James Moriarty - The Devil's Descendant

Chapter 17

Aella sat in another room, her hands clasped together. Every hour she would check her wound to make sure she was not bleeding out, or there was a sign of an infection. John had made sure she could identify an infection with ease without needing to worry about whether she was wrong in judging the injury. 

James had been checking on her frequently to make sure that she was okay. As she took the gun he had given her out of her pocket, she looked at the pitch-black coloured coating on the gun. he kept it immaculate, smart, shiny, and expensive, just like he was. James was not the typical father figure, he broke every rule that a father should, he taught the morals of a killer, rather than an honest, honourable citizen of England. In one way, it seemed quite comical to her that this was her father.

One thing he was yet to discover, was her criminal and killing capacity, and everything else she had been taught from her criminal days. They were certainly far from being over. With her father, she felt free to express who she was, not a boring version of herself. All this time, she had wondered what she and her mother's house looked like. Whether dust had gathered in her bedroom, the sink still stained with hair dye her mother bought from the shops. Her room was filled with posters, ideas, images, books, notebooks and materials she used. She never went to school, she taught herself everything she needed to know in life. She was further along than most students with her learning, she never stopped trying to learn. Perhaps that was something she got from her father. Memories of him from her younger years were very hazy and not so clear. If only she could remember what he looked like when she was younger.

Without her realising, the door to her room had opened. The steady creaking had not bothered her, her eyes were fixated on her wound. 

"It will heal," someone sat down beside her, taking her hand away from the shirt she had lifted up to look. "I have had a few in my time, especially from James."

"Really?" she looked at the hand that held hers, she had memorised that hand when she peered around the side of Alina's room, wondering who was handing her the gun. "He did that to you?"

He removed his shirt, turning around to show her his back. In her mind, she had half expected it to be covered in tattoos. However, he still had the natural skin he had been born with. 

"Some of these are stab wounds, gun wounds, others are strangulation around the neck," he pointed to his neck to indicate where. Still, she remained silent in shock, she could not believe her father was so brutal that he hurt those he cared for. That was what Moran had not understood. "You can say something, he hasn't told you to not talk yet."

His laugh diminished into a half-laugh. "What's wrong?" he put his black t-shirt back on, searching her eyes for an answer. 

Every second he wasted not saying something, her thoughts ate her alive, each second they burned her brain inside and out. 
"I thought I was crazy!" she cried in utter exasperation. "I thought I was insane."

"I still don't understand," he was clearly bewildered at the way she was acting around him, usually she was stable, and not out of her mind. "Did you not know what he was like?"

Carefully, she considered what it was she could say. She had half expected her father to be like he was presented on the television, but she had never anticipated that he would hurt people he cared about. 

"I knew he killed people. I know he hurts people till they cry for their dead mothers. I just did not think he would hurt you, he would hurt people he actually cares for,"

"What makes you think James Moriarty cares for anyone, Aella? He has never cared, he never will. He is incapable of saying the word love, let alone feeling it,"

As he tried to get up, she squinted in pain, letting a tear caress her cheek delicately. "Sit back down, Aella,"

"No," she snapped back at him, she was furious with how he was treating her like she was a weak woman. "I am not weak."

"I never suggested that, Aella,"

"Stop saying my name," she nearly jumped up, soon bending over in pain, regaining her straight posture. As her hair moved out of her face, her dark features were being exemplified by her tears, streaming down her cheeks. "Love is made, love can be defeated. Mine has never been defeated."

"For who?" 

Moving toward the balcony, she opened the door to feel the cold wind blast across her face, drying most of the tears on her cheeks. When the wind picked up, even more, she could smell a storm coming. Her hair was being caught up in its fury, whipping the air particles in fury. Moran came out with her, placing his arm across her shoulders. Soon enough, her shoulders relaxed upon his scent, she leaned her head on his shoulder. It was as if her head was made to fit into the crook of his neck.

"Who do you love?"

"I am in love with you Moran,"

As soon as she spoke the words, he looked out to the waters, examining the drop. Nothing seemed more daunting than a drop, apart from the words she had spoken to him. 

"What did you just say?" 

James stood in the doorway behind, them leaning against the glass door. Usually, his face would wash with a calm, peaceful attitude. This time, he was seething with inflamed, incandescent emotion. 

Their head turned, moving away from each other, her hair no longer blowing in the stormy winds. The storm was James.

Storms make rain, winds and pain,

Rainbows come after when you sustain the impacts,

Nothing feels better than the happy ending of love,

Depending on if you survive the wrath of James Moriarty's vengeful glove.