Saint of Sin City (Short Story within the Darkest Light Universe)

The Saint of Sin City

"I hate criminals. The thought of those that think they are above the law, leaves a sour bitter taste in my mouth. Living in Las Vegas with the worst of them, drug dealers, gangsters, pimps, and so much more. The taste never leaves my mouth. The taste was more prevalent the day my family buried my baby brother. An innocent casualty in a gang related drive by shooting. Johnathan never got to see his tenth birthday. And the criminals that killed him never got to see the inside of a cell.

Not a single damn gun was found to tie any of the four charged to the shooting. They got off free men. Each of them smiled the day they walked out of the court. Mocking my sadness but feeding my rage. Soon they will feel my pain, soon...they will know my wrath." Gabriel says aloud, his body eerily still. Eyes fixed on his hands–balled into fists–avoiding contact with the therapist.

"Yes well," She clears her throat, clearly disturbed by the young boy's words. But who wouldn't be by such violent words coming from a fourteen-year-old? "I understand that with the loss of your younger brother, all you're feeling is anger. But, I believe you're using your anger to cover up a form of guilt."

"Guilt at what?" Gabriel asks, voice cold, still staring at his fists.

"At not being able to protect your brother. You're putting a burden on yourself, when you shouldn't. It is unfortunate that this happened. I'm sorry to say, but there was nothing you could do for him." Her voice tender. A shiver shook her whole body as Gabriel's eyes met her, and she saw darkness behind the shamrock green covers.

"You're wrong," Gabriel said, shooting up from the brown leather couch, quickly snatching a black leather jacket off the hook by the door. "I can still do something." The door slams hard behind him. He overhears her gasp on the other side, and he scans the cracks that sprouted from the doorframe.

His father would not be pleased for having to pay for the damages.

Ever since that day when they were walking down the Strip, when the shots rang out Gabriel's body violently shook and his heart raced a million miles a second. He became stronger, but, not only stronger, his body became harder. Like steel. When he picked himself off the ground, there were bullet holes in his clothes, but not a single scratch on him. Not only that, but he found he could run fast, faster than most sports and imported cars in Las Vegas.

Why didn't the same thing happen for his brother? Why would he have these abilities, but not his brother? Not a single person knew what he could do, and he aimed to keep it that way. The only one who knew about him, was God, and only because every night he cursed God for not saving his brother.

Leaving the therapists office, he watches the city burst to life. A field of rainbows burning the night sky, hindering the stars and moon from touching the city. Every Sunday after every therapy session Gabriel did what he normally did, run. Down the darkest alleys, through some of the roughest neighbourhoods, out of the city limits to the Mojave Desert.

The only place he could let his rage out without hurting anyone.

Finding his oasis of hard and soft ground, weeds and a little puddle of water, he throws his jacket to the side, and cracks his knuckles. Closing his eyes as he inhales deeply, he shouts. Repeatedly throwing fists against the hard-rocky floor, creating a web of cracks. His shouts and the rumbles of his fists echo throughout the desert, sending nearby reptiles and coyotes stampeding away.

Images of Johnathan rush through his mind as tears pour. Falling to his knees, arms limp on his lap, unable to fight back the sadness.

The moon watches him and something glimmers from the pocket of his jacket, and he stares at the silver oval ring, a cross etched in the center. A family tradition for the Cross family that each member be given a ring at the age of ten. One his brother didn't get to be part of.