Democracy

Harold

Dorian reaches forward and handcuffs the detective before dragging him out into the room where the trio are currently pointing guns at everybody in the office. Many of the police are obviously ready to fight back; I need to stop that. I break everybody's left knee, visibly turning my hand as I break each bone, leaving most of them on one knee. I turn to the trio and Dorian and push my hand out, pushing their guns out of their hands and into the corner. Harriet smiles at me and jumps up to sit on the receptionist's desk.
"Hello ladies and gentlemen," I call. "I am Luke, the one who killed all those other people which has, for some reason, made many of you grow to hate me without even knowing me." I laugh, feigning a confused face. Dorian falls back onto the bench beside the desk, rigid; he watches me. "You've all seen movies right?" I ask, rhetorically, letting their own confusion build. "Well we're going to re-enact some of them. How about you all play dirty cops and help me out?" I say.
One man at the back of the group laughs. He never fell onto his knee, all he does it lean to the side a little to avoid the pain. There's a reason I didn't make them all get on their knees. Something my father taught me, forcing belief doesn't breed belief. I watch the man, who's laughter quickly fades unlike his slight smile which seems to be fixed on his lips.
"This isn't a movie," he says, "we don't suddenly begin to follow orders from some kid just because he killed some of us. Cancer killed some of us, all we do is fight that." He announces smugly. A man close to him, grimacing, begins to straighten his leg to stand; he stops when the man talking drops to the ground, screaming. I laugh at him and from the corner of my eye I can see a little smirk emerge on Dorian's face for a second. I flick my hand up, pushing the man against the wall and beginning to choke him.
"You're right," I say, "this isn't a movie, these are your lives, and I'm sure you want to keep them." I snap the man's neck. "So I suggest you listen." I flick my hand again, this time sending everybody sprawling to the ground. "I am here to sell drugs, make some money, and kill in fours for the branding, so just know that I, the man who has killed several of your friends without ever even touching them, will kill anybody and everybody and then three of their friends, if they choose to disobey me or any of my partners." At this I gesture at my friends watching behind me causing the people closest to their friend's dead body to flinch. I pause for a long while letting my eyes drift along the sea of heads before me. I fix their legs, making a couple sigh in relief. I clap my hands together letting the people in front of me flinch and jump and avoid eye contact in reaction. In a joyful tone I announce my plan, "ok everybody, first I want you to form a line in front of the reception desk over there," I say and watch as the hesitation eventually falls from some of the people's faces as they shuffle into a short messy line. At the front of the line, Harriet pulls out a lighter and Chuck brings her the ink pad and hands her his knife. She heats up the knife and dips it in the ink. Fern comes and sits facing the nervous looking man at the front of the queue.
"Lay your hand flat on the table," her words break the silence. The man does it, anxiety flowing across his face. Harriet begins just before the screaming. She is done quickly and the next person steps up. I pull Dorian to come with me and gesture for him to grab Harold. I pull them both into the file room. Then Dorian and I begin leafing through files looking for the most recent ones on the several murders. We swap out some of the evidence. Finally I turn to Harold. He's obviously been deliberating between pulling out his gun or not. When I do turn my focus to him , he does pull his gun and he shoots. When it lands in my chest, I feel nothing. When I look down, there is no pool of blood on my chest. When I look up, I see that same pool happening on Dorian's back in his right shoulder. He shouts in anger and moves toward Harold who, obviously reluctant to kill, lands a second bullet in Dorian's shoulder. Dorian screams in pain causing Harold to hesitate giving Dorian a fraction of a second to knock the gun away. He grabs Harold's neck, his grip loose, and punches him. Once, twice, a third time. Then Dorian falls to the ground, his shoulder covered in blood, his fists similar.
Harold shrinks into the corner when I rush over to Dorian, picking his unconscious body up from the ground. I need to get him home. My heart is pounding in my chest. My eyes are watering. My hands are shaking. I care about him. How does that work?
I approach Harold, who is shaking in the corner of the room, unable to look away from Dorian's dying body. When I shadow his view, he eventually looks at me.
"Y-y-you're going to h-hell," he stutters out, aware of the death that he will soon be experiencing. I pick the gun up from the ground using my sleeve and throw Harold onto the ground where Dorian just lay.
"I'll see you there," I tell him before releasing two shots into his shoulders; he screams. I leave him there, bleeding out.
Kicking open the door out into the hallway, I drag Dorian's suffering body into the corridor and head for the door at the end that leads into the police car park. Out there I hug him to my body, check nobody is looking, and then open my wings.
They're stiff, having not been opened for a time in fear of humans seeing. But at this moment, I don't care; I need to get Dorian home. He twitches in my arm and it's all the indication I need to set off upwards.
Wind rushes against my wings as I push forward over the houses and cars making up this tiny little in the middle of nowhere. I don't have the will to enjoy the flight or even to check if anybody sees me; I just need to get Dorian home; I have to save him.
In minutes, hours for me, I land in the garden outside the house and run into the house, shouting for the doctor. He appears, thirty seconds too late, shock crosses his face before pain as I break one of his toes.
"Mend him, you idiot," I say, putting Dorian down on the table. A couple other people have turned up and are crowding in the doorway. I turn to them, "go get his tools." Some turn away, others stay, mouths agape. One of them dies. The rest run after the helpful ones.
The doctor is struggling to press down on one of the wounds to keep the blood in. I pull out the bullets without touching Dorian, then begin pressing down on the second wound, letting blood seep through my fingers. When everybody returns with the doctor's kit, I let somebody else take over, wiping the blood from my hand.
"If he dies," I look at everybody, "you all do." I tell them. Although I so so want to stay and help but I know I need to go back and ruin the man responsible. Before I leave, I grab the blowtorch.
Nobody had realised I ever left at the police station. When I return to the room, most people have been marked with the diamond symbol on their wrist. Terror fills their eyes when they see my bloodsoaked shirt. I move towards Chuck, telling him about Dorian; he picks two people from the line and takes them to the back where Harold is. A minute later I hear a gunshot and swearing. They emerge quickly after, one has a bullet in his foot and the other a bruised and bloody eye. Ten minutes later, we leave, waiting outside for the ambulance to turn up to treat a bullet wound and to try and save Harold. Obviously they are unable to save him and nobody cares too much, him being the one responsible for all the other murders, according to every man in that station. We head home. I'd been longing to go and check on Dorian from the moment we'd left him and we couldn't seem to get back fast enough.