Follow The Reaper

1 : Prologue

   In the beginning there was the Word. The Word was with God, and the word was God. He was with God in the beginning. All things were made by him, and nothing was made without him.

   “Which means, miei cari amici, how could I have possibly been at fault for taking your goodies when I was never the creator of those hands? How could I ever take responsibility for witnessing the scene of your trades, when those eyes are truthfully made by the one above? It's really not what it looks like—”

   “Cut the crap.” The geezer rasped out, nudging his gun right against your temple. “I may be old but I ain’t blind, now where did you hide the rest of them?”

   You felt helpless; what you had said was indeed true, merely in a different context. You weren't present when the trade took place, but instead came across one of the man's lackeys fidgeting with a wooden carving of Jesus—lucky you who was on cleaning duty tonight! Curiosity tore at your skin, and you were a beggar for reverence. Now here you are in a nauseating alleyway behind the community church, participating in an interrogation at gunpoint. According to the man more than just one pack was taken, and you’ve become the lead suspect. 

   “Come on now, I don't have all night! Show me where the rest of them are and I'll let you off easy.”

   As if there’s a choice. You inwardly cursed the man for taking you as some fish to bait; no way is he letting you go without casualties, and that point being further justified by the uncontained snickering of his lackeys. With a huff, you resorted to cooperation. "Down east, I hid the rest behind an abandoned cabinet."

   A harsh shove was all it took to push you out of the alleyway. By now the street was nearly vacant, citizens shut off from the perilous world behind their doors and locks. Those that remained however, turned a blind eye to your current predicament. Living in Naples requires one to extinguish every spark of curiosity and mind their own business—a skill that is still unperfected in your case. 

   Soon coming to a halt at an intersection, you refused to go any further. The man beside you gave a skeptical look and landed a swift kick to your leg, urging you to keep moving. Yet his efforts were in vain as you continued to gaze left, brows scrunched as if deep in thought. Seeing your unusual behavior, the geezer raised his gun, voice laced with warning. "What game are you trying to play—"

   "I hope no one here knows muay thai?" 

   A bloody scream rang through the air. To everyone's surprise it belonged to the person that once held your right arm, now clutching his shin with a pained expression. His partner, sensing your newfound attention upon himself blocked his own on instinct, only to receive a jab to the throat instead. 

   And all the while that happened, you never moved a finger. 

   The moment of shock enabled an opportunity for you to run down the street, eyes now unwavering from the road ahead. That earlier event must have seemed like witchcraft, and you snickered at the reminiscence of their stupefied face. They don't need to know of the figure that assaulted their comrades, it's not like they can see them anyways. 

  Yet your triumph was short lived as the mob had quickly recovered, now chasing you down like a pack of hunting dogs. A gunshot resonated through the air and you soon felt its searing burn upon your shoulder, becoming the fuel for your body to move even faster. 

   Naturally, you are terrified beyond your mind, and probably resembled the appearance of a startled rodent. Exception being that this isn't a mindless escape; along your fingertips, extending forward are multiple strings attached separately to each of your pursuer.

   They glowed like the pale skin of the moon, leading to one's possible cause of demise. You've found this bizarre ability of yours to be benefitting in the long run, saving your life in many similar situations. Downside however, its duration reciprocates the time you've spent with the victim, and you seem to be out of luck tonight. Now stranded between the graffitied walls, you despaired at the lines that dissolved much too soon into the obsidian sky.

   Behind you, the mob wearily approached. The metallic gleam of their gun tilts towards you, awaiting for the command to dig holes into your body, and you wince at the thought of the bullet's intrusion. Sensing your increasing panic the previous figure materialized behind you, veiled over by your shadow and awaits to strike. In no way are you going down without landing a few more blows to these people. 

   That's when the new phenomenon caught your eye. It hovers over a man's head like a crown, shining much like the earlier lines, and within the glow holds the image of a needle. Looking around you noticed the same odditie placed upon other members of the group, with merely a slight variation in each orb. You gave a questioning look to your companion, only to receive a shrug in return.

   Dear God, if this is a sign, it's not clear enough—

   "Hey! What do you think you're doing?" A commotion. Behind the mob appeared a newcomer, face barely luminated by the dim moonlight. 

   "Get out of here, unless you want to be dead meat!" 

   Unfazed, or merely tired? You couldn't tell, but the posture they exerted was aloof compared to the tense atmosphere. Although, you do wish they would leave to avoid unwanted casualties. 

   Annoyed by the lack of response, the druggie gave the stranger a harsh shove—proven to be futile as they didn't move an inch. That seems to be the final straw as he pulls out a pocket knife, attempting to plunge their soft flesh. Your companion sprint forward to confiscate the weapon, only to freeze up at the sight before you both. 

   The blade hits concrete with a distinct clink, the sound persisting much longer through the quietness that had fallen upon the crowd. To everyone's horror the man began to spit out needles in heaps, slowly being led to suffocation by his lack of oxygen intake. It didn't end there: razor blades forming beneath someone's skin, scissors cutting through the intestines of another. They were like lamb to the slaughterhouse, and soon it was just you and the butcher. 

   Their iris held resemblance to the blood dripping down your wounds, slowly beginning to form a viscous puddle right beneath where you stood. It felt as if under the very gaze of the grim reaper, and you wondered if you held the exact same crown upon your head too.

   So you played dead, in hopes of being spared from the same gruesome fate as those lying around you. Whimpers would occasionally escape from within your throat as the ground nipped at your wounds, some from the bullets, others from the stranger's previous wrath. 

   Following the death of the earlier commotion the street has returned to its peaceful ambience. Your companion lent their sight, and through it you observed the enigmatic figure: analytic, eyes scanning over your tattered frame, vigilant, looking for any signs of your bated breaths. The standoff is torturous, in your opinion, as you feared for your wounds to catch infection, and for the reaper to see through your trick and finish you off.

   Your stomach dropped when they began to approach you with caution, soon coming to stand right beside your body. Next they'll end your life for sure—

   The moaning of a rusted gate was shrill to your ears, accompanied by one's solemn footsteps, then shut again. The process was done as if countless times and committed to memory, so swift that leaves you unable to process. 

   And once you returned from your daze, the obscurity is long gone from the bloodshed scene, leaving only you and the flickering stars to tell of the tale that occurred tonight.