Blaze

8. Cause and Effect

She's free. She's free, now that the Bandit's put both hands to his neck with a face that says, "Oh, really? I'm dying?"

Reddening fingers clench at his throat in a desperate attempt to survive—I watch them tighten and throb—but it's much too glorious to be funny. When his eyes meet mine, his white irises are frightened.

(No, that must just be pain.)

Jackie stumbles to our group and rearranges it around her; her breaths are rabid and shallow, short hisses that are almost painful to hear. She's mumbling something, and I sense Austin shift his body toward her. I don't acknowledge her, though. Don't even move. I wouldn't be able to comfort her, I wouldn't want to hold her, and she wouldn't want to hear me speak.

There's a kind of hush emanating from us all. Like we're too afraid to breathe. Or think. Austin's chest barely budges—maybe I killed a part of him, too. I'm about to worry when I hear him let out a tight sigh.

He's fine. We're fine. She's free.

The bald man spits out liquid air, face contorting then relaxing. Then contorting again. His moans are low and wet.

I expect him to smile—maybe even choke on laughter. But his features remain stupid and shocked.

Pained.

Mouthwash, I think. Another stupid thought. Like he's using mouthwash. And all I can see is puffed-out cheeks. And all I can imagine is burning mint.

Mouthwash.

His legs wobble, all long and thin.

His eyes expand, all white and round.

Mouthwash.

His moans eventually turn to whimpers.

He was never a person, after all. After all, after everything, he was just a sack filled with red, and now there's a hole in him—and lots of spilt red.

It's silent, much too silent, once the bald man quiets.

---

"Thanks," says an even voice. The weight of Jackie's gaze is unpleasant, but I don't look to her. I might find gratitude in her eyes. Traces of disgust. Fear, even envy—whatever emotion she's working to suppress. "Thanks for..." I don't listen anymore.

There's a kind of veil on everything. Like I'm not seeing anything right, no matter how strongly I may believe I am. Like there's something wrong with my eyes. An extra film.

Austin wanted this, a voice reminds me.

I choose to believe it.

No guilt blossoms. No regret. Just an overwhelming sense of a job well done, and I think that's worse.

It feels good to watch the bald man die. It shouldn't, and I don't expect it to, but it does. The dull crunch of his skull as he (finally) collapses onto the road is almost beautiful (in my mind, the fragments are pink, brittle bone mixed with brain matter and blood, as if the bat were a blender). The red stains on my hands, here there and everywhere—art. The warm, evil smell of boiled copper—perfume.