Memoria Speculo

The Coming Storm

My back hits the damp cobblestone and it crosses my mind that I'm dying. How terribly inconvenient. I've thought about death a lot, but I never anticipated that I would meet my end here, in a cold, filthy back alley without a single star in the sky because of that damned smog. But for as bad as the place may be, the time is so much worse. Tonight, of all nights?

To be fair, I imagined it would hurt more. Instead, my entire abdomen is numb, only a desperate pulsing from where the bullet lodged itself. But I can feel the blood. It's trickling down my sides, onto my arms and hands, staining the balled-up piece of paper hidden in my closed fist. The last order of the Mayor, one that just might upturn the world as we know it.

It had started just like any other case. Some low-ranking Scotland Yard investigator had knocked on my door, blushing vigorously before stuffing an unsolved case file in my hand and slamming the door shut again. All wusses, those boys. They were all the type to put sugar in their tea, too. And just like any other case, I had made myself a cup of tea (No sugar, obviously, but a little bit of lemon) and sat down to study the case. But unlike any other case, I had found the bloodied face of the Mayor of London staring back at me, eyes hollow. And when I looked through the files, I had found the most unusual document of my career. When I unfolded and read it, my eyes widening more and more as I read, I came to realize I held the most controversial, shocking and dangerous order the Mayor had ever placed. My fingers had grazed something on the back and I had turned it over to find a note stuck on the back of it. 'Motive?', it had said in an all-too-familiar handwriting. Most definitely, I thought, as I got up from my chair. Allowing women to vote is a clear motive for murder. Thomas really had done an excellent work on this one. Not that he ever didn't.

Thomas. Of all the things, I will miss about living, he is probably the most unbearable. And sure, while I will miss tea, books and sunsets, seeing him smile every time I reported a case solved is something I might never stop missing. Of course, I remind myself, it was probably all professional. A smile from the head of the Scotland Yard to an investigator, nothing more.

A sharp stab of pain brings me back to reality, to the dark shadows of the alley. I don't have a lot of time left. For a second, I wonder what comes next. I'll die here, the document forgotten and the world sticking to status quo. But what will it matter to me? I won't be there to see it, live in it, watch it grow or change or evolve. For me, there is no longer any point to it all. The darkness creeps in closer, and I gasp for air.

Then there's a movement in the shadows, and that all-too-familiar figure steps into the light, shadows falling over his impossibly handsome face. And, I notice, the barrel of his gun still smoking. His face is stern, cold, but his eyes hide a million emotions, all soft and warm. It doesn't add up, I think to myself as he bends down, his fingers grazing my skin as he slowly, gently pries my right hand open.

"I didn't want to do this, you know," he murmurs. "But you left me no choice."

My eyes widen, and he meets my shocked start before quickly looking away.

"I wanted to keep you, but you... You never wanted to be kept. And with this," He takes the bloodied paper from my hand. "I wouldn't ever be able to."

Hesitantly, he gets up, streaking a match against the wall and lighting the document on fire. Black dots cloud my vision, and the blinding pain from the bullet wound pierces through my mind, breaking the turmoil of emotions. Then, as the world begins to fade, I feel a pair of warm lips graze mine.

"I'm sorry," Thomas whispers against my skin, and my heart, curse it to hell, stops beating for a second.

It doesn't start again.