A Story

[Lamora]

I knew her. Had seen her cloudy unfocused image in a dream, dulled and dimmed by death. Had felt myself popped like a bladder, the inky syrup that fills us torrenting out eager at the chance of escape. I remembered her dark eyes, remembered falling into them. Lost. Do you find that strange? Do think me a liar? Mad? Well, I might say the same were I you. Might say the same of you, in fact. To walk so boldly, blind to the great strands that twist us between fingertips like the rolling of a cigarette. I do commend you on your courage, however, for I do not have it. Believe it fantasy, if it helps, the best tales are often ones built upon it. Crafted sturdy upon fickle foundations of lies. Well…back to the story.

She was dull there but here she reminded me of a fading fire, still desperately clinging to life. Her hair the color of dying embers, her eyes coal, her skin the ash left behind. She was sitting curled up outside a hovel, ramshackly built of loose boards and moldy carpets. A common sight within the camps. She wore a black dress of tattered linens that hung loosely from her small form. She was a woman of an age I could not determine from where we hid, crouched low behind a stack of broken crates. They smelled of fish, I remember…but that’s not important.

“Dat’ her?” Derven began, expectance in his tone.

“I don’t know.” I replied after a moment, a lie.

I suppose I forgot to mention this was no chance meeting, nor one spurred by a passing dream. It was a ‘task’ as they were called. This task was to enact vengeance upon this woman for the death of a man who bore the same marks as Derven did, as I did. As I do. We were not told why at the time, we were never told why in truth. Just a name, a place, a description. It was only later the reason was revealed to me, through long conversation and pleasant company but…but that’s another story. Let us not stray too far from the rails.

“Well…ye’ gon’ do it?” Derven asked, looking at me.

“Yes.” I replied again, another lie though I did not know it at the time.

I realize I should tell you who Derven is, though he is of little significance, a passing character, really. Dead now, I do not like to remember but for the sake of the telling, I shall endeavor to. He wore a brown-tattered hard-used frock coat kept open to reveal his muscled chest and a pair of tight riding trousers. A small man, golden locks of hair crowning his head, frizzed by the humidity of the spring rains, chopped short on the sides, and kept long upon the crest. It reminded me of a mushroom, it was supposedly a style from his homeland somewhere within the midlands. He claimed it was quite fashionable there but I did not believe him, how could something so silly be? He had a square face, a wide jaw, a nose pushed up like a pig’s, and tiny bead-like eyes, the most striking shade of green. There he is, do see him? Good.

“A mouse.” I said after a long moment, a thought pressing to my lips without the hindrance of sense.

“Fookin’ nut.” Derven exclaimed, annoyed. He did not like me, I knew. Thought me simple and told me such in passing. I would tell myself I did not care but that was a lie. The doubts weighed upon me and pulled at my mind. I do not know why I tell you this but it feels as though it is important. That I need to tell you. Perhaps I still hold now the same doubts as then, the dire uncertainties. Or perhaps I wish for your sympathy? The kicked boy. Forgive him his trespasses. He's had a hard life. No matter. Derven moved from the boxes out into the open, hand reaching out in a wave as would an old friend as he walked towards the girl. I slunk out behind him, heart pounding, eyes wide like a prowling cat’s.

“Oi! Dat ye Nicola?!” He called out, approaching fast across the busy road.

It was then she lifted her head and turned to us. Derven at first but then me. As she did her eyes caught me and I do mean caught me. Like a rabbit in a snare, froze me in place, rooted me to the ground, the beating of my heart ebbing to make way for a phantom ring in my ears. I fear I might have been trapped there for eternity, pinned by her dark gaze had she not scrambled to her feet and sprung off down the road. Still, I didn’t move, simply watched her run for a time, dumbfounded.

“Shite! Fuckin’ cunt! Fuck ye doin’, go!” Derven shouted, he grabbed me by the scuff of my shirt and tossed me tumbling forward. I steadied myself upon the road a moment and, ever the loyal dog, did as I was bid.

I was spry then, with lean muscles earned through hard labor, lungs like iron, and long swift legs. Not like now, such gifts have long been bargained away. But then…I had them and used them well. What came next was a blur, as I have found is often the case with these things. Points in memory strung together that are made all the less real by the holes that spatter them. The shoving of a man, the cry of a woman, the bark of a dog. If I had to wager I’d say the chase lasted all of five minutes though it feels longer now. Stretched out and made meaningful by fond recollection. I shall spare you the details, to the cusp, eh?

I turned down an alleyway after her. I could hear her hurting breath, and see her legs become loose, sluggish, and clumsy. They caught on her dress, tangled, and she tumbled. I reared to a halt behind her, breath sharp in my own lungs. I had expected her to try and stand, expected to have to take hold of her to stop her escape but she didn’t. She just sat there, crumbled onto herself, knees bent behind her, the fire on her head strewn about her face, half turned to me. I stepped forward, pulling from my waist a thin copper blade. It was a good tool, thinking back, effective. Death is no grand thing, I think. It eagerly awaits us, biding its time. It doesn’t take much to invite it in, a poke, that is all, as you will soon see.

She didn’t stir, didn’t even look to me, her breaths struggled and frantic. I think mine might have been the same, I often like to picture myself as a cold killer untethered by the weaknesses of guilt or fear. A boy who was cast hard by this cruel world, one that can see it clearly for what it is. But I know this is not the case. Is it the same for you? Do paint your portrait similarly? I imagine you do, we are all the same in the end. I hope for your sake it is less fragile than my own. I took another step forward and entered with it a dream.

I remembered the silver between breasts, the flash. I could feel the fire in my thigh already. The wetness to come. Felt the same fear I had, this time so intense I could not deny it. It was like rereading a book. Knowing the motions, the twists to come, yet in it all the same, enthralled. Don’t go! You shout to the soldier marching to his death and yet on still he marches. March, march, march, unheeding of your words. Fate is a long thing, you see, impossibly so. Where a ripple at the roots might crumble mountains, once it is upon you it is…well, upon you.

As I stepped she reached for it, the small sharp silver blade tucked between her breasts. Her hand moved faster than I had thought possible, spurred on by the trembling edge gifted in conflict. The pain shot through me as she buried it deep into the inside of my right thigh. An alarming quantity of blood shot out in a stiff stream, like a geyser awakening, as she yanked it free. I cried out, tumbling forward onto her in a panic. She scrambled back and pushed me from her, taking quickly to her feet.

I had seen such wounds before, the spurt of hot ichor. Knew I was to die there in that cold mud but, like all dying men, I denied it with some primal instincts engrained in my soul. I knew I must halt the bleeding, an old soldier’s trick gifted to me by a half-drunk legionaire in a conversation of no meaning or consequence. Until it was, as it was then. Then, then it was the world. I pulled loose a piece of fabric wrapped around my upper arm, another wound bound, its priority in care rapidly shifting. I wrapped it around my thigh tying it tight in a knot, placing within it the blade I was to use to spell end to a life, now it was the only thing keeping me from the same. Funny, now that I think back. How meaning so shapes the tools we use. Anyways…

I could feel the weakness in my limbs, the fog taking my mind. Could feel the invitation towering over me, death’s drooling maw. With blood-wet hands, I twisted clockwise to tighten the fabric into a vice, the blade bit into my palms as it turned. I was cold, I can remember. A bone-chilling cold that was not all unpleasant. Comforting, almost, like an autumn breeze. I twisted again, pain wracking up me as the fabric pulled tighter against the flesh. Again I twisted. Again. Again. Then a slip, a fumble. Wet hands are poor purchase on polished copper, you see.

I tried to return to the work but found my body unresponsive to my pleas. Arms falling away, the base instincts of survival falling with them, pouring out of me with my lifeblood. Have you considered what your last words might be? You should, for that dusk comes sooner than you might think. It did for me, at least. I always thought I might say something profound upon my last breath. Something meaningful or, perhaps, one last cunning barb to whoever did the deed. This was not the case, however, for I said-

“Mama..” A pleading whimper, a call for help, or maybe comfort. She was not coming, of course, she had been dead a long time. Maybe that is why I called for her. The veil thinning, might she have heard me, you think?

It was pitiful enough to get the woman to halt and turn to me. She was dull then, like in my dream, an old newsprint wet and dried several times. The fire of her hair was dim, her flesh as clouds drifting slowly past me. I lifted my head to meet her gaze. The blackness of her eyes spread out like spilled ink, slowly inching across my own vision until it was all I saw. Until it was me and I was nothing. Is it odd for this to be one of my fondest memories? One I pull into my mind time and time again, seeking in it some comfort. Some purpose. I suppose so. I died then, I know that now. I would breathe again, yes, but never would my breath be my own. From then on each would be for her. Always for her. Until...until they weren't.