Her father grabs some dirt from the pile, while her mother sobs; screaming and rocking; her body wracking. The priest finishes his piece. Her mother drops to her knees. The priest is speaking his part, his tone never wavering. The casket is lowered down, to where it will rest. The pallbearers carry the casket towards the grave site. A collection of her friends and family stand around the hole in the ground, silent and still. The Priest is already there, waiting. The hearse pulls up, and the doors swing open. Cars start pulling up, first the family car, then friends and extended family.

The Pallbearers load the casket into the hearse.

The ceremony has ended, and the crowd parts for her family to pass through. The Priest reminds everyone to celebrate the passing, not mourn the loss; his words fall on deaf ears. Her friends step down from the microphone, voices fading. Her friends talk about the good times, and how fantastic a friend she was. They start to cry as they talk, unashamed and unaware of just how strong their tears flow. Her friends talk about when they first met, when they had their first fight, all their silly promises, and when they went to the cottage that one time. Two girls are asked to the microphone, to talk about her.

Her fathers heart breaks a little more.

Her father steps down, slowly, shaking; hands and face ashen and shattered, smeared with tears and mucus. He finishes speaking and his words echo in the room: “If I only had known that I’d only have one more day…”; the soft sounds of mourning breaking the silence, yet adding to it. He talks about how much he misses her already. He smiles as he talks about the time she got into a fight with a boy down the street. He talks about how his daughter wanted to change the world; all the dreams and aspirations she had. He stands silently for an eternity; a minute. He walks to the microphone, and grasps the podium with his hands. Her father stands, slowly, and stands for a moment.

The priest asks her father to say a few words.

The Priest ends off his prayer. He asks God and the angels to receive her, to protect her and to watch over her. He states that though we do not understand his plan, God does, and that is enough for his flock. The Priest prays, and the congregation half-heartedly follows along. The music ends. Her favorite song is played over the PA system while the crowd shuffles in. Her family tells the Priest that they’re ready for everyone. Her father, mother, sister, and little brother talk to her. Some of her close friends approach the casket and sniffle as they talk.

Her family and close friends enter the funeral home.

Calls are made and flowers chosen. Her mother and father struggle to pick a casket for their daughter. The funeral director opens the door, sits them down, and starts to explain some of the options that they have. Her parents stand outside of the funeral directors office, hand hovering above the handle; turning it makes it real. They make their way towards the main office, their faces muted, their bodies shrunken and gray. They walk through the hallway of the funeral home, looking around at the flower arrangements and the emotion-neutral paintings. Her parents enter the funeral home, breaking down on its steps; cars passing by as they crumble.

Her family pulls up in a silver car.

They don’t sleep all night; they haven’t slept much since the call. Her father stands in the doorway to her room, the door frame supporting him. Her mom is crying into her pillow, her screams and sobs muffled. Dust motes hover in the air, disturbed from their meal, their rest; vultures circling their dinner, circling their home. Her clothes lay on the ground, untouched since she got changed a few days ago. Her mom collapses on her bed, unable to form the words to articulate her grief. The door opens, and her mother stumbles in, knowing the pain will multiply, but unable to do anything else. A mosaic of photos on the wall shine from the streetlights outside.

Her cellphone lays on the pavement, bleating and shaking, waiting for it’s owner to pick it up, to answer.

The grass is painted a dark shade of red. Glass shards cover the ground, the pavement; turning this quiet street adding to the nightmare landscape that’s been formed. The smell of gas hangs in the air; the silence broken by the sirens in the distance. A man runs out of a near-by house, having witnessed the crash, phone in hand as he runs. He’s ejected from the car, his life ending as he soars for the first and last time. The cars connect, rending metal and grinding parts losing function, losing their identity. Tires scream in protest, but to little avail. She screams as their cars come together, unable to change direction in time. He flys through the stop sign; he doesn’t even see it. He doesn’t know what’s going on. He’s quickly losing control, his car swinging between invisible obstacles.

She rounds the corner, signal blinking innocently.

He drives down the road, swerving slightly; the smell of gin hanging in the car as a fog. He struggles to get the key in the door of his car, stab, stab, stab. He mumbles to himself as he sifts through the filth in his pocket for his weapon of choice, his hand eventually finding the cold metal he was seeking. As he closes the door, he considers locking the door but decides against it; if people want to steal his stuff, he can at least get some money from the insurance. He grabs his jacket from the floor, and jams his feet into his worn and tired shoes. He’s going to show them what they’ve done to him; it’s all their fault; they did this to him.

The bottle tips over, purged of its contents.

He drops the bottle on the table, scouring; he’s made his decision. He throws the phone at the wall, watching as another part of his life shatters. He hangs up; hand shaking. He continues to argue on the phone, his brain gagging on the fuel provided to it. He alternates between rage and sorrow as he barters with the voice he hears on the phone. He doesn’t bother saying anything, the voice on the other end knows to just start talking at him. He picks up the phone and wills his thumb to press the ‘talk’ button. The phone rings, a noise all to familiar by this point. Nothing good has come from it. As he lays on the couch, his life in tatters around him, day time television plays in the background displaying other people with other problems; a vain attempt to feel better about himself. He hasn’t moved in two hours, not since he brought the gin from the freezer.

She sets off down the road.

She kisses her dad on the cheek as he hands her the keys; she’s visiting her friend. She’s already calling for her parents as her foot hits the first step on the stairs. She gets changed, running around her room, her favorite song bopping along from her cellphone. She closes her cellphone, happily clicking shut. She asks if they can get together, and they decide on a coffee shop five minutes down the road. Her friend is back in town for school, and wanted to surprise her. Her friends Internet connection hasn’t been working for the last couple of months, and her cellphone fell in the toilet, which explains the radio silence that they had. At first she’s mad, as her friend hasn’t talked to her in a while, and there was no explanation. She answers to find a friend she hasn’t heard from in a couple of months on the other side. Her phone continues rings, happily singing it’s song and vibrating in joy.

She wakes up to the sound of her cellphone craving her attention; dreams rolling back from where they came.

Seriously, I was. I got picked on at school for every possible reason: Mamas boy, nerd, totally out of style, ugly, etc. etc. The usual stuff, I know, but it hurt all the same. High school wasn’t any better. I never had a girlfriend. Hell, I barely had friends, and they weren’t exactly the socialites of the century either. Like minds stick together and all that I guess.

Once I got into the real world I drove a crappy car, because I couldn’t afford a nice one with the crappy pay from my crappy job. I barely even got the job I had, and only because the shear mass of my pathetic life weighed down on my bosses conscience so much that it’d have been like kicking a three-legged puppy while it was down. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my job and the people I worked with. It was just crummy pay, which resulted in the crummy car.

I did manage to move out on my own, but much like my car, my place wasn’t exactly fantastic. The roof leaked, the tap leaked, the shower leaked… pretty much anything that could leak, did. On top of that, it was above an Indian fast-food joint. This resulted in everything I owned smelling a tad too strongly of every kind of curry and spice known to man, and all at the same time. It had one window, and it was small. Really small. Insanely, stupidly small. I paid too much rent for it, but I was too much of a sucker to say anything.

I hadn’t kissed a girl until I was 24, and I won’t even bother embarrassing myself further by going into the details of my non-existent sex life.

Suffice it to say, I was pathetic in every possible way. I was the definition of ‘last place’.

Then I met Kam.

Kam was a girl. Kam was a girl I met at a coffee shop while waiting in line in a coffee shop to buy a coffee that was far too exotic and far too expensive for me. I had had a rather good day at work, and I felt like treating myself. She was in line behind me, though I only found this out after I had bought my way-to-expensive drink.

As I turned around, our eyes met.

I was in love, simple as that.

As I walked past her, I knew that she was ‘The One.’ I had to talk to her. I had to talk to her and find out her name and what she likes and what she hates and if she had pets and if she liked to read. There were a million other things I wanted to ask her, but at that moment I slipped on a wet tile and went down like a sack of potatoes.

—

When I came to, I was still on the coffee shop floor; my coffee raising the price of the tile that it had spilled on, and many a gawking person hovering over me. Kam actually had the decency to try and help me up. It took a couple tries as I was slipping far too much. She told me to sit still because I was bleeding, and it would probably be best to get a doctor to have a look at me. I’m pretty sure I agreed, but the whole thing is a little hazy. I remember asking her name (Kam), but after that I forget. From what I gather I passed out.
—

When I came around again, I was sitting in a gurney. Kam was sitting there, as worried looking as anything but hadn’t noticed I was awake. I managed to steal a couple moments to appreciate her.

She wasn’t the cutest girl in the world, but she had a charm about her that blew me away. Just looking at her nearly brought me to tears, though that could have been the endorphins wearing off. Time slowed as I took every part of her in: her eyes, her hair, her skin, her mouth, even the way she sat. Everything about her was breath-taking.

Then the doctor came in, and time resumed it’s normal speed. He used some of that faux ‘trauma doctor charm’ and said that he was glad to see me conscious. Not exactly a high bar, but it was good enough for him. He asked Kam what happened as he didn’t trust me to retell the tale. He had a look at my head and said that I was indeed going to need a couple stitches. He left for a moment, and returning with a nurse in tow, he told me to turn around so he could “patch me up.”

When the doctor had finished stitching me up, which took a couple tries because apparently my scalp rejects local anesthetic, he told me that I’m lucky I didn’t have a concussion and that my friend was smart to call paramedics. With that, he disappeared through the doorway to treat some other person with minimal enthusiasm.

Kam asked me if I was okay, and I asked her if she wanted to go get something to eat.

I didn’t expect myself to say it. Asking her that showed way more confidence than I actually had. I still blame the fall to my momentary lapse of Loserdom. She was so blind-sided that she actually agreed! My first date in years, and I got it from a trip to the hospital.

If only I had known it was that easy.

—

We walked to a little diner near the hospital, because neither of us had transportation. I had ridden in the back of the ambulance, and apparently she had as well.

We started to talk, awkwardly of course. I asked her about herself, if she had pets, if she read, and about three percent of all the questions I wanted to ask her. In turn she asked me similar questions, and we ended up having a lot in common. It was at this point that my previous feeling of The One had been confirmed. I had to be with her, and that was that.

Finding a diner, we went inside and got some late breakfast. We finished dinner, and I asked her whether I could see her again in a less hospital-related way. In a shocking turn of events she said yes, and I nearly choked on my much-less-expensive coffee. She thought I was cute in an awkward, nerd-next-door sort of way. I decided to take this as a compliment and asked her for her number. She scrambled through her overly-large purse and dug out a pen and paper. She scribbled her number down, handed it to me, and then somehow managed to flag down a near-by taxi.

This girl was magic.

I walked the 43 blocks home.

—

Our first date is something that was so wonderful, so pure, that it will forever be burned into my memory. We met at a park half-way between our homes. I brought a picnic basket filled with the nicest foods I could afford. Granted that didn’t really add up to much, but as Kam put it, “It’s the thought that counts, silly.” I can believe in that.

We met with it feeling almost like it was the first time all over again. We walked down a wide path surrounded by trees, both of us afraid to start talking. Mothers with strollers would walk past us, giving us knowing looks. Children would run blindly past us oblivious of the awkward air that they too would have to deal with when they grew older. I listened to the world, trying to glean some knowledge from the winds and the trees and the dirt.

She broke the silence by asking me how my day had gone, and told me about hers. I couldn’t trust myself to talk much, so I listened. I didn’t mind being the silent one since It’s something I’m used to. No one bothers to pay attention to me, so I end up being a listener anyways. She was thankful for someone who was such a good listener. Who would have thought that being ignored for a good portion of your life would finally pay off?

When we came to a nice clearing, I set up the picnic and we sat down to eat. The sun was just moving through the trees providing us with a semi-shade, and the wind blew through the leaves softly, creating music that you can only hear in your memories. If the day could have been any more picturesque, there would have been little ragged mice with violins playing to the side, tears in their eyes.

As we ate, I made it my mission to sit beside her. Juvenile I know, but I didn’t have much experience at this. Back to basics and all that. My self-induced mission took roughly 2 hours of eating, drinking and conversation, all the while my minds wheels turning on how to find any excuse to move closer. She either didn’t mind or didn’t notice; I assume she knew what I was doing but let me do it. She was always so understanding; she could read me like a book.

I made her laugh, and she made me smile. I told her jokes that I had heard, and she told me about her life, and the little things that made it special to her. I told her she was special, and so special things naturally came to her. She blushed, and I blushed, and we sat there on the ground silently competing for who closer match the shade of an apple. This would be later be my fondest memory within what is already my fondest memory.

As the sun started to set amongst the trees, and the winds started to cool, we opted to pack it in for the day. If I had had it my way, we would have sat there until the ends of the earth. She made everything brighter and more wondrous. She opened my eyes to all the little things I never appreciated. Her laughter was music, and her smiles fought the sun.

We packed the food and the wrappers; the forks and the plates. I folded the blanket we sat on and stood up. We walked back to the entrance to the pack in silence, listening to nature sing us to the end of the date. The air was no longer awkward, but full of magic and a creeping joy. I would have jumped and clicked my heels if I hadn’t been sure that I would have fallen right onto my face. I opted for allowing my insides to vibrate in happiness.

When we were parting ways, I stumbled over myself asking of she’d had a good time, if she was happy, and if she’d like to go out again. I know I got all three questions out but they may have all been one word. She laughed, put her finger on my lips and shushed me. She brushed her hair behind her ear and leaned towards me. Before I knew what was happening, she was kissing me. This soft, electrifying, burst of joy. It wasn’t a hard kiss, or even a long kiss, but I returned it, and for a moment in time, everything in the world was right.

We separated, the world returning to normal. I watched her walk out of the park and hail another taxi.It was only after I watched the taxi leave that I had no idea if I would see her again.

I still think she did that on purpose to make me call her again.

—

After a couple months of dating, we were officially mad for each other. We had done all the stupid cuddly stuff that hideously cute couples do together: going to the beach, going to carnivals as I spent way too much money wining her a stuffed animal (I’m not a very good throw or aim), watched the night sky, the whole lot.

We were together whenever possible.

The best part about it was that I didn’t feel like such a loser when I was with Kam. She was so cute and smart that by simply being around her, I felt smarter and cuter and not as much of a loser. She helped me find a nicer place, helped me find a better car for the same money, and even convinced me to ask for a raise at my job. She turned my life around, little by little.

In return I gave her the only thing I could offer: myself. If she ever needed help with anything, I was there. If she needed laundry picked up, I was already on my way. If she needed someone to call in sick to work for her, I was on the phone. Whenever she needed to cry about something, I held her like it was the end of the universe.

We were in love like it was the only thing that mattered.

—

Eventually things got more… intimate. After dating for nearly a year, our occasional snogging had been pushed further and further into an adult-oriented scenario. I’m not going to gloat about it or release any sullen details because I don’t need to. Our love was progressing physically as it was mentally.

One night after going for an evening walk and getting ice cream (again, very sickly cute couple) we came back to my place and things got a little more serious than usual. We made it onto the bed, and after some tossing and turning, It happened.

It was wonderful, magical even. All of our emotion and our love was concentrated into that one moment, and for a split second we became one person. I know it sounds corny, but that’s honestly how I’d felt at the time.

As we lay in bed after, we just looked at each other for a while. Things were different now; we’d crossed that line and there was no going back. This wasn’t like a one night stand (which I had never had, thank you), or a fling. This was the real deal. As our eyes stared into each other, I asked her if she’d like to move in with me because I wanted nothing more than to wake up to those eyes every morning.

She started to cry, punched me lovingly on the chest, and called me a ‘sappy idiot.’ I just smiled and said “If you want to call me that, that’s fine. Just say yes.” And you know what? She did. Between her happy sobs, she smiled at me and I knew that I had achieved the one goal I had ever set for myself. I would be with this girl forever. I’ve managed not to screw everything up, and now she’s going to be with me forever.

We slowly fell asleep holding each other, and I cherished that moment more than anything else in my life.

—

Then I woke up. I was laying in a gurney. I looked around and found that I was alone in the room. I had an I.V. stuck in my arm and to my shock, I found myself in hospital clothing.

Suffice it to say, I started to panic.

Just then a nurse came in and gasped when she saw me failing around. She ran out of the room, and moments later burst back into the room with a short, Asian man whom I learned was a doctor.

“My my,” he said “Not too often people pull through after an injury like that.”
“I’m sorry, what? An injury like what?” I had stammered, now freaked out well beyond any normal scale.
“Your head wound. You may not remember but you had a nasty fall and cracked your head open. Luckily someone called 911, and you were rushed here.”

My mouth went dry. “When was this?” I squeaked.

“Oh about… let me check your charts.” He flipped through the clip board hanging from the end of my bed, “about … 37 days ago? So a little over a month?”

A month. I had been unconscious for a month. I had been laying in that bed, in a coma, for just over a month. Everything I had thought was real wasn’t. I didn’t have a nicer place, a nicer car, or a raise at my job. I hadn’t done sickly cute couple things. I never won any stuffed animals. I had never been to the diner.

I cried then. I cried like I had never cried before nor have i cried like that since. I shook the gurney with my sobs, my insides crashing about my chest. My nose ran and I gasped for air. I cried as my world ended.

I never met Kam.

I never did meet her. I went to that same coffee shop every day for months, but never saw her again.

I could deal with having a crappy place, a crappy car, and a crappy job. I could deal with being a loser with no hand-eye co-ordination. How could I deal without Kam? I loved her.

I still love her.

And I can still feel her when I fall asleep.

She grabs him by the wrist, and ungraciously wrenches him from his contemplation. Her nails are digging into his wrist now and she doesn’t care. Let him feel the pain, maybe then they would be on the same page.

She’s just as confused as him, though. She got so upset so quickly that she forgot what she could have been so enraged about. Tears glisten in her eyes like the gleam of sunlight refracted from a stiletto, beautiful yet undeniably dangerous. She can’t back down now. If she did, she would be wrong. She would be showing weakness. She would be vulnerable, exposed for him to see the real her. She wasn’t ready to do that; not for him. Not for any man. She had done that before, and the ending had resulted in her heart being ripped into gruesome confetti, thrown about in a parade of her own sadness. No, he didn’t need to see her like that. He wouldn’t see the inner-most her. He didn’t deserve that from her. She had to keep up this embarrassing tirade, losing face with all these strangers that didn’t even know her, doubtfully even cared. She had to keep going, she just ha–

He removes her taloned, manicured nails from his wrist. He’s wincing against the pain he feels inside. The gashes on his wrist are nothing compared to the hurt his heart is now assailed with. He’s been through this before with her. He would fold, he always did so to save himself the trouble of dealing with the real problem and her issues. He always assumed she would open up to him in time. How much time does she really need though? She’s always so defensive and always seems to have a penchant for rivaling the tectonic plates for the damage she could, and invariably would, cause. This wasn’t the first time this happened, but this would be the last. His heart felt like an old rug: worn down, stained with one to many accidents, and showing wear from too many verbal beatings. He can do better then this, and he knows it.

She’s sobbing now. She always did so when he started to show spine, to show promise of being an actual man. She wasn’t ready for that yet, and she knew that the tears would give him pause. Stop him in his tracks better then any physical chains could do, they always had. The tears run down her blotchy cheeks, forging yet another trail of deceit down the fabric of their relationship. She needed him. She knew it. She’d never tell him that though, and so the tears flow slowly, in a sickly majestic rivulet.

He’s looking away now. He never could face her tears, it made him feel terrible whenever he even thought of it. This time was different, it had to be. Enough was enough. This was it, and he knew it. This time it will end differently. This time he would tell her what he felt, how he felt. He glances at her and sees the tears. He wavers for a moment. It feels like he’s standing on the edge of a precipice with no visible bottom. Then it happens. It starts from his heart, bursting forward like a dam in a storm that cannot be held back by mere bricks and mortar. It climbs up his throat and he can’t stop it, wouldn’t stop it if he could. This needed to happen, for both of them. It explodes from his mouth in a quiet hurricane of words and feelings. Both intertwined with such reckless abandon that neither can be distinguished from the other. He screams at her without screaming, he assaults her with his indignities without volume. In reality, his voice is barely above a cracked, sobbing whisper, but his ears can barely take the tumultuous thunder that is his agony. His words a compilation of his malformed feelings for her.

She’s stunned. This was wrong, so very wrong. He was supposed to break down and apologize, he was supposed to beg for forgiveness, and he was supposed to fold like a cheap hand in poker. This was wrong. Instead of her coming out the victor of this senseless battle, she is now beset by a wall of truths. She can’t tune out what he’s saying; her body has betrayed her. Her ears force her to listen to all that she has wrought and it twists her insides in a manner more becoming of a neglected blender. She’s losing, and there is nothing she can do this time. Her tears glisten to a man blind to her sorrows. Her voice falls on the ears of a man deafened from one too many audible assaults. She’s lost.

He turns from her, having said his peace. There is nothing left in this carcass of a relationship. Let the carrion feeders make short work of what was left of that derogated past. He was done with this atrocious mess. He was done with the agony. He was done with her.

She wouldn’t let it end like this. How dare he walk away from her, leaving her like this? She won’t allow it! She reaches out and grabs his arm, turns him around with a strength borne of her scorn. She would set him straight. She would make him feel her pain.

He glares at her. She disgusts him now, and he won’t put up with this anymore. He didn’t deserve it, and wouldn’t take yet another serving of a dinner long gone rancid.

She slaps him with the back of her hand, putting all her frustration behind it, all her malice behind it. Everything she had, she put into that one connection. He stumbles, being so unprepared for the blow. He catches himself and stands tall. She goes to slap him again, but he’s faster. He doesn’t care what kind of scene he’s in now, nor does he care about the bystanders. He winds up and returns the unwelcome gift to her just as righteously.

She hits the floor, stunned. He hit her, and she couldn’t bring her mind to comprehend it. He was so kind and sensitive. He was everything she wanted and needed, and yet she had brought him to that.

He’s shaking. The urge to vomit valiantly tries to overwhelm him, but he manages to maintain a shambling semblance of composure. He turns around and walks out her life. Out of the life he knew. He holds his cheek and smiles. That was that for him. The final curtain has drawn for this tragedy, and his part in the play was over. He could move on and he would move on; he deserved that. She deserved that

She’s shaking. He was gone, and she was left with nothing. The bystanders watch her as she sobs to no one and nothing. She weeps for herself. The final curtain has drawn for this tragedy, and her part too was over. She could move on but wouldn’t. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of moving on. He didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve that.

Then the bystanders lose interest and move on. They didn’t deserve that.

A shame really. Before the kings recent binge in the extinguishing of life, our city was the most pristine in the land. Truly a sight that never failed to rob one of their breath. Even those of us who had lived here all our lives could be moved to tears from the beauty of it. Those same people are still moved to tears today, but not from the weep of joy. It is the weep of a man who must watch as his lover slowly dies, while he can do nothing to help her or ease her pain. Tears of frustration, of helplessness, of such utter grief that one would think that the very gods had come down and cursed them personally. Maybe the gods have done just that to our city. Are we doomed to watch all that which we held dear slowly decay under the weight and stench of blood and gore? Did we bring this upon ourselves?

—

Just as most of us had assumed, the pick-pocket is to be sentenced to yet another public execution in the square. The reason of course, is treason. I find myself wondering recently if he and all the other rebels are really the traitors, or if it is we who still follow the king that are the villain in it all. We arrest the innocent; we kill them under the kings will, but is that will sound? Have any of them done what the King says they have?

Again he holds himself with that quiet grace that we all find so unsettling, but there is something different. His eyes no longer hold within them the same spark that was contained with such reckless abandon a short while ago. His eyes are cold now, hard. He holds his head high still, and refuses to look away to those who dare to stare him down. More then one guard has had to glance away for the guilt they feel building within their very being. The last weapon of a man condemned. Does he feel some sort of twisted sense of pleasure, of entertainment as everyone around him squirms?

It’s his calm that throws us all so harshly. This is what sets him apart from the others we’ve ‘contained’. They all either weep like a new born child who knows not their parents, or rave like a man who has glimpse the mind of a god, who spout out incoherent drivel at the best of times. Some even rip at the bars, the walls, even themselves in a blind rage at the thought of their life being cut so violently short.

Not him. He sits there humming a tune, or trying to converse with the guards as if nothing were the matter and that his being held here was but a mere accident that would be corrected within the hour. Still though, it’s his eyes. It’s all a pantomime I know, for as I watch him I see the cold sweat beading along his hairline. I see the tremor in his hand that he cannot seem to banish. I hear the crack in his voice he covers up with a cough. I notice how he constantly paces back and forth, always moving. So much so that I would think the man could be a river, should he ever become a part of the Earth.

—

The pick-pockets day has come. He has but hours left to live, and I chafe. I chafe for the fact that I feel he was doing nothing but trying to help the city he has come to love, much like the rest of us; much like I have. When I joined the King’s ranks, I did so with the romantic notion of protecting the city I had lived in all my life; the city I had come to love as dearly as any parent; the place that I called home. What happened to that I wonder? Have I been so drawn into the motions of the job that I have forgotten the reason I had joined to begin with? Have I, in my own small way, become no better then the raving King I so respected long ago?

Maybe insanity is contagious, and I am as sick as all the others.

I pull out the keys to the pick-pockets’ cell. For the first time, I take a look at that which have been the tool of so many peoples’ destruction. Cold, hard, every nick and crack is filled with grime, dirt; there are even spots of dried blood on some of them, the keys where the more… spirited… individuals were kept. They repulse me now, but they serve their purpose silently, without complaint.

I insert the key into the now rusting lock of his cell. The lock screams its outrage at its use, so seemingly unwilling to be a part of the horrors that it has been in the past. The cell door swings open, and there he is, standing. He doesn’t dive for the door, he doesn’t scream his outrage, nor does he weep like all the others. He stands there, so strong despite the weight of all that he knows is about to happen.

“Come along now, it’s time for you to go.” I state as I stand aside to let him escape from his cell, where I am sure he could barely breathe with all the dark thoughts that pollute the room. As we walk down the hall, I grab his meager possessions, and bring them along. “I’ll at least let you die in the same state in which you lived.” I mutter as we walk past the last check point.

He gives me a look that could break even the stoniest of hearts.

“Thank you. That is more then I would expect from his graciousness, the King.” Even as he says this, he cannot completely hide the contempt in his voice, nor the sneer that crosses his face. I don’t blame him; he has every right to curse the king. Most of us do. This whole city has that right.

We approach the door to the courtyard, and I see that for a brief instant, a mere iota of time, he falters. That spark in his eyes returns in a flash, and dissipates just as quickly. For that brief moment, he cannot believe what is happening, he doubts everything as it is happening. He wonders if it’s worth his very life, and in that same instant, he knows his answer.

He adjusts his shirt, smooths his hair, and prepares himself to die for what he believes in.

I open the door, and the cool demeanor he had himself so well entrenched in slips away. We’re in the entrance to an alley. Human refuse and byproduct fills the air with a nigh-ungodly sent. The heat of the day does little help other then to keep the air heavy, and the smell low. Those in the spires will never notice, to which their blissful ignorance only perpetuates.

“What is this?” He blurts out, his mouth agape. He looks around in wide-eyed disbelief, like that of a child entering a candy shoppe for the first time.

“My own redemption,” I say as I pull out the keys, the very embodiment of everything I had come to despise. “Take the keys, and go. Do what I… What all of us are too terrified to do. Fight for our city. Free it from the death march it seems so content to continue on with. I will not stand by as my home crumbles and turns in upon itself.”

That hard look has returned to his face, and his eyes betray no emotion. All I can see within them is a reflection of myself. That same look graces my own face.
We can hear yelling from down the hallway, and the scuffling of boots as those who have caught onto my plan race to stop that which is already too late.

“You’ll die, you know this right?”

“I made my choice. Take the keys and go.” I drop the keys into his hand, and he flees the scene with a speed born of fear, of exhilaration, of a man living on the grace of the gods.

“Let my choice be not in vain.”

The guards show up and run me down without a second thought, possibly without even a first. It may be all instinct at this point. They disarm me, and force me at sword-point to the kings’ court. The King screams his rages at me, his curses at me, all his hatred and malice at me. Were I any other man in that room, I would have had to turn my head from the shear detestation that emanated from the man in palatable waves. All his hate fell upon deaf ears though, and I return to him the stare I learnt so well from the pick-pocket. He accuses me in being in league with the rebels, and I have been for months, feeding them information. A complete and unnecessary action on his part as no one believed an acidic word that dripped from his frothing lips, and no one would challenge him anyways. Who would defend a man condemned?

Other then myself.

—

It seems my last day has come. I sit in the very cell that he was contained in. I found it to be fitting that we trade places so readily. None of the guards can look at me now, and those that do stare at me as if I am already dead. Many were one time friends, some from childhood even, but none will look at me. None will fight for me. I’m just another criminal to them now. Already I can hear the rumors in the air like a perfume of a love long past; bittersweet. It has grown to be a harrowing escape wherein the pick-pocket and myself fought our way through nine or ten guards, and ending with the pick-pocket abandoning me when I was caught. I won’t correct them, I’d rather the story grow into a legend to shake what they believe in.

The lock screams once more in bitter outrage at the system it finds itself in. The door swings open, and I am dragged to my feet. I shake off their grips and hold my head high, strong. I want nothing less then to be treated like the man that I am; a man of purpose, a man of dignity; a man walking towards his own self-imposed vindication. Suddenly I know how he felt. The feeling is like no other. A total calm, a resolve in what you are doing.

I hold myself with quiet dignity as they open the doors to the courtyard. So many times I’ve gone through these motions and it was all so routine, yet this is the first time I could feel everything. I could smell the stale sweat and blood in the air. I could hear the screams or hate and sorrow of those who came to watch. I can feel the wind as is teases through my hair, giving me one last moment of solace and care-free pleasure in my ever-shortening life.

I stand before the King now; two men: one holding all the power, and the other seemingly none. He reads off the charges laid against me and grants me leave to speak my last words, and I stare into his eyes with an intensity I didn’t know I possessed.

I stare into him for what seems like an eternity, though in actuality it could have been no more then a second or two. In that moment, we clashed. Our stares fought like two souls on a battle field who have everything to lose. I can have the satisfaction of knowing that that shook him. Never had he been forced to do that. Never had he been forced to look at the people he condemned in the eyes. Never had he been forced to see the evil he had become.

He blinked first, and we both knew it.

I turn to the people, who have gone quiet as they wait for me to scream my hatred, scream my injustice to them, at them, at the very world. I hold no malice though, no hate. I have no reason to scream, to rant and rave like a man possessed.

“I chose this path, and I stand firm upon its trail. I love this city as much as I could ever love anything, and I did what I felt was right for the good of the city. I would not change my actions were I given the chance to do so. I die a man of resolve, a man of dignity. A man no more, and no less then that of you and your protectors.” My voice rings out in the square. The world has gone silent. No creature stirs, no child wails, the wind too, has gone still. My voice echo’s like a penny dropped into a well; haunting, distorted, as it rebounds off of every surface, every facet of the city I so cared for.

Emerging from what seemed an eternity of agonizing silence, the world resumes from where it had stopped, and I am placed on the block that is already slick with the blood of others. How much of this blood did I assist in spilling?

I hear the executioner pace towards me. I turn my head to face him. He, like all the others, falters under my gaze. He doesn’t agree with this anymore then I do, yet he will do his job. I can respect that, and I should expect no less. I scan the crowd for nothing more then for something to do. There he is; the pick-pocket. He stands in the front row, and stares at me. No smile graces his lips, no cries of anguish escape his lips, yet I can feel his gratitude, hear it even as clear as if he here inches from me, talking. No one recognizes him, though he stands mere feet from guards. To them, he is just another street urchin.

I turn my head and glance one last time at the King. Gone is my respect for him, gone is the fear that he used to inspire in me. All that I feel for him, for everyone, is a deep sadness and a pity for what they have, do, and will have to endure. A smile breaks the calm of my face, and I see it shake him to the core. I see him notice for the first time that he has no power over me, that even as I die, I die a man devoid of his influence.

I hear the grunt of the executioner and the scrape of the axe across the pave stones. I see the flash of light at he raises it. I feel the blade tickle the hairs on the nape of my neck. So gentle, like the kiss of a lover gone a lifetime, and freshly returned, as if we had never parted. Just as quickly as it came, it left and I am left with a sense of complete serenity, all the doubt gone from my mind, all the guesswork of life has fled. The only thought left was ‘I’m about to die’ and my acceptance therein. My expression remains placid even as the axe that once had the touch of a lover rips through my neck with military-esque precision.

Actually, I did have one more thought. For in that last, fateful moment, the spark I remember so clearly from his face, that hint of doubt, flared in my eyes.

Would I die in vain?