The Drunken Storytellings of a Madman.

Part 21

"What is the name of your friend?"
"Maxwell. His name is Maxwell."
"And yours?"
"My name is Violetta."
"Well, Violetta. I've got two more questions for you, then I would like a day or two to think over helping you. This sounds like a suicide mission."
She nodded, "I understand, but please do be aware of what I've done for you. Regenerating your limbs and keeping you alive was more a bribery than a courtesy."

"What is your relationship with Hojo? You've mentioned him twice now and knocked on my door trying to warn me of him. So I'm assuming you know who, or more likely, what he is."
"Hojo was a child I found on the streets of this town." Violetta explained, "I recognised the potential in him and took him in so that he may have a place to stay. In return, he fights for me and agreed to help me deal with Maxwell. I sent him to fight against you on multiple occasions. He's good at what he does. I don't know his story, frankly I don't much care. You can ask him when you next meet him, which will be if you accept to help me."

"Alright, this is the last one. You said he's killed people, do you have a number for me? An estimate? How do you know?"

"Yes, Maxwell has killed numerous civilians since we arrived. I'm not quite sure of the number, but of what I know, it's been over seven and we arrived about two weeks ago. I know this because, well, I'm the one who's had to bury the bodies of his victims, I can't have people worrying over murdered civilians, that'll bring attention to us."

It was over, I knew everything I wanted to know and she had explained herself. "Thank you for healing my limbs, Violetta. I need some time to think before I agree or disagree to help you. I'm sure you know how to contact me." I got up and walked over to the door, opening it for her. "Send Hojo my regards. I'd fight with him again but I don't want to lose my arm and leg again." She walked out, "I hope you make the right choice, Mr. Harroworth. I shall see you within 48 hours." I shut the door and slumped against it.

"God... What the hell have I gotten myself into? I need a drink..." I walked over to the kitchen counter and poured myself some whiskey. "She's mad, absolutely mad." I took a large swig and let the smooth liquid run its way down my throat, burning my system as it went. An interesting thought occurred to me as I drank, in that alcoholism is nothing more than a different way to occupy oneself in the form of masochism and that, in reality, anyone willing to go through the process of living is, within itself, masochistic and sadistic at the same time. We are willing to hurt ourselves because that is, in reality, living. We are willing to hurt others and watch other people hurt themselves, because that too, is living. Without the two different spectrums of the idea of pain, then we do not truly live. Or maybe I was just a pretentious arse looking to find a way to make excuses for my crippling alcoholism.

I called it an early night, well, to call it that would have been somewhat of a lie, what I mean is I laid in bed for about five hours and managed to zone out for a bit.  I was tired and confused and my head hurt, however they were all more of a constant than an actual problem at this point. I spent the day as productive as possible, I drank, drank a bit more, ate a bit and had some more existential crisis', which, in all honesty was more than I normally even thought of doing.

There was something about slowly drinking your day away that made everything else seem to matter so little, as if the dawn of how little pretty much anything means hits you the hardest when your mind is dazed, stomach full of liquor and your kidney screaming in pain. I guess that's the reason I was so uncaring about pretty much anything, that attitude would also explain my lack of a social life, but then again, I didn't much care for that.

My thought process managed to slowly drift back into my conversation with Violetta yesterday, her words echoed throughout my mind and I remembered that soon, she'd be asking me again if I wanted to help her out with her suicide mission. I chuckled out loud to myself, there was absolutely no way I was going to help her, despite her briberies. I was not allowing myself to walk into a suicide mission, not for anyone.

Then a curious thought struck me, my mind wandered to the day this all started. When I was waiting outside of a bar, waiting for a friend to arrive.
"Maxwell had killed numerous civilians since we arrived."
The words rung in my head, as realisation struck me like rounds shot from a sniper, each tearing through my body as the truth became more and more clear. This 'Maxwell' had murdered my friend before he could arrive at the bar, the one person I had allowed myself to become acquainted with had been torn apart by whatever that beast was.

This thing had murdered Richard Graham the Third, the only man I decided to ever put my faith in.