Due, the Reading
Hockley Arkansas was three things: a librarian, a sharp-shooter, and an asshole.
The key factor here was a late fee. A library book late fee. Two weeks was a hefty fine, three the fine was tripled, and a month....well a month was brute force. In the years following the upheaval of American democracy, individuals like Hockley had been given an interesting new role in society. With ideals of knowledge reigning violently supreme in this newfound dictatorship, positions like scientists, teachers, and techies had been given power. Literally power. In the form of guns. Violence was never encouraged, and needless bloodshed not pitied. Yet idiocracy would not be tolerated. And librarians like Arkansas had duties to fulfill.
Arkansas lined us his crosshairs with a ginger tabby napping inside. Smirking, he wondered aloud “Should I shave off a mustache for Garfield?” Positioning his aim right under the snoozing feline’s nose he chuckled to himself. “He’d be a lil Kitler”
Hockley liked messing with animals. Not in a “hold the puppy underwater childhood psychopath” kinda way. More of a “feed a horse to a cheeseburger cause it’s kind of cannibalism and that’s funny” kinda way.
In his way, Hockley was a trifecta of irony. As the head the head librarian, one might expect a scholarly, sweater-vested church mouse of a man. Yet Hockley donned only the priciest of suits and ties and often peacocked about in a racous manner. As a disciplined marksmen, it would be logical to assume he was a stoic heroic type. Hardly. One of Hockley’s favorite activities was to use his near-military expertise to sneak up on co-workers. At the opportune moment he would lunge at them and yell “BAM!” at the top of his lungs. Often this resulted in screams, outrage, and sometimes even tears, yet all were lost amidst his hyena-like laughter and adamantly sarcastic declarations of “I’m sorry, it’s my new catchphrase!” The only title he held which held no unexpected differences was “asshole.”
Losing patience with the sleepy cat, Hockley laid his rifle aside and unholstered his revolver. Speaking into his transceiver Hockley called back to the library base. “This is Hell Cat reporting to Buttercream Gang, I’m tired of waiting on this goon to show so we’re moving in for close contact.”
An audible sigh was heard on the other end. “Arkansas, let’s just be a little bit patient abou-
“Hell Cat, please. Call me Hell Cat.”
“Alright....Hell Cat. Let’s just be patient. We need to play it safe for now.”
“Patience is for people who don’t mind letting other people take their wife to Outback Steakhouse and then have nasty animal sex while listening to ‘Clocks’ by Coldplay.”
“Look. Arkansas. Just let me run a scan on the guy before you go in. Can you at least do that?”
“Hmm.....Nope. We have a case to solve. I’m gonna Scooby-Doo it.” Arkansas stood, putting in a piece of gum to loudly chomp. He slicked his hair back, smoothed his mustache, and straightened his glasses. He always liked to look good for a nice, bloody retrieval.
As he advanced the walkie buzzed to life again frantically “Arkansas! Retreat! We’ve got a Code 14J! This guy-”
Arkansas squeezed the button as he angrily whispered “What is it with you all and these absurd numerical codes? Just tell me what you mean! Like this: We’ve got a code shut the fuck up!” He then tossed the walkie to the grown and stomped it with his boot.
Taking a step forward, a minute click sounded. Hockley had triggered a trip wire and was abruptly blown to bits.
Back at the Library, the radio went unresponsive. Arkansas wasn’t responding. “Hell Cat! Hell Cat! Do you read? You gotta get out of there! We didn’t even look at the book he checked out!” Before the intern lie the perp’s case file, one left arrogantly unread by Arkansas, the late book titled “Kaboom: A beginner’s guide to homemade explosives.”
The Cat Burglar
*This is from a class assignment in which we had to write a chapter in a novel
My name is Harvey Bander, and I’m going to steal a cheetah. That’s not a codename for some sort of bizarre sports award or a developing government code, but a literal cheetah. Honestly I kinda wished it’d be either of the former options. Somehow a herd of angry football players or flock of government security guards seemed like a better option at the moment. I’m not really worried of getting a few black eyes or punches to the belly; I like to think my beer gut can serve as a shield in the case of a rough tumble. You might be thinking me a big animal right’s activist, a real knight in furry armor, but I’d hate to lie to you. Don’t get me wrong, I love a big cat as much as the next guy, but I’m not really the type to step in the line of fire for an animal that would likely bite face off if the circumstances fancied it. No, like most batshit crazy, poorly planned ideas, I was doing this for a girl.
I’ll just go ahead and tell it straight, this isn’t some epic love story. It’s not even boy meets girl and they get a little warm in the sack. For that to happen, the boy technically has to meet the girl. We’re not exactly in the same social circles. It’s not quite beauty and the beast, more like trapeze artist and the shit shoveler. That’s my gig at this beloved circus. If you ever need a man of slightly low to mediocre strength to wield his mighty shovel against some feces, I’m your guy. I’d only been here at Howard’s Hippodrome for about a month before I ever laid eyes on her. She was small, probably barely reaching five feet.Trapeze artists are about as light and nimble as they come, and they gotta be; flipping and twirling 40 feet off the ground doesn’t bode well if you’re on the plumper side of things. Anyway one night I get all my job duties done pretty early and ended up catching some of a show. That’s where she first got my got my attention, soaring through the air like some sort of ethereal ballerina. I’m gonna ask that you hold off from vomiting while I pour a few gallons of this lovey-dove tree sap down your throat. She caught my eye and something in my chest caught on fire. It was like that feeling where you suddenly recall where you put your car keys or remember the name of that actor that’s been on the tip of your tongue all day. I just sorta knew. Sometimes life grabs you by the gruff or your neck and shakes a new sort of sense into you. Her name was Beth, and I think I was honestly smitten.
Truth be told it was hard for me to get to know the people here. That was mostly my fault, I think. Let me just tell you about this cast of assholes. Among these theatricals were Beth, and her “brother” Jimmy. They weren’t really related, I guess it just seemed a better shtick on the posters. Still, Jimmy and Beth weren’t much on for each other, as Jimmy was going steady with the lion tamer, Ricardo. These three, along with a handful of elephant rider blondies with winning smiles and winning racks, and a couple of cocky, cigar smoking motorcycle stunt riders made up the spotlight harem that are “glamours.” Oh, and how could I forget Jumbog. Our resident strongman, black leotard and burly beard in tow, was every bit as brutish and ogre-like as you’d imagine. He often simply went by his aforementioned stage name, hence my ignorance to his true titles. The head of this charismatic cast and the owner of our beloved traveling circus was Howard Keamy. King of the tent, the top-hat clad loudmouth was raucous, foul-mouthed, and often reeked of whiskey. The audience adored him. A loud black man from New York City, Howard rallied the cheering crowds four nights a week as an over-the-top salesman of the art of performance.
I landed the job after high school opting not to go to college. I guess you could honestly say I’m something of a genius, but I don’t like to brag about that. Well, not a genius per se, but let’s just say I find excelling at almost anything pretty easy. I mean, I caught on to shoveling in no time. Only took me a week to roll my first joint. Plus, how many people can you name that know the title of every single episode of Lost? Anyway, we genius types are rebels, you know? We aren’t confined the the chains of a working man. I’d find my fortune one day, that’s for sure. For now it was an adventurer’s life for me. So far I’d dabbled in gas stationry as an attendant, and then I upgraded to the circus. That’s about it so far, but I’m going places soon. I can feel it. Ever since I was young I’d wanted something more. Something bigger. A real adventure. And so I decided to have one. Life is just a series of opportunities, some good, some bad. Joining the circus had been alright; falling into infatuation felt better, but something told me that stealing this cheetah was going to be the best one I’d taken in a long time.
I guess you’re probably wondering how this kitty factors into my little crush. Well, I’m the shit shoveler, and as such I live by those who shit. As adorable as it sounds, we literally live in a giant tent almost all year long. We also call women ‘dames’ and have to smuggle alcohol because of the prohibition. Just kidding. Anyway, the we’re separated is via a village of smaller tents behind the big one, and I’m one of two that has a spot in the animal tent. Me and Nestor. He’s the main handler, a gruff russian man, and serves as my direct supervisor. Generally my orders were given in brief barks dripping in a heavy accent. “You clean cages, good?” and “Need more hay, good?” He always ended his requests with “good?” Maybe he thought he needed to reassure me that what I was doing wasn’t completely demeaning in every way. Still, it’s kinda cool to go chill with the animals. Smoke some weed. Jam to some tunes. They all seem pretty laid back at the end of the night and since I’m one of a handful that gets access to the tent, I get to pretend I’m a real sultan. Anyway, it’s not often there are unexpected visitors in the animal tent, so I was suspicious when I heard the main flap unzip. Nestor was snoring a symphony a few spaces down, and I couldn’t think of a reason for an appearance from Howard. Plus, he always reeked of cigar smoke, and I wasn’t getting a whiff of anything. Creeping down the hall in my british striped pajamas, I felt a little nervous. Hopefully it was just some kids, but I had a thick copy of the King James Bible just in case things went awry. Peeking around the corner, all I saw were shadows. Most of the animals were down for the count, save the lions that usually paced throughout the night. Then a light came on at the very end of the tent, right by our resident Cheetah. Midway through my creep, God’s holy word brandished before me, I suddenly froze. My chest caught on fire again. It was Beth.
The book literally just fell from my hands and made an audible thud. On my toe. I couldn’t help but hiss an audible “Goddammit!” I’m sure there’s some sort of blasphemous joke in all of this, but I couldn’t think of it. I was too busy dancing on one foot, slowly seething through my teeth of the absolute agony. I looked up to see Beth had advanced away from the Cheetah and was making her way back to the exit. Considering I’d only gotten the chance to speak to her...never, I knew I needed to slow her roll.
“Wait wait! Hold on! It’s Beth, right?”
She stopped, slowly turning to face my pudgy form. I ran my fingers nervously through my strange white guy afro. She seemed a bit speechless, but I knew I had to start a conversation somehow. From what I can only imagine to be the most basic and reactionary part of my mind, I simply uttered.
“So....wanna smoke some weed?”
Eyebrows furrowing, Beth slowly shook her head.
“Um....uh....no thanks,” she said
I chuckled in panic.
“Well, yeah, duh! That’s good, because it’s illegal! I was totally jonesing you. I mean joshing. I was kidding. Yeah if you’d said yeah I would have totally called the police on you.”
The plane had hit the water. The wrong wire had been cut. New York city had been leveled. I was a black hole of awkward. I could feel myself imploding.
Beth simply starred for a moment, then spoke once more. “I should really just go. Yeah? I mean, as long as it’s no problem I was here. That’s not a big deal or anything, right?”
“Here? Yeah, totally fine! Who’s gonna get you in trouble, the animal police?” At this I chuckled. Or rather, I laughed maniacally. The pit I’d dug myself into was getting hot at the bottom as I reached the magma of the earth’s core.
“Okay. Well good. See ya then!” Through her terror she forced a smile, then quickly turned.
It was over. I’d ruined it. Or had I? Suddenly the fire burned in me again, right as she reached the walkway. “So you like cheetahs?”
Beth stopped nervously crossing her arms.
“Uhh....yeah. They’re pretty cool.”
“Well I could.....I could let you see her if you want to. I mean I could let you actually pet her. I have the keys!”
Her eyes narrowed. She seemed to be weighing the odds. Would she simply go back to bed scott free or stick around with this crazy bastard? Taking a few steps forward, it seemed she made her choice. I quickly ran to get my keys and we made our way toward the opposite end of the tent.
The resident cheetah was a female named Kwabina. I’m sure that’s swahili or something and has a grand meaning to it, but I wasn’t aware of it. Anyway, Kwabina is mostly gentle. Her specialty is doing various tricks of agility like jumping through narrow hoops. She’d been hand raised since birth, so rarely showed aggression. Still, we weren’t unchaining her. Just taking a step in the cage. As we approached, Kwabina sat calmly starring at us. She cocked her head slightly at Beth, likely surprised at a new human’s scent entering her cage. I bowed slightly and extended my arm, inviting Beth to move forward. For a moment she just stood, then slowly she took a step forward. Then another. Then another. She stuck out her hand, an instant no-no. I should have immediately intervened. Kwabina may have been somewhat domesticated, but she was still a fucking cheetah. I jolted to stop Beth, but it was like I’d hit an invisible barrier. The fire was raging in my chest, and I felt my muscles lock up. Beth took another step then froze. She’d hit the barrier too. Everything was still, and then the cheetah rose. Kwabina gingerly walked forward, sniffed Beth’s hand, and lowered her head. Beth gently lowered her palm to rest on the big cat’s head, and the two simply stood there. And then Kwabina purred. The cheetah purred.
Kwabina seemed to relish the sensation for no more than ten second, then abruptly turned and laid down in the corner. The wall seemed to fall, and the fire went out. Beth loudly exhaled, exhilaration in her breath. She turned to me with wide eyes. Quietly I asked “So are you a Jedi? Cause that was fucking weird.”
“You felt it too, then,” Beth asked.
“You mean the magic forcefield chest on fire thing? Yeah, I felt it.”
Beth smiled softly, looking at Kwabina who was now curled against the bars of her cage.
“Well, I guess I really should head back. I’m not sure I really caught your name.”
The awkward rushed back, but I only had to say my name so I was good.
“I’m Harvey. Harvey Bander.”
“Alright Harvey Bander. I’m Beth Gillooly. And I really appreciate you letting me in here.”
All I could do was smile. Smile and shrug. She turned to go, smiled, and wished me a good night. I locked up, went to my room and put on my coat. It was time for a damn cigarette. Trying to process what just happened, I took off walking. The circus moved once every two weeks, but I was trying to relish this location. Often we set up at barren concrete strips in less than savory city districts, so it was a pleasant escape to see rolling hills or an open field. Currently we were positioned adjacent to a forest. I lit up and inhaled deeply, the cigarette tip a star in the darkness. Exhaling under the moonlight, I couldn’t tell the difference between smoke or my own breath. It was freezing. But I needed to be out here. What the hell had just happened? This felt like one of those moments in life, one that deserved it’s own chapter in the book of my life. Maybe....maybe this was some sort of catalyst for change. Maybe my adventure was about to begin. The spark that hit the fuze. Or maybe I’d just been smoking too much weed lately.
As I paced the tree line, something caught my ear. I heard muffled voices talking hurriedly nearby. Normally I try to mind my own business, but this was strange. People in the woods at this hour? The tone of the conversation seemed intense. I figured a little eavesdropping wouldn’t hurt. Creeping along quietly, making sure the wet grass didn’t squeak under my boots, I followed the voices closer until I found the source. About ten feet away I saw three figured silhouettes illuminated by the glow of an electric lantern. It seemed they were having an argument.
“I’m telling ya, I ain’t paying no five grand for that cat,” a man angrily remarked. He had a slight southern accent, although he wasn’t anyone I knew.
“Alright! That’s just fine with me, my friend! You just go on and hurry your little pale ass back on down to Kentucky where all your cousins be waiting for ya!” That was Howard. I recognized his raspy smoker’s voice and trademark northern sass.
“This cat is good. Price we ask for is good. You pay us, you take cat, it will be good.” Russian as could be. Nestor. I guessing good was one of the few English adjectives he actually knew.
“Now, look. I ain’t trying to start a quarrel with y’all. My employer is a woman of fine tastes, and with those tastes comes a rather deep pocketbook. But she hired me for a reason, and I’m to be as frugal as I can be. I’m willing to raise my price to three, but five is out of the question,” the mystery man said.
“Alright, well let me just lay it out for ya. We are one of the few family owned circuses in all of America, alright? Most every other big cat you’re gonna come across is gonna be in a zoo, a conservation, or a part of that Barnum and Bailey bullshit. Where else you gonna find a cheetah, man? I’m asking price for insurance sake! We gotta cover our asses! Cause if this shit gets out, they’ll shut us down, man. We can’t be having everyone find out we sold that cheetah and let you skin her. It’s a serious issue. So we ask a serious price.”
“I guess there are certain priorities that I had overlooked.” The southern man paused. “And with that in mind, the five thousand price tag isn’t that out of the question. I reckon we got a deal.”
Howard coughed his barkish laugh. “That’s what I like to hear, baby!” Hands were clasped. A suitcase passed. “Alright, we gotta make this quiet. You get your transportation tomorrow and meet me here tomorrow around ten. We’ll put her down for ya. Tomorrow, right after the show.”
“Yes. Tomorrow, good,” Nestor chuckled.
Those bastards were going to kill the cheetah. I’m not a huge cat enthusiast or anything, but considering what had just happened the idea seemed And Howard Keamy was selling her life and hide for less than the cost of a Chevy Impalla. I had to call the cops. Let someone know. It’s just an animal, yeah, but...it was more than that. And completely innocent. Maybe I could....no. Wait. Who the hell would believe me? This was a pretty shady encounter, but I had no proof. No idea of what the buyer even looked like. Plus, Howard was a reputable businessman and a crowd favorite. The guy could probably shoot a deputy and talk his way out of it. No, nobody would believe me. I had no solid friends, no connections. Beth might be helpful but she barely knew me. I mean, maybe I’d get a few people on cheetah watch on a few weeks, but it wouldn’t do much. I’d be fired, and the cheetah would eventually turn up dead. No, this was all on me. This was the spark I’d been waiting for, the next step on my road. I had to steal the Cheetah.
The Visitor's Song
I'd always hoped the sky would smile at me the day I died. A violet haze with hues of gold and parting clouds to usher in my eternal epilogue. Maybe I'd smile back. Maybe I'd remember all my favorite melodies, and maybe I'd know just the right thing to say before that final potent exhale. The scene before me was an eerie gray, waves kissing my gaelic shore, an angry storm roaring closer and closer. The long trudge down the shore had left a crimson trail, each generous pour a testament to every agonizing step. The bullet hole in my side was all but numb, leaving my writing arm in piss-poor condition. Life has a way of giving us too many choices when we'd rather just be given a solid answer, and between the pistol, flask, and pen, I'd chosen the latter. Shakily, my sloppy penmanship racing my pulse, I struggled to bleed my final words to the stained parchment.
A new ache was mounting inside. Writer's block. Here, now, at the end of all my days, when every second's worth it's weight in gold, I get writer's block. Goddamn.
Simon purred loudly next to me, his eyes half-mast. This feline contentment was comforting, and I was happy to have a friend at the end. He must have followed me in my frantic flee from home, a sprint down the coast that quickly weakened to an exhaustive lumber. I was lucky to have missed the initial iron cascade as I'd ducked out the back, but the game of bullets is one rarely won. It was a relief to know that this lilac-coated fold might find his way to new adventures once we parted ways. Tabula Rasa, I'd found, was a gift that's rarely ever fully received. I'd tried my blank slate, but you never fully escape. The pursuit is constant, whether it be from vengeful marksmen or the dreams of those I'd visited.
They'd hunted me for decades, their veracity never dwindling despite my best efforts to escape my former life. I'd become a legend in their eyes, something of a boogeyman among the highlands, assigning me a nickname to match their childlike fears. If they only knew. My blade was now a rusted relic, not having tasted blood in more years than I could count. The trademark beard, once black as oil, was now an icy white. The years had taken much from me, and my eyes had seen far too many winters.
I do not blame this man, the one who shot me down. I will die here on this rocky coast. No one will hold me. No one will sing me to sleep. I do not blame the world for this. After all, who could pity the man who'd taken the lives of countless others? Who would miss the Celtic Cut-Throat?
This name was but one of many. Childish, admittedly, although cut-throat was certainly the catchiest of them. The butcher; this one I found tired and cliche and didn't particularly appreciate being associated with a bloated cutter of meats. Laughing Jack; an interesting concept, although entirely inaccurate, as I had never laughed during my killings and no part of my name even started with a 'J'. The Coal-Eyed Killer; while a part of me appreciates this silly, near demonic sentiment, glowing red eyes seem a bit far-fetched. My personal favorite was 'The Visitor'. This was perhaps the most accurate and the most poignant of the lot. I had visited, sometimes talking with my victims for hours, even accepting home cooked meals before committing my heinous crimes. Some may think me cruel, playing with my food before a bloody consumption, but I have no time for cruelty. These crimes were, in many ways, not of my own volition, yet I knew they were not permissible. I visited with these victims for hours on end to make myself know their face. Know the exact color of their eyes, the way they smiled at a my clever remarks, how their voices might crack when we would sing in false merriment. I needed to remember, because I needed to hurt. I wanted to feel the full weight of what I'd done. To take a life it to snuff out a delicate, dancing flame, one that burns so brightly in the dark. No man deserves solace in the destruction of something beautiful.
I used to sing. Years before the bitter whiskey and countless cigarettes, I was capable of a high falsetto. Father would set me on his knee as my family would gather round our cramped cottage, candle-light illuminating each smiling face. "I've been a wild rover for many a year, and I spent all my money on whiskey and beer," we'd sing, slapping the table and clapping our hands in time. "And now I'm returning with gold in great store, and I never will play the wild rover no more." As time would pass, it would deepen to a raspy, barkish voice, yet I could still hit the high notes on occasion. Perhaps a diet of milk and church hymns might have given the proper nourishment, as I often find myself just slightly off-key. "I'll go home to my parents, confess what I've done I'll go home to my parents, confess what I've done, And I'll ask them to pardon their prodigal son." In the coming years, the raucous, rum induced chanting of my fellow sailors would return to similar hymns, yet it was in the black of night that I would truly sing, softly at least. "And if they caress me as ofttimes before Sure I never will play the wild rover no more." I suppose songs get truer the longer we sing them. Or so we'd hope.
There would be no singing now. My labored breathing was pronounced, each shuddering inhale so precious now. I'd wasted far too many. The leather bound journal lie listless in my lap, waiting on my words. I feared they would not come. Our words define who we are, we must simply choose the ones we speak. Some may toss them aside to tumble aimlessly in the breeze, although this is not wise, for they are everything. Our words sink ships. They end empires. Lengthen lives. I had always been careful to give a kind word as my victims finally passed, their gurgling ceasing, their eyes locking onto mine for only a moment. "You lived well," I'd promised each of them, assuring their legacies. So many words given, yet now I received none.
The tide was coming in. The waves now lapped and foamed at my ankles, beckoning me come closer. No longer a boy, I'd realized that there was nothing for me in the village of cork, and the sailing the merchant ships was as good a route as any. Aboard the Aideen, I quickly ascended to the rank of boatswain, tending over the other able-bodied seamen as they scrubbed, hitched, and knotted. I began with a clean face, but the years passing left me a grizzled man, perhaps a mark of character. Here, I learned of new songs and far away places, each new horizon a new story to tell. I rarely missed home for I felt at home. The creak of the ship, the sting of salt, the endless expanse of water. Often the stars would look down, and often I would sing to them. The stars were hidden now, black clouds muffling their gaze. Still, the waves continued, nearly in tune with my slowing heartbeat. They were calling me home.
It was many years later that I met Captain Malachi. My back had broadened, muscles hardened, I was now a man that might perhaps be feared for his size, although I was always certain to dispel this by keeping kindness in my eyes. Malachi's eyes were not kind, although I cannot say they were malevolent either. A bright hazel, nearly gold, with something curious in their glint. For a time, I felt these there was something of grace in them, but now I am sure I was mistaken. If anything, it was the beckoning shine of sin. I met this man at a seaside pub in the village I'd found work. As a blacksmith's assistant, I'd pressed iron, forged blades, and become handy with quite knife. "A worker's hands," he'd initially remarked, quickly sparking a conversation that went until the dawn. His own hands, I'd noticed were spider-webbed with designs in ink, tattoos covering up to the exposed parts of his chest and neck. This man was a pirate. Not just a pirate, but a pirate captain, in need of new members for his crew.I'd initially felt apprehensive. What goodness was there to be found in pillaging and terror? Malachi was quick to dispel these notions, revealing a code of honor. "It's following our calling," he'd sworn ,"that voice inside that pulls us all to something we know not. Water for a dry tongue. We're quenching our thirst."
Years would pass with Malachi and his motley crew. This was a new shade of life, one that filled me with both guilt and exhilaration. We would commandeer the vessels of our choice, raiding small villages that stood little chance against our nautical might. Threats and riches were abundant, yet we never killed. Malachi was a master of his craft, his malice unparalleled. Those golden eyes unblinking, he seemed a predator to many, and they would cower at his disturbingly calm demeanor. For a time, I was wrought with guilt, but it soon gave way to the pounding pulse, the sinister glee of force and theft. Letting loose to our darkest desires will eventually feel as though we've found a hidden level of happiness, although I realize now that this is a folly. The happiness found is hollow, and it will betray you. I'd thought myself one caught in momentum, but know it now to be a spiral.
One calm night, raiding a small town near Carragaholt, we'd found ourselves particularly drunk and raucous. Citizens in bed attire, lined up on their knees, heads hung in shame. Some were crying, although I cared not: I was far too drunk, my gruff speech slurring as I paced the line like a military captain. We'd all but finished loading our newfound treasure, yet I noticed Malachi was nowhere to be seen. This was odd, as he usually gave a mockingly heartfelt speech before our departure. I ventured up the cobblestone path through the empty village in his pursuit. Perhaps he'd found something particularly heavy and needed a second pair of hands.
It was a harsh, hurried whisper that caught my ear. I slowed my gait, creeping silently in the shadows. "You come to our homes, steal our possessions," someone seethed. Closer, I crept, the voice just round the corner. Taking a quick peek I saw it was a young man, his musket aimed directly at Malachi. He was trembling, perhaps in terror, perhaps in rage. "But no more. The infamous captain Malachi will have his justice this night." That's when those golden eyes caught mine. Unnaturally calm, almost smiling, they seemed to speak in a voice of their own. "You know what to do. It's easy. Do it. Do it now." It was nearly hypnotic, and quite suddenly I realized my blade was now brandished. I paused, not sure what to do. I couldn't kill this boy who was so rightfully defending his home, yet I could not let him kill my captain. I was unable to break gaze with those shining terrors, and they silently persisted. "Now."
Decisions are made in an instant, and we must forever live with our choice. I'd made mine. Abruptly I walked quite forward, putting my hand firmly on the boy's left shoulder. He yelped, quickly turning, but to no avail. My blade slid into his soft skin, and thick, hot blood spurted from his neck. His eyes wide with terror, mouth agape, instinct desperately searching for ways to keep fighting. Searching for a way to stay alive. I gently lowered him, and his eyes seemed to search desperately. For a moment, his settled on mine, then seemed to look past. I felt Malachi's hand on my shoulder, and slowly looking up I saw his eyes beaming. Softly he whispered, "quenching our thirst."
Things were never the same. Malachi's regime became far more ruthless and violent. His generally calm demeanor had turned nearly manic at time, his eyes sometimes burned with tints of crimson. While others would rape and slaughter to their heart's content, I was a silent killer. Gone was the rush. Gone were the songs. It was nothing more than a blade. A terror. Eventually, my tactics evolved. As the stakes rose, so did my methods. Malachi made me an assassin of sorts, my false charm a lure to unsuspecting innocents. Many may think themselves above what I'd done, yet they cannot fully speak to this until they've lived it. Sometimes, caught in a haze, we simply find ourselves many years later, a shade of the person we once were. Of this I will say there is a hope, for a spiral can only go on for so long. We either change or we die.
It ended with a final kill. I rapped quietly on Malachi's cabin door one night, a false inquiry to gain admittance. Once in the room, I expected a dramatic scene to take place. Perhaps a lengthy fight, maybe a potent speech. Still, the words did not come. Nor did they need to. I simply starred in silence for a moment, perhaps two, and then I cut him. He tried to call out, only a horrid, bubbling moan. I let him drop of his own accord, standing over him. A black puddle formed around him, and I watched until his golden light went out.
Now, his very son my murderer, I remember. What I did to Malachi was not a justice, merely a public service. I was just as guilty. Perhaps there was something truly special about him that could get under the skin, wrap tight around the veins, and take hold. Still, in the end, we make our own choices. And now I only had one left.
My body was almost completely numb. Drops of rain now dance down my face. If I was to have any last words, it was now or never. I now knew the ache inside was not a block, but a desperation. A final hope for grace. Perhaps a redemption in the verse. The audacity, a bloated butcher hoping for forgiveness. Yet, perhaps I wouldn't die this way. Perhaps I could die the boy that used to sing. Perhaps I'd die the hard-working sailor. We do not live our lives as one linear man, but several, each life comes and goes in the telling. My soul was stained, but not beyond saving. I only now wished for a kind word, some validation. I had hoped the sky would smile, yet it would not. So if I'd not receive a smile I'd have to create my own.
I knew now, and with every ounce of focus I had left, quickly scribbled on the parchment. My mouth tightened deliberately, the corners turning upwards. I looked to the sky above. I could no longer feel my breathing, no longer sure I was still a living man. Then I saw it. My searching eyes found what they'd been looking for.
Captain Malachi's only son trudged down the shore, the rain pouring in quarts. A figure loomed in the distance, the body of his father's killer. He walked slowly, cautiously, not sure if the old man had any fight left in him. As he got closer, he saw the figure to be white as milk, neck craned back, eyes wide in death. The icy fingers clutched a small bit of paper, torn from a leather bound journal. Unfolding the crumpled wad, he saw a single line, however the smudge of tide and rainwater rendered it unintelligible. Discarding this, he turned, leaving it to be carried out by the foamy waves. Above, the clouds parted slightly, a soft pink shining in the twilight.
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