I like talking to the mute, or the gagged, they are the best listeners but they never keep still. I am therefore writing, for you my mute listener, the reader.
The clouds are back by the time I am done washing. I watch the water going down in the sink, the fading red looks as ugly as the greying sky. It will start raining soon, that persistent rain which mocks you. I hate this fucking place and it might be time to move on. Maybe I am getting old, I feel tired and sink into the chair, drinking whatever I get hold of. They all taste the same, probably because they are all the same. I stopped caring about these things long ago. A numbness fills me and then, maybe after a few hours because it looks darker outside, I am wrenched out of my place.
“Do you really have to kill me,” she asks in a voice that is cold, almost inhuman, one that feels simulated and if there is any inflection it is only in her eyes. They shine with the calm intensity of the insane.
She is bound to the chair that is now placed at the centre of the cabin, facing me. Avoiding those eyes I walk towards the table, which thankfully is still in its place next to the window. Grabbing a bottle that is not empty, well, almost empty, I take a swig at it and then notice the table is slightly askew. Maybe it is the window. This is the reason why people hate furniture. I have reinforced the front door with steel but the door to the bedroom is tearing apart. There are gaping holes from which, if you peer hard, you can see the white sheet on the bed. I hate this place, it stinks of death.
To answer her question, no I don’t have to kill her. I don’t answer though, it feels like a sin to talk to these soon to die people. No wonder they send a priest to the cells. I don’t have to but I will kill her. It’s something I love to do, and in my opinion, taking out a life from this world is a bigger accomplishment than bringing a new one into existence, the latter might seem noble but is absolutely unnecessary.
A new life comes blank, almost like a piece of meat, another errant drone to the already swarmed up planet. A thriving life on the other hand, is full of dreams, hopes, agony, stories, an uncertain future and such existential elements that suffocate the individual. Deep down we all want it to end, to not wake up to another morning, to not live another day of the future that would soon become our past. A past from which we won’t learn anything new. I am like, no not just like, but truly a messiah for these poor souls. You may think of me as one of your justice systems that condemn the proven guilty, the guilt I work with is about existence without a reason.
She moves the chair disturbing my line of thought, making me realize how I hate you, the reader who will undoubtedly judge me. But I must go on, not for my redemption but for your education and if I sound pretentious, it’s because I am not getting carried away with the story forgetting you.
She is looking at me without fear, something that’s unexpected. Fear is what drives me to do the honorable act, without it these people are no different than children and I have never killed, or could ever kill a child. Children won’t appreciate what they are being saved from, they need to grow up to digest the dose of enlightenment.
“Why are you staring at me like this, are you done sermonizing,” she asks, the same voice again.
I don’t answer but I can’t take my eyes off her. It’s as if not her words but her voice, or is it the eyes, that are asking me questions. I don’t like questions, they are like shackles that you know how to get out of but in the process you know you will lose a bit of yourself. I look expectantly into her eyes searching for that fear, instead what I see now is something that can only be called abhorrence.
Being intimidating is honorable, but being despised. It is base. It makes me feel little, insignificant like a worm, or a gruesome spider, an abomination that I am not. I hate her for this. But something about her checks even the hate spewing out freely. I take another swig, a generous one. Does it taste like tar, maybe it’s the sound of rain splattering against the glass.
“You are in trouble, ain’t you,” she asks smiling and in a smug voice now. “If you are not going to kill me, release me. Let’s run away from all this.”
“Where,” I ask, immediately hating myself for it. It was on impulse, and yes, I am in trouble because I have never been impulsive. She keeps smiling, but it doesn’t seem fake anymore.
“You are irritated because you have realized the futility of your life. There is just no justification, no martyrdom for you, no reason for anything, is there?” I pick up the gun and shoot into her eyes. Surprisingly, I miss and I have never missed before. She laughs and deservedly so.
“See what I mean? It doesn’t solve anything, you are as worthless as I am, except I have a clean conscience. You on the other hand,” she pauses to sigh, “You know what life is?”
“Beat it! I don’t want philosophy, save it for your admirers.”
But I know, I feel it deep down that she is right. At times she sounds too familiar. Outside there is thunder and it looks like it’s going to be a premature dusk, did I say I hate rain. I must get done with this fast and leave this cloud-ridden town. It seems like I am repeating. But that’s what I have been doing, repeating the act over and over again, all my life. The guns have changed and so have the people, both insignificant in their transience. I may be thinking of righteousness and glory, but who am I kidding. Glory has been found in many disreputable places, but it has never been found in a rut.
“Ok you want to know about death, is it?” She looks at me coldly, as if she won’t even waste her time judging me, unlike you.
“Death is the end,” I can’t help it, I look for another bottle to fill my mouth with whiskey if only to stop talking to this horrible woman. Thankfully there is a sound outside, of tyres screeching to a halt, it must be Chuck. I hate drama and people who act with flourish. A silence follows, and in it I move swiftly and untie her. Then opening the bedroom door, I switch off the light and watch her silently blend into the darkness.
He bangs hard on the door, the same antics. I take my time to open, he barges in brandishing a gun that looks too big for his hand, and seemingly with a purpose that’s too much for his brains.
“Did you take care of the body,” he asks trying to remain calm.
“No, but I will. Why are you here” I look towards the bedroom, his eyes follow.
“Yes, I like to fuck the dead.”
He looks taken aback, sick bastard.
“Don’t even, it’s in my car. Just go away.”
“Well, you better get done with it. I am taking over, but I don’t want to waste time or bullets on you, just make sure you go clean.”
“I have a gun too, you know.”
“And you are talking? Weird shit too. Your gun is a lost cause and you know it better than anyone.”
I can see her eyes smiling through the big crack in the door. Chuck seems alarmed.
“What is in there”
“Nothing,” I say finding her eyes irresistible, “and if you want to do it yourself, take these keys, it’s in my car. Go”
“I am sorry buddy, but I have to make sure you are not up to some sick game here, don’t want no tricks. I definitely don’t want to leave hot trails,” he points the gun at the door and fires three shots.
I love the sound, and the silence that follows, It is however interrupted by drops of water trickling down the roof. He looks at me with pride and starts walking towards the door.
“Don’t go in there,” I say it with such urgency that he stops, realizes what he has done and moves further.
“Don’t open the door,” I plead, but it’s unheeded.
He walks into the room and then I see him flying out as if pushed with a monstrous force. There is a look of dread in his eyes and the face is contorted in a fashion that no human language would have the words to describe it. I see a puny stream of red slowly flowing away from the head, but not as slow as the realization that creeps up within me as I find myself standing at the doorway. I drop the gun.
“Grotesque, isn’t it, why do they send us the frail,” she is standing next to me and looking intently at the body.
“You don’t have to do it you know,” I say, miserable.
“Are you tired of me, you want this to end?”
“No, but there are other ways.”
“Of course there are.”
She turns and wraps me in the familiar embrace. Everything starts to seem normal, I feel at peace. I can hear her thoughts echoing in me, and I know she knows it too, it’s like we don’t exist in this moment. I can feel her breath on my neck, she smells of whiskey. Or is it me, I look around.
“Do you want to tie me up again,” she asks with excitement, already on the chair.
It has started raining again. I hate the rain.