username BLACK

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

On the His Deathbed

They can easily kill you, the gun slingers. Those slackers, lacking all the humanity in the world they had drained in the drains. Red, red and warm humanity flowing down to gutter after oozing from the freshly cut wound from the pink flesh. I can't remember how I came here, they had betrayed me I guess.

"Why did you kill them?" I ask him, I ask him as I look at the scared faces of the gun slingers. The richly muscled arms holding SMGs. Their eyes full of shock, like life had thrown a dice with a wrong result, "Surprise motherfuckers." Life had said to them.

"I was paid to do so." He says. It comes out with a bubble of blood. The black below his grandpa eyes could make anyone go a rubbery one. His spits out phlegm and looks at me. "By one of you."

"None has ever escaped this place alive." He smiles as I finally see the wide gap between his teeth. "Your death is certain."

Their nozzles pointed at me, ready to tickle me to death. "Shit." I say. "I'm screwed, right?" As I pull him up and push the gun against his forehead.

I smile as the small bit of my withered lips open up exposing the wounds to fresh air. The blood stuck between my teeth starts to smell bad. I try to swallow it but I throw up. The guards are disgusted.

"Let me go or I'll shoot his asshole." I say.

They were confused. I felt like a ballerina holding my gun against one of the fellow performers. It was a part of the act, a surprise for the audience. The part in which the ballerina, in her micro-skirt, beats the shit out of the best dancer in the world as the audience watches in amuse. Then I hit her in the belly with my bare knuckles. The old, bent ballerina, the arched old one then makes a loud voice. My audience, holding the SMGs.

"What are you looking at?" He yells at them as he fingers his nose. He pushes them deep inside but his struggle is never ending. Cinnamon, unlike the normal paprika, it can't be just washed away. Its particles stick to your receptors, nasal receptors. It's a hard life. My palms were trodden and sweaty. Every time I tried to reinforce my grip over the butt of the gun, they used to sting, that micro pattern of the grip were piercing them.

I pull the trigger and shot one of them down. A thin stream of blood oozes as he shrieks. He curses me as he dunks into that gutter water. You hate to see him like that. ."Asshole!" He screams trying to cover the wound on his throat with both of his hands. Blood finds its way out from the gap between his fingers. "My daughter!" He cries. Others look and watch him die, none of them willing to lend a hand and pull him up on his feet. It's a fucked up world. He sobs as I watch his face turn white due to the blood loss he has suffered. His blood pressure going low as he tries to keep his eyes open, lost in his own musings. His hands still on his wounds, his eyes wide, probing towards the green slimy ceiling.

None of us can make a move, I'm shattered. The insides of my heart hurt more than the insides of my cheeks, even though I had accidently chewed them a time or two. When you kill a person, you kill two of them.

"I don't know what they told you." I tell them. "But if you kill me, I'm just another dead body."

I push the warm nozzle of the gun over his sideburns, a pungent smell followed by a hissing sound hits my nose. He shrieks, his skin turned pink, glaring in sweat.

"You see boy." He speaks up, his lips caked with blood on them. "Demons and humans are not different. We are just like them two hands, two legs, two ears and a pair of eyes." He coughs. "But Humans are humane and we are demonic, barbaric people. Once they realise you are not one of them, those petite pussies will burn you alive, I swear and then they'll pull your heart out like the ancient procedure suggests, to burn it separately."

I look at him. I see confidence, an absurdity. He's invincible, he claims.

"I can shoot you right now." I whisper in his ears. "Just give me the co-ordinates and the name."

He shakes his head sideways and smiles. Looking at me through the corner of his eye sockets.

"Oh, that's fine by me." I tell him, I tell him that but I don't know what to do. You take a deep breathe, you close your eyes. You feel everything turning slow.

"Fire!" He yelled as he escaped my grip. The guy, whom I shot, was dead, his eyes still gazing the ceiling. All of these people, they are the scum of the society, they are here to die. I was trying to convince myself for that murder. The sweat had accumulated above my eyebrow. Everything was frozen, paused where they were. The bullets were moving slowly towards me, spinning on their axes.

These stupid little humans, they were fighting against a demon, the same demon I was struggling with, me. I reached for him, he couldn't see me, he couldn't even realise I was there standing next to him, my hands on his bare neck and my other hand holding my pocket knife. I push it against his skin, slicing it open, like a mango. It paints my face crimson. A bright red stripe paint itself over my face. Some goes inside my eyes, some inside my mouth and mixes with my own blood. He stands still, he's not yet dead. In this time frame at this slow passage of time, I can see the most important moment of his life. Most alive he ever was, the moment just before his death. His expressions changing, the grim growing over his face as I approach the next one. I look back at Zaveri, he's gone and with him, the co-ordinates. I'm brimming with anger, whoops did I just cut off his ear? Well that's a shot worth ding again. I smile, this craziness. Have I let the demon out of the box? Have I just crumpled the little human in me? I was not coming back. Power, I was hungry for it. Killing provides you with a feeling of authority,

'You can't be this fucked up.' You say to yourselves as you see the hands lying over heads, lying over the rest of the bodies. 'I can't fall.' I murmur. My hands trembled. I felt sick. Looking at my reflection in that rippling crimson mess, I couldn't find myself anymore.

The door cracked open. A bloodied Matilda entered with a chainsaw in her hand. She looked below. Her life has been a mess, she told me when we were humping in the factory. You don't have to be sad for having killed someone, she told me, because they will eventually die someday.

She approaches me with

I AM ABANDONING THIS PROJECT. IT HAS STARTED TO SUCK.