To Trust in Death

January 1st. Two thousand and twenty.

Twelve – o – one am.

Was the night – the solitary moment – I died for the second time.

In a bar awash with the scents of sweat, beer and vile deeds. In a town so drenched in its unforgivable actions it should have been a portal to Hell rather than a shit hole a few scant miles from middle-class suburbia.

As the searing pain of Gallagar's bullet ended my short life, I saw my opponent fall to the ground as I did. I saw my enemy crumple in a pile of now unsteady limbs and knock off denim, the wad of dollar bills he had just conned from hustling pool floating around him as morbid blood splattered confetti.

He simply stared at me, his mouth agape, his last moments filled with recognition, disbelief and hatred. He took his last breath with fear as I took mine with a smile, and gave myself up into the arms of Death.

~~~

Once upon a time...

That is how these stories start do they not? They start with the girl coming from a poor background and ascending to a wondrous existence on the arm of her prince charming. Except, it seemed to be the other way around for me.

I sat back on the old bench and took another draw on my cigarette as I watched the world pass by me in a blur of Moms trying to fit all their chores into the time when their little darlings were occupied at school or nursery, high corporate types walking barefoot in the park to distress while they sipped on triple espressos and popped their vicodin from non descript bottles with shifty movements. The well groomed ladies with their midget dogs, the odd bum rummaging through the remnants of yesterdays waste as coppers on the safe-beat urged them on. The entire city moved as though nothing had changed. They riffled through the latest news, the stocks, and the celeb gossip and passed by the full page spreads of the missing, murdered and raped. They conveniently ignored everything that threatened their own little sphere of happiness, anything that might interfere with them getting that dinner ready for their businessman husbands and colleagues, that pedicure they so desperately needed, covering that stripe of grey hair that threatened their job.

I could see it all from where I sat. Hear snippets of conversation filter through the swiftly moving crowds as my own world shuddered to a gear-crunchingly slow halt even as theirs continued blithely on. What would it take? Would each of them have to witness the darkness I have seen before they stopped for just a single moment and realised that all they held in such high regard above themselves and those around them, was worthless, meaningless crap. Cocooned in their own little bubbles, they continue on and on and on.

Thirty people died last night, three-oh. I've sat here and watched the vendor dole out nearly one hundred newspapers and not one person has lingered on the front page where the massacre is featured. The horrifying picture is turned away, hidden behind that of the page three crossword and last weeks winners as it us uniformly ignored. Is it self preservation that stops them from reading it? Do they see the name of the street it occurred in and think that those thirty souls were despots and crack heads, hookers and paedos? That they deserved the fate that befell them?

I wonder how many of them knew Maura Jane Hartley? Malcolm Smith. Johnathon Tyler. Cindy Maddle. A teacher, a priest, a bowling alley manager and a waitress at the high class Luna Siren restaurant on ninth. Did any one in this god-forsaken city spare a glance at their ordinary looking photographs on the front page beneath the bloodbath picture of their horrific combined deaths?

I doubted it.

I used to be one of those people; I'm unashamed to admit the truth. It was a brush with the darkness that gave me a moment of enlightenment to what went on outside my little perfect sphere of good grades and maintaining a spotless GPA. It was an all too similar bloodbath one year ago today that pulled me from my perfect little world. My college, my simple little hairdressing job I worked each evening with my twin to help bring in a wage for Momma. A giant crack appeared in my bubble – and I would have given anything in the world to repair it – to seal it up and forget what I had seen, forget the path I now follow.

Odour-de-bum passed me by and I inhaled deeply on my cigarette to block out the stench of bodily fluids and garbage as he rummaged in the trash beside me. Balancing the filter in my mouth, I grabbed a handful of change from my pocket and handed it to him before silently pointing him in the direction of the coffee stand. He took it with an almost toothless smile and eternal gratitude before he limped off and left me to my clean-ish air once more.

I pushed the short lengths of my dark purple bangs away from my face as I took another draw. I checked my battered watch and settled back, my arms hanging loosely over the back of the bench as my head fell and I gazed up at the setting day. The clouds hung in dull white against a sky of blues, reds and gold. The trails of long-passed planes filled with happy tourists and jetsetters, businesspersons and disgruntled cabin crew marred the natural beauty of it. Yet another thing passing through time and space oblivious to the present.

In a few short hours, the night would fully descend and the parties in the city's numerous clubs would erupt into full swing. The lights would be wild, the music vibrating through the concrete jungle as street after street sought to bring in the New Year in style. There would be a sea of multi-coloured faces, different cultures all welcoming in the change of one decade into another. There would be a thousand different languages, songs, cheers and kisses, hugs and well wishes. Would it be the same in the homes of those killed last night? Would they be welcoming in a new year with wine and champagne, nibbles and comedy on the television? Or would they be curled up on their loved one's bed, their nightshirt, their favourite teddy or photograph in their anguished arms. Just as I had.

I felt a gentle tap on my bare forearm and I raised my head to my company. Rich coffee filled the air and masked the pungent aroma of the one who offered it. With a paper cup salute, he thanked me with all too knowing eyes, and I returned the salute to the seemingly one person in the city that had their eyes wide open. As I sipped the warm brew, I watched the old man disappear round the bend and leave the park into the main street. He settled himself against the grey stone of the Courthouse, amidst his borrowed blankets and cardboard pieces and sipped his coffee with a peace I wished I could share.

Draining the cup, I put it in the trash and stretched as I stood up. The chilly winter air had turned my muscles to stone and the movement was not pleasant. Collecting my paper, I took one last look around at those pretty little bubbles and their many oblivious owners and wondered which of them would meet their end tonight and be ignored on the front cover of tomorrow's paper.

~~~

The water stung my face, the heat of it making my skin contract as I refreshed myself. I brushed my teeth, flossed and then re-flossed. It was with a shuddering sigh I admitted I was delaying. I dared a look in the mirror then. Gone were the long mahogany locks, replaced by an impossibly deep purple hue that many women would kill for. To disguise myself, my hair was cut to my neck, short bangs fell across my face and concealed it in shadows, and dark eyes stared back out at me from beneath them and lamented the bubble girl mirrors used to project. Was that really only a year ago? It seemed as though a lifetime had passed me by.

Memories, flashbacks of glass and blood, of guns and screams. Mayhem, madness, echoing hollers and sickening laughter sounded in my ears as I watched the mirror image in front of me project the past to play out behind me. Millie's hair soaked in blood, a scarred hand wrapping in its long lengths and lifting her whimpering body from the ground. I felt every hit, every smack, punch, kick and thrust she had endured, I felt each blood curdling scream, every pleading word for help, and I relived her terror until I was sick from it.

Abruptly, the image faded away and the brown stained sixty year old wallpaper of my rented one bed apartment was back where it should have been once more. I rinsed my mouth and the sink and turned off the overhead light. With a quick glance at the clock, I knew it was time to get moving. I had only two more hours before everyone in this city let their hair down – let their guard down – and this had to be over by then. Already I could hear the reverberation of their bikes, the echoing thunder as it bounced off steel and glass as they reminded those of us who lived closest to their zone that they were still there. I pulled my few belongings from the closet and packed them away. I knew I wasn't coming back here; there was no need to create work for anyone by leaving my shit everywhere. I dressed, in clothing I would not have been found dead in a year ago and yet strangely fit me now – fit who I had become. Leather didn't show half as much blood as a blue party dress and matching bolero. I shuddered. I really didn't have time to think about that right now. I should really save it for later, but even as I pulled on my black top and tied the front laces, my mind wandered back to how I used to be. Side by side, you could not tell Millie and I apart. Identical in every way on the outside, but we were as different on the inside as we could possibly be. I was education, learning, grades, exploring the wonders of the universe and science. Millie was parties, fun, bands and music, experimentation, sex and drugs. I took my kicks from sky diving, and she got hers from bikes.

It was her kicks that got us noticed by them. A year ago tonight, we became the front page news in our little city for the following morning. "Bloodbath on Rue 14." And it was just as it had been this afternoon. Everyone had continued in their little bubbles, not letting the shocking discovery of twenty two bodies' brutally murdered ruin their New Year's Day spirit. The police hadn't even been interested, they had bagged and tagged, had taken photos of the crime scene, the calling card, the corpses. I know, I was there. I had watched from above as they stepped carefully around the inch thick congealed blood and made comments that made my skin itch. But though it was known who had done this, the police never quite made it over to Gallagar's place to ask any questions.

I could still taste our combined blood. I remember how many hours it had taken to wash the sticky remnants from my skin, how many times I had emptied my stomach at the sight of my wounds closing unnaturally, expelling the bullets that had seared my flesh and drained my life's-blood. I remember my sister's eyes losing their light, my Momma's final scream as they ended her life in the gutter. The echoes of the nineteen strangers, their pain, and their deaths will forever haunt me. But it also is brought me to this.

It was our murders, the shattering glass of my perfect bubble that made me utter words into the last tolling bells before midnight. I sold my soul into the gentle rain. And put my trust in Death.

I opened eyes that had once been blue and now were black to the sight of blood, gore and suffering. My first reawakened moments were filled with the wide eyed stare and blue lips of my sister, the thick gash through her pale throat, and the ripped material of our matching blue dresses. My fingers had felt the blood around me cool as the sky lit up with fire works and cheers beneath the moon. It was then that I saw him. Swathed in black...a black that was not a colour...more a substance that was not there, he stood in the street at the top of Rue 14. His face was shielded from my sight as he came towards me but every so often as a lone firework lit the night with its obscene spark I could see him clearly.

He was menace. He was malice. He was violence, frenzy and malevolence. He was revenge, sweet and fulfilling. And he was decadence. I craved him – every inch of the vengeance he offered – I lusted for it with a ferocity I had never experienced. A cry came from my soul that shattered the night surrounding us; it blacked out the moon, the stars and halted the cacophony of midnight celebrations. It plunged us into darkness, before my anguished scream finally descended into silence and the moon returned to us. He stopped then, his beautiful head cocking to one side before he sank to his knees in the blood surrounding me with a grace that was eerily beautiful. I lay on my back, staring up towards him as his face settled above my own. His lips descended, icy cold over my own – teasing, urging – as he kissed me. His hands, pale and strong gripped my face, tangled in my hair as he pulled my head from the ground and continued. I could feel my body rise, guided by unseen hands as I leant towards him, my own bloodstained hands finding his shoulders beneath the darkness of his cloak. This was no woven material, no textile or cloth...it was nothingness; it slithered like that of the black creeping night across the backs of my hands where it rested as I gripped his shoulders in his embrace.

He pulled me astride his lap, his kiss ferocious, and his hands almost painful in my hair, on my skin as he growled against my lips. He tore his mouth away, and I gazed down at the man beneath me. No, he was not a man. To call him that would be a grave injustice to the creature I held in my arms that night. He did not kill without reason; he did not take the souls of the innocent with pain and terror. He took them to peace, and then meted out vengeance against those who deserved it.

What is it you want little one?

His voice had given me the shivers. It had taken me long moments to remember the carnage and death surrounding me. But remember, I did. I had spoken words into the night I had never thought to say, they had simply formed on the tip of my tongue and in an instant they were gone along with my life. I had called him to me, pulled him from his realm and brought him towards the soul I had promised to him alone. He may take souls, ferry them to peace or torture, but he rarely owned one. One worth keeping, he told me.

It was the vengeance in my dying breath, the cry of my mortal soul at the thought of the injustice dealt that night that led him to accept my bargain. One year, I would have amongst the mortal realm from the night that had heralded my death. I would live one more year amongst the scents of summer, the colours of fall, and the chill of winter before I could take my revenge. I would wait, and watch and learn all that I could about my enemy and I would get my chance to end him. He would do the rest.

Our bargain was struck knee deep in blood beneath a bright full moon and sparklers in the sky. I would wait my year, I would let my resentment, my hatred, my vehement lust for retribution grow and consume me. I would not forget those who died, I would not ignore the suffering from the safety of a bubble all the while convincing myself that dead body would never be me.

Well, it was me. It was my sister. It was my mother. And nineteen other mothers, sisters, brothers, friends and children.

Now, these were the last few hours I would spend on this ignorant Earth. And they were the last few hours the Earth would be ignorant. I would get my one shot, at the one who murdered my Momma, and my Millie, the one who raped her before she died. At the one she had called boyfriend, and rode bikes with, the one who had lured my fun loving sister into a world of drugs, sex and crime and then refused to allow her to escape from it when she finally saw sense. I would send Molvern's soul to the very depths of hell, and Death would take the rest...every single last one of them...kicking and screaming into the abyss.

For me.

He sealed our bargain with his kiss, and I sealed it with the purity of my body.

He took me from the blood as half hearted sirens broke the night, the sound of car doors slamming with disgust that they had been called out at midnight for more of 'this shit'. We watched from above, the flashes of cameras – both police and reporters – illuminating the macabre scene below. Pale and dark limbs mixed in a sea of red and upturned trash. Our city's finest police service, labelling the victims as druggies in the wrong place at the wrong time to the anxious microphones of the press – something they knew was bullshit. I was immensely proud of the reporter that did the front page spread of our deaths, it had our final scene, our little photographs, not those hideous ones you wish your friend never took at six am after a night out that actually make you look like a bum, but nice respectable photographs. It did no good though. The police were adamant; they refused to speak to Gallagar and his regulars. So much for the force protecting and serving...I know now of at least seven members of the PD who are on the payroll from Gallagar himself.

He brought me to this place, this small one bed apartment with its brown walls and flickering lights. He sat me down and brought a pen and a rolled scroll of white from the void created by his cloak and he laid it before me. Our bargain. I signed along the blood red line, and he signed along his. So Death did have a name. I mused.

He pressed me back against the soft sheets, silently kissed the tears that escaped me as he removed my tattered dress with exquisite care. Long scraps of once-blue silk fell away, the material parting beneath his touch. I allowed my hands to feather beneath his cloak as he claimed my mouth, the void warming with my touch. I untied the thick cord at his throat and moaned against him as the cloak took flight from his form and melded with the shadows above us. His long dark hair framed us both and he continued to plunder my mouth, his tongue thrust, parried and waged war against my own as he striped me, leaving me bare beneath the sudden heat of his skin. He was no longer cold; his pale skin was flushed beneath my fingertips as I explored him. Everywhere I touched I was met with evidence of his strength; his arms were tense as he held himself on his elbows above me, his chest hard where it was pressed against my own. He could snap me like a twig, and yet even under the onslaught of his feverish touch I felt no pain.

I vaguely felt him shift against me, the hardness of his body resting fully against the softness of my own as he pierced me in one solid thrust. I screamed then. Yielding against him, I welcomed his passion even as he growled low and stilled inside me. My breaths were shallow as he reached between our bodies and toyed with me. I moaned deeply, having never felt anything like it, I was lost beneath him. My body vibrated with pleasure, and as it soared that first time, I felt more alive than I had when I was truly amongst the living. His gentle fingers left me then, smearing my blood on our parchment before licking his fingers clean. Our bargain rolled itself and joined the cloak in the shadows as he secured my wrists above my head and unleashed his body on mine.

My soul sang. It rejoiced in his presence and begged him for more. I worshiped each inch of him that I could as he took me. I explored with my mouth, I followed the wisps of living black flames that shone beneath his skin, I ran my tongue over anything I could reach – kissing him, tasting him – the scent of him changed with our passions, warm and addictive it swallowed me whole and filled my heart. He pulled me astride him; amidst tangled sheets I had never slept in I rocked my body against his, tangled my fingers in his hair and devoured his mouth. His hands guided and soothed the tempest that had become my being, and enraged it all in one go. It was in his arms, as he gave himself to me with a shuddering roar, that I lost myself to him.