Snapdragons

Raindrops and Blood Drops

There were two things that fell to the floor with a dreary thud. 1. The revolver.  2. Phineas Barlow.

When the acute sound had echoed through the house, Alistair had immediately released the trigger and allowed the weapon to pass through his fingers. It hit the ground first, a metallic clunk. It was followed seconds later by the heavy fall of Mr. Barlow.

Killing can be justified. Sometimes, it's the only possibility. But Alistair knew this was wrong. Who was he to end someone's life with the little reasoning he had? And who was he to resort to violence without trying words first like a sensible being?

Alistair stared at Mr. Barlow's body with horror. Not because of the dead body itself, he had seen that plenty of times before, but because of his own doing. He started to tremble, gulping down the caustic bile. Guilt flooded his thoughts. Calvin would make him tea, would let him feel guilty, would coax him. Wanting to be comforted only made Alistair more guilty.

Now there was only one other person in the room; the silent Mr. Deighton. Edwin looked at Alistair with shock, but not enough to break his certain set of emotions. He would follow those to his grave.

Alistair continued to tremble as he stepped past Mr. Barlow's stiff body and radiating open eyes. The dark had completely invaded the space and it was impossible to accurately navigate your way through the bedroom. But Alistair knew where Mr. Barlow had fallen and was able to make his way to Edwin using what he understood.

Edwin tensed when Alistair grabbed his coat, slid quivering fingers under fabric to pacify himself. Waves of nausea climbed Alistair's throat before slowly receding and repeating again. Acid burned his tongue, harsh swallows barely helping to dilute the taste. Eventually, the carpet was dotted with small stains. Alistair realized that it was coming from his eyes, tears dripping down in a stuttered pattern.

Alistair expected nothing in return from his childish behavior. Yet after a few moments of silence, Edwin reciprocated, gently placing his hands on Alistair's back, letting him cry, letting him rest his head. And so they stood for a lifetime, one taking comfort in the other's warmth. And so they stood, the only sound being soft sniffling. Until Edwin shifted Alistair away with carefully placed touches.

"I need you to listen," Mr. Deighton spoke, his voice honeyed and hushed. And so Mr. Fairfax met his eyes. On the other side of the room, a dead man still lay on the carpet. Edwin was looking at the dead man while Alistair kept his gaze on the living. But Alistair was left alone when his companion started across the room.

"I know it may seem wrong, Alistair," Edwin spoke benevolently, "but we're going to do some pretending." The revolver was lifted off the ground. Edwin turned the weapon over once in his hand and then nestled it into the dead hand of Mr. Barlow. "When we came here to arrest Mr. Phineas Barlow, he shot himself to avoid punishment." Edwin took the pocket knife from the body and handed it to Alistair. "You had this with you in case you had to defend yourself, but never used it. However, we won't need to mention that part."

"Mention to…to who?" Alistair managed, staring blankly at the pocket knife as it rested on his own skin. There was a small amount of blood adorning its ragged blade.

"The police. But you will not be required to do any speaking. You are going to take some time off from work because of these traumatic events," Edwin responded, taking the pocket knife again and putting it into Alistair's coat.

"Time off? Do you know what my occupation is…? The word traumatic does not mean anything to me." But Alistair couldn't look at the body, refused to see his damage.

"That is obviously not true. You should stay safe. By the time you come back, everything will be sorted out."

Come back? Come back? Come back?