of barricading the entrance was clearly futile. Force was their nature; to theorise they'd leave due to an obstacle was telling of his chances.
Heightening his sense of urgency, Bevard groped within every nook and cranny of his apartment, contorting his body to adventure even the most impractical areas. The bitten stubs of nails jabbed into the crevices in search of a penny, any penny, perhaps a note.
Truthfully, he wasn't without any money. Obscured by his wardrobe, his savings rested in the pockets of his suitcase. Yet, his tragedy and purpose lay with that.
Mary Bevard had been his one blessing in a pattern of misery in the form of a sister. After her passing, she left an aching infection in his flesh. Her existence could not be forgotten or fought off, concluding the simple fact his own dying mission was for her soul to sleep.
However, while Charlie Chaplin evolved to be the face of entertainment, Lucas had dwindled into the shadows. Forced policies disregarded his growing potential in brewery- now his hands grasped among the levers in a Ford factory. Coins fell slowly yet steadily. His sister's funeral was near ready to be paid for.
It wasn't for malicious mens shoes to be polished.
Sweat cascaded down his hairline to the drop of his chin. The apartment had long lost the homely comfort, rather it guaranteed a growing dread each time he was in. Any moment of silence had left him with the same question: when would they come next?
Unable to find spare charge, Lucas ripped at furniture and imposed them against the shaking door. Shortly after, his hurried steps trailed to his bedroom, where he mounted pillows or clothes atop his suitcase to lessen the threat. Any calm demeanour had transitioned to a pumping pulse and tightened throat. If he hadn't retained hope for his sister's death to be respected with services, he'd have slithered his money over to them for another month of day paycheck to paycheck. As tiresome as it was, it was routine at this point.
In fact, Bevard could picture himself balancing on a thinning tightrope, spectating below as men clipped at individual strands until he'd fall. It was his mental timer, until eventually, he'd fall too low to climb back up.
Silence quenched any thoughts and motion. Remaining dust had now fallen off the corners and gathered at the floor. Open eyed, Lucas saw the entirety of his door collapse forwards finally. The hinges had groaned at the impact, for this was their last breath.
Three men stood ominously, illustrating elongated shadows. In a moment of convulsion, Bevard stepped back, aghast. His heel clashed with his other, leading to a overtop of his weight and a delay of his reflexes. The intruders didn't hesitate as their hands entwined in his shirt, yanking him to his feet. Whilst his muscles knotted in a trap of his own fruition, the door was situated back in its frame awkwardly by one of the men not busy manhandling. Like molten metal, his fate was sealed shut.
"Where's the wallet?," a voice demanded.
Colour leached from Lucas's cheeks, leaving only a ghost's complexion behind. After a split second of understanding, roughened palms ruffled through any material on him, often manoeuvring his limbs painfully to reach a pocket. Heaving, Bevard realised this was a two way street: either obey or fight.
He whipped his forearm into one of their necks and angled a strike to the ankle for the other. Freed momentarily, he scrambled to the kitchen counter. His eyes wildly flickered for any sort of knife, but his speed promised a lack of precision.
His brief success was shrivelled by the gun barrel pressed against his forehead by the man who had adjusted the door.
The metal felt cold against his skin.
The one who had him in a situational noose was scarred- an expert of his field. The man merely clicked his tongue, evaluating his victim with only a fleeting aspiration for mercy.
"Search the whole place. Don't count what's owed, take it all."
Subsequently, he paused. His eyes met Bevard's; wrinkling beads fantasising a cadaver. It was an uncanny power to be stuck in that eye contact, rather a forbidding discernment. This man would serve his head on a platter.
The cruel voice returned.
"Beg like a dog or you can fancy yourself something worse than death."
If disgust was a word known as emphatic, it needed something more fierce. It needed to describe Lucas's self loathing as his knees dropped down. It needed to tell of the abhorrence of grovelling and the aftertaste of caressing another man's shoe.
But most of all, it required a full experience for the mockery. The taunt pillaged his humanity, as if he had been a walking skeleton all along. His remaining motivation to not embrace a bullet at this point was only that his sister deserved a funeral. If can't deliver her dignity, may his own be stripped away by the roots.
His fate was ventured to a promise.
The gangsters emerged, clasping the last of his savings. All of those grimy nights and wasted sweats lay sandwiched in a rich man's fingers. Now, it was to be adorned by illegal prowess and bathed in a world where hard work didn't apply. That money had his life stained on there and it was an easy cash grab for someone else.
It meant nothing to them.
Distracted, the man who held the gun focused on their collective resolution for the protection racket. They were free. Lucas could easily guess who organised this. He knew that man was free too.
Taking advantage of this all, he snatched at the gun by his forehead and twisted it to fit in his own palm, with his own means and controls.
He had the power to shoot the men and escape. He had the power wash their blood down his own profit. Yet, Lucas Bevard knew what held himself back.
He was now a dog. He was a domesticated animal, both aimless and hopeless. Like a cruel reminder, his fingers were outnumbered by how many times he'd been walked all over by these people.
May him and his sister lie with dignity in another lifetime. In this world, they marinated in filth.
Befallen in misery, he adjusted the gun, ready to put pressure on the trigger.
The metal felt cold in his mouth.