The Sins of Our Fathers

VIII Snow and Roses

Fire crackled, burning through my veins kindled by my hatred of the man who hovered before me. The handle of the blade protruded from his throat giving it the illusion of an exotic piercing. Time itself seemed to slow as he stumbled back a step and fell into the deep snow pile behind him that seemed to bury him.
Scrambling backwards across the alley slick with scattered splotches of ice I took one last look at the dying monster before me and ran.
My arms pumped up and down in time with my legs as I tore across the town I'd lived in since birth. I had no idea where I was going, or where I could go to be honest. The only friends I had ever known had betrayed me, my homey little hole in the wall was no longer safe, and if Dimitri or his followers so me in the streets after realizing what happened to Kalie then I wouldn't last a night. My thoughts flew by in a whirl as the streets came and went in a blur of muted colors. Eventually I gave up on trying to figure out where I was going and let my subconscious and all the memories that lay there guide me.
Dark street corner after dark street corner was turned as the world around me grew devastatingly familiar. It felt like I had been here only moments ago when in fact it had been years, the day of my father's funeral, yet nothing about the slightly rusted silver fence and what lay beyond it had changed. Dead spots of grass still coated the ground like a blanket; the patches of dead leaves and large circles bleeding together to make a pattern that spoke of the place's inhabitants. At one time the grass had been green and coated with flowers shaded by the overhang of thick, full green oak trees, but that time had long since passed along with my parents.
Slowly I crawled over the creaky fence, landing on the other side with a soft thump. The dark night sky made seeing the headstones difficult, but I didn't need to see the names, my feet knew the path that they had walked a thousand times before. Lightly I trudged through the snow, this was the only place left for me, the only place that held anything for me at all, and it held the most valuable thing of all.
When I was little my father had told me to come to him when I had no place to go even if he was already gone. I remembered those words now as I was pulled closer and closer to his final resting place. There was no doubt in my mind that my father could protect me even from the grave and as I came up on a set of elegantly carved stones. Thick layers of dust covered them as if the groundskeeper had been too afraid of the man who lay below to clean it- which he probably had. No one would dare to disturb the Mafia Boss' grave for fear he would rise and smite them from the earth. Yet as I approached the stones I noticed fresh footsteps in the pure white snow ruining the otherwise untainted blanket leading up to the grave markers. Then I saw them. Flowers.
On the old weathered step between the two gray stones sat a dozen bright red roses, their color a stark contrast to the dreary grey grave yard. Not a single petal had wilted nor had a flurry touched them, pristine and perfect they sat on a recently cleared slab of concrete making me wonder who else could cared about the man who rested below. Turning around slowly my eyes searched for any sign of life around me, whoever left these roses may have hung around and I needed to work uninterrupted, or at the very least not have any witnesses.
Going between the two graves right in front of the stone I dropped to my knees staring at my mother's forlorn grave. Even now because of my father she was alone; just like I am. A single crystal tear welled in my right eye, making its icy decent down my cheek as I thrust my hands into the snow and cried, wetting my already freezing hands as they worked to clear the ground.
Inches of snow were pushed back forming little hills around me to reveal the hard dirt littered with rocks. Swallowing my tears I dug into the earth and kept going widening my hole until it was flush up against my mother's casket. I pushed down going deeper. The hole seemed endless as well as the digging making me wonder if my father hadn't left me a message after all. As the shreds of hope I'd held for a few precious seconds began to fade and the darkness began its ascent my finger jammed itself against a hard object, that was rough against my skin, but soft from years of wear.
Quickly I scrambled to the spot and dug fast pulling handfuls of dirt out at a time mixing the pure white hill of snow with the blackened dirt creating a picture of good and evil as they blended together slowly becoming indistinguishable. Just as they were in me.
Finally the last clump of dirt was lifted and the worn covered of my father's journal stared up at me. Gently I reached down and picked up the brown leather book that had been with the man who'd raised me longer than I could remember. Clutching it tightly to my chest for a minute I felt my father's presence stirring around me making me wonder if his ghost was here after all.
I lowered the delicate old book, gently tugging open the decaying cover to reveal the famliar thick cursive that spoke of many pencils being broken they were pushed down so hard. It was fitting though, Romulus Casimir was in no way a small man. He towered above any he passed, dwarfing them with both the authority he radiated and sheer size. Easily he reached around seven feet with long lean muscles that were like that of a Martial artist's- slim, but powerful and lethal. He was quite the oddity in our rough winters with hair as black as night and olive skin so golden you'd think he lived on the sun. The only feature we shared were our eyes, the sharpness and cunning that caused those around us to remark that we looked like snakes; soulless ones at that. That however was where any resemblance ended; my skins pallor was so obvious I almost looked translucent and my long wild blonde hair so white it could be made of snowflakes, leaving the only color on my face to come from my enormous green eyes which widened as they took in the heavy handwriting on the page. A single sentence was scrawled across the first page calling out to me.

My name is Romulus Casimir, and if you are reading this then I must be dead, but my work must continue and you dear reader are the one who must do it.

Below that were four simple words written in my country's native language that changed everything for me, as I felt the darkness rise in me again.

Конец прибывает

The end is coming.