Legends of the Fall
Chapter Two
There is a certain bond between the fingertips of an individual and their weapon of choice. An irreplaceable, indescribable bond of love, of knowing. They have an understanding of each other; one cannot go off without the other first breaking down. Their minds are intertwined, even far after the moment, far after the nightmare, the pain. They give each other comfort, keep the other’s darkest secret, walk with them through the blackest of nights. They are their one and only friend.
His skin brushed the cool metal at his side tenderly, remembering every notch, every groove in its hard surface. A deep breath pooled itself inside his lungs as he relished the crisp November air, savoring its chilling tendrils as they crept down his throat, constricting it. These were his favorite moments: his witness of another’s final breaths. The sheer adrenaline had been lost long ago, replaced by a morbid sense of duty, of compliance. But there was still that tinge in the back of his head, telling him that he couldn’t just let it slip by without acknowledgement, that it did matter, that it might make things right again. And that’s why he kept going.
His hand trailed up, up, along his collarbone, to the back of his neck, fingering the raised scar tissue. His mark, his duty, his destiny. Whatever he had left that day had been thrown to the wind when he walked away. And no matter how many seconds a day it crossed his mind, that’s all it would ever be: a second of a day from some long forgotten story. No, it was no longer his story, no longer his pain, his guilt, but rather some story he’d heard from some drunkard. He would deny his story until the day of his death, would deny it if it meant death. Because he couldn’t relive what he’d done. Not for more than a second.
A haze passed over the moon, clouding the streets below in a sort of dreamlike trance. Nothing moved, nothing dared to take a breath in the stillness of the night. A few leaves blew down the cobbled streets, whispering their tales with the wind. A few stars peeked out to witness the night’s occurrences, but not so much as to be pulled into the mess themselves. Everything was tucked away, silent, unaware.
Two feet leapt from the rooftop, landing on the cobblestone path with the ease of a feather. A gloved hand steadied the figure against the ground, the other glued to the object on his hip. He rose, took a step, breathed in the scent of fate. It was time. A door handle was met with the sensation of a hand, and for a moment, the town was dead once more. The moon illuminated the scene like a spotlight, the wind tousled his hair softly. He slowly blinked away any thought prior to the now. Two scarlet globes meandered upward lazily, and the door creaked open.
A shadow slinked across the floorboards, unseen to all, mingled with the walls. He slid the pistol out of its safety net, clicked it back. A lump was curled tightly under the sheets in front of him, moving up and down, up and down in time with its lungs in the peaceful rhythm of sleep. His arm carried the gun up to face its target, a curved frown painted across his porcelain face.
A perfect final moment. His finger coiled around the trigger, fitting so perfectly into the well-worn groove, pulled back. Metal meshed with pale flesh in a dance of untainted death. The body moved no more, its spirit already being dragged into the depths of Hell. And it was over: another job accomplished, another chip to break off of his heart, another black streak to mar his record. The shadow morphed into the others once again, and disappeared within the blackness of the night.
His skin brushed the cool metal at his side tenderly, remembering every notch, every groove in its hard surface. A deep breath pooled itself inside his lungs as he relished the crisp November air, savoring its chilling tendrils as they crept down his throat, constricting it. These were his favorite moments: his witness of another’s final breaths. The sheer adrenaline had been lost long ago, replaced by a morbid sense of duty, of compliance. But there was still that tinge in the back of his head, telling him that he couldn’t just let it slip by without acknowledgement, that it did matter, that it might make things right again. And that’s why he kept going.
His hand trailed up, up, along his collarbone, to the back of his neck, fingering the raised scar tissue. His mark, his duty, his destiny. Whatever he had left that day had been thrown to the wind when he walked away. And no matter how many seconds a day it crossed his mind, that’s all it would ever be: a second of a day from some long forgotten story. No, it was no longer his story, no longer his pain, his guilt, but rather some story he’d heard from some drunkard. He would deny his story until the day of his death, would deny it if it meant death. Because he couldn’t relive what he’d done. Not for more than a second.
A haze passed over the moon, clouding the streets below in a sort of dreamlike trance. Nothing moved, nothing dared to take a breath in the stillness of the night. A few leaves blew down the cobbled streets, whispering their tales with the wind. A few stars peeked out to witness the night’s occurrences, but not so much as to be pulled into the mess themselves. Everything was tucked away, silent, unaware.
Two feet leapt from the rooftop, landing on the cobblestone path with the ease of a feather. A gloved hand steadied the figure against the ground, the other glued to the object on his hip. He rose, took a step, breathed in the scent of fate. It was time. A door handle was met with the sensation of a hand, and for a moment, the town was dead once more. The moon illuminated the scene like a spotlight, the wind tousled his hair softly. He slowly blinked away any thought prior to the now. Two scarlet globes meandered upward lazily, and the door creaked open.
A shadow slinked across the floorboards, unseen to all, mingled with the walls. He slid the pistol out of its safety net, clicked it back. A lump was curled tightly under the sheets in front of him, moving up and down, up and down in time with its lungs in the peaceful rhythm of sleep. His arm carried the gun up to face its target, a curved frown painted across his porcelain face.
A perfect final moment. His finger coiled around the trigger, fitting so perfectly into the well-worn groove, pulled back. Metal meshed with pale flesh in a dance of untainted death. The body moved no more, its spirit already being dragged into the depths of Hell. And it was over: another job accomplished, another chip to break off of his heart, another black streak to mar his record. The shadow morphed into the others once again, and disappeared within the blackness of the night.