Continuation of Orin's perspective
Saturday September 3rd 1949.
I reached toward the man. The air burned in the crevices of my fingers, as if laced with particulates.
He looked towards me, his head moving slowly. Comparable to an owl, His wide eyes stayed on the burning body—until his head shifted, perpendicular to their prior gaze.
Then he darted his eyes towards me. Fired it at me.
The crowd spun to face me. The crowd turned. Eyes bulging like olives, tears of blood seeping down their faces. Until it dripped—thick, and sickly.
Why was I here? Why didn't I just stay home? Why did I come here?
The man whispered a name. An old man stepped from the crowd.
Kneeling before The Devil, who pulled out a gun. A revolver. Cocking the gun. Pressing the trigger at the old man. Click. The hammer hit the chamber—no bullet. Just the metal's paint flaking like old skin.
The man then opened his mouth and spoke. "Are you cold, Orin?"
He then pulled the hammer back once more, and pulled the trigger.
Click.
"Please, stop. That man has done nothing to you. He just wanted to give his wife the solace she deserves. Please, kill me instead."
"Why? Why give your life for a man you only met on a train?"
"He was a good man… He gave me his gloves, even though he was cold."
Click. He pressed the trigger once more. Not once had he looked away from me in the altercation. As if he knew—he was in control.
"Do you remember, Orin? The bombs? The white phosphorus? Your mother?"
Click.
"I… I remember. So please, just stop."
"Good."
This time, he didn't pull the trigger. I eased up slightly.
He smiled coldly, still staring into my eyes. He placed the gun in the old man's palm.
"Were you counting, Orin?"
I stared blankly at him. "You pressed it… 4 times," I said forcibly.
""There are two bullets in the chamber, Orin." Then he would hand it to the old man, placing it within his hands, the old man slowly drawing the gun closer to his head as if unable to control it
"Wait—please…"
I saw the old man's jaw move, though no words exited it. He smiled at me, softly, as if to say thank you. But no—I was wrong. His face was twisted in fear. Abject horror.
It was a fearful smile. His lips moved as he looked upward and he murmured softly the words of, "Jupiter."
The gun cocked.
There was no click.
The old man was sent backwards, a meridian splatter along with it. No gaping hole—just charred, bloody hair, masking the damage.
The snow began to fall harder, so cold it felt as if it were burning. A burning metallic smell invigorated the air like matches lit sequentially to one another.
"Why?"
"My name is Joacheim Epime… Cease, Orin Prome." He began turning around, no longer looking at me, as if declaring his victory. His battle's won.
"Why?"
I tore the gun out of the old man's hand. Clasped the revolver before him, pointing it at him.
He turned, revealing his face which was earlier obscured by the dark. He tilted his head in curiosity now moving further into the streetlight.He pulled bullets from his pockets, juggling them between his fingers as he walked toward me…
Sliding each bullet into the chamber while I still had the gun pointed at him, in my hand. He spun the chamber and slammed it shut.
"There are five bullets inside the cylinder. Clean the gun after you're done, place his index finger on the trigger and the rest around the handle." he murmured into my ear, the s' were sharp piercing my eardrum
I couldn't move, my finger lingered over the trigger, shaking.
Then he spoke. "I killed your friend. Killed your mother." Then he stared into my eyes as if beckoning me to shoot
A thin thread of snot slid from my nose; I didn't wipe it. My body had gone still, listening. The cough escaped before I could stop it. Cold crystals of sweat drew from my skin. I could see him staring at my fingers, my eyes slowly lingered over the trigger then at my fingers. My fingers were shaking incessantly. And I hadn't even realised it. I was prideful. The old man was right in telling me to leave while I could. It was bashful arrogance. The type that hides itself in broad daylight.
I froze before the man who shot a good man, like an unquestioning fool. A coward.
He smiled, "Do you always freeze up when you're afraid,"
Then he pressed his thumb against my finger on the hammer; cocking the gun, he grabbed the barrel, pushing it to his head, enough to leave a mark. Pressed on the trigger.
Click. The gun jammed.
It was as if he controlled fate, subjugated it to his whims. The man who never dies, never stops, never sleeps and never holds. An evil beyond depravity itself, evil enough to define it in his actions. The executioner of disparity.
He stood up from where I kneeled. Walking away, folding his hands behind his back, once again interlacing into itself. The crowd dispersed into a clamor, as he walked away.
He turned his head, palming his hands over his eyes. "Close your eyes," he would whisper, smiling a smile which reached nowhere—not his eyes, but his ears—a gesture learned, not lived.
He walked parallel to the crowd, not looking back. I could hear screams, fighting. Bones crepitating—crushing, cracking like celery. I opened my eyes.
Most were dead.
The remaining began banging their heads upon the solid ice on the ground, slowly melting from the warm, coagulated wine of their split heads, pouring on over to be frozen into a paste of shredded-up brains and vessels.
The air was putrid.
The scent of curdled milk filling it, jumping from house to house.
From street to street. Tender pork belly was coagulated in people's blood and tissue.
Overripe tomatoes burst softly, leaking sour juice... Their skin wrinkling into a soft, unchewable but rather drinkable slurp.
Overripe bananas crushed into themselves, soft and red and black.
Another began pulling ropes from his abdomen.
It spilled out like spaghetti boiled in blood, soft and tangled. Putrid, with a strong metallic smell.
A raw piece of liver was held out in a woman's hand; it jiggled faintly, its surface soft-looking, reflective, gelatinous. Slack, blubbery, pulsing warm blood from its unseamed vessels.
It was dark—so dark. Congealed blood stained the tips of their hair.
The woman fell with the liver in her hand, and it fell along with her body, hitting the ground with a sickening slap.
The remaining began tearing their eyes from their sockets as if they were faulty. It was more easily described like a hard yet soft non-Newtonian putty, melting from their skulls like sludges of mucus.
The blood quickly freezing onto the ice, yet melting simultaneously as it continuously spilled over. One faced me—eyeless, kneeling... Concave veins bulging out through the hole, blood cascading like tears down his cheeks.
He held his eyes within his shaky grasp. His gaze was unmoving, yet he wouldn't stop banging his head on the ice.
Or rather. He couldn't.
Each of the bodies, silently twitching, their guttural screams raspy and coarse, given the amount of time they had screamed for.
I heard sirens blaring in the distance.
As I sat, with a bloody gun in my hand.
Fingerprints all on it. Cradling the old man, shameful tears stinging my eyes.
My mistake… In the man's hands was a photo of him and his children.
And his wife. All smiling. Looking onward. His hands. So bloody. The blood—so dark, so thick. Like phlegm. Green. Yellow. Sick.
The old man's face was tarnished. His head was split in half as if burst by a thousand bullets. Yet it was only one. His teeth protruded from his jaw, yet his skull had collapsed over it, like a crushed ribcage.
I looked in his wallet. His ID in it. Opened it.
"George."
The streets were so silent, so silent, still sleeping. Only broken by the unrequited blaring of sirens, unreciprocated by the sleeping streets. There was no longer a clamour of people. But bodies. Fifty? A hundred? Who will know. After all, there is no one to remember their names. Or their faces. I scrutinised the old man's body. I looked closer—horns sprouted from his eye sockets. From them, asphodels bloomed.
It was gradual but fast, a little faster than a snail's pace.
Then I looked down at the gun. Looked into the cylinder. There were no bullets inside. "Clean it and place it in his hands. I would shoot him, should have shot him.
I wish... I had just stayed home.
But what home did I have left?
I looked up.
Heroes. They are often an escape from a cruel reality. They stem from the wish for a saviour. When you try and save everyone. Who's there to save you. In truth. No one. They are the pillars of hope for a better future.
"I see." I muttered to myself
"I tend to overthink and focus on useless stuff when I'm scared."