Death's Diary

Mo Johnson

        Here we are.  In the place we were taught to fear.  Enveloped in darkness, watching the red bricks around us rot with time.  Where are we exactly?

 

                                                               <>Dark Alleys <>

                                                      They may seem harmless,

                                                 but you have no idea how many

                                                      souls I have grasped here.

 

They’re pathetic deaths really.  Drunkenness, brick avalanches, and of course those selfish suicide missions.  The alleys seem to hold their breath and meditate.  The criminals who run through can’t seem to disturb the cement that has found it’s permanent.

The next man who comes through turns the alley dark purple.  Like the grape juice stain on your irritated white shirt.  Because that’s exactly what this man is.  A stain.

 

                                                                  <> Mo Johnson <>

                                                               Black hair.  Pale skin.

                                                 He won’t go without a fight in the end.

 

By now the sky was the color of the ocean.  I’ve been to the ocean many times, seeking souls at the bottom of the sea.  Mo has never been to the ocean.  And he never will.  His steps are hard as they noisily pound on the hard concrete ground in a sprint.  He doesn’t fear me, but he’d rather not be killed tonight.

 

                                                                  <> Another Setting <>

                                                    Lights.  Drinks.  Dance floor. Alive eyes.

                                                                       Everything is normal.

                                                                                      For now.

 

Mo slowly walks over to a quiet brunette.  Her dress is the color of emeralds, her eyes are fireflies.  Beauty is written on her face with invisible marker.  Confidence hangs on Mo’s shoulders as he gestures to her.  She smiles and lets her cold hand guide its way into his warm one and they walk to the floor awkwardly.  They aren’t meant for eachother, but Mo is impatient.  They’re two puzzle pieces that don’t fit, stapled together.  Forced.  Just like the smiles slapped on their faces.  I stand in the corner like an innocent wallflower.  Everyone around me is in their early to mid-twenties, and I’m older than time itself.  No one wants to dance with death.

   

                                                             <> Some Facts <>

                                                       People here will die soon.

                                                        Mo may be one of them.

                                                           No one here is safe.

 

Happiness turns to black.  The rooms color is dying out, becoming dry and achromatic.  Smiles turn to helpless cries and I get ready for my role.  Gunshots ring the ears of the innocent.  One person to my left is shot, right in the heart.  I walk to the lifeless body.  Blonde hair curls limply to the side while her tan face looks at me, expressionless.  I hold her soul tight.  Many others around us are already dead.  The shooter isn’t stopping now, and it seems he never will, the way his unshaved grimace looks at me square in the face.  

Glancing over I see a pile of vibrant green and brown.  The girl.  I slowly reach to her soul, careful not to disturb the crimson blood staining her arms and face.  It’s a shame really.  

A quick movement to my left catches my attention.  The shooter sees it too and follows.

 

                                                               <>The Shooter <>

                                                                  Male, age 23.

                                                                  James Young.

                                            He was  a raspberry on a blackberry bush.

                                                          Adopted, but not wanted.

 

James is determined to kill the last party-goer.  Everyone else is covered in blood.  How could one person do such destruction?  Cause such pain?  Make a grown man like Mo run for his dear life?

Mo’s breathing is shaky.  He knows this won’t end well.  Outside, the wind bites sharply at Mo’s neck, urging him to give up.  A dark alley lures him.  For once in his life, an alleyway seemed like the safest place to be.  But James is getting closer.

 

                                                       <> The next few minutes <>

Mo enters the alley, letting darkness eat him. james follows, clenching his gun tight. They both run. Footsteps in sync with each other. Both breathing hard.

                Finally a dead end.  Bricks tease Mo as they block him from freedom.

A dead end. Dead end. Dead. That name has never been more accurate. One will die. That’s just the way things work. Sometimes it’s hard to watch. Other times I’m not there soon enough for it to be hard to watch.  

No one speaks.  James simply holds the gun up towards Mo, aiming directly at hisbrain.   

A shot. Loud and clear. Blood, spilled like milk in the morning. A smile, cold yet relieved. Not one but two guns.  Someone lays lifeless at my feet.

                                                

                                                                       <> Who? <>

                                                                     James Young.