MiladyBru
Red Shield
Posts:
182
Joined:
Aug 08, 2006
Status:
Offline
Posted Sun Oct 15, 2006 8:39 am...
I dreamt of blood and bruised skin
Dark memories flitting in and out of my head, taunting me with both their arrogance and their grief. If the laughter of the dead is a horrbile thing then the laughter of memories is just as bad in my mind; that jeering, ringing sound that says something more than a part of the brain that houses memories has taken life in the darkness.
A hard thump wake me and I growl in the main direction of the ceiling. "You mind keepin' it to y'self?" A pause, then a sheepish apology. I turn over and feel my muscles protest. Loudly. I hiss a breath out with my teeth and hold still. Goddamn ribs are bruised and there were stitches in my back to. At this point I should just apply for paraplegic treatment and call it a day.
I narrow my eyes in remembrance of the fight; fucker had a knife and managed to put it to good use before I disarmed him the little bastard. Next time I bring a gun, I don't care what the contract details are.
After an hour of lying in bed, feeling the wraiths of memory snickering and sliding beneath my pillow waiting for me to drop my guard and sleep I let out a sigh of resignition and get out of bed. I make coffee, sit down very carefully and manage to send pain shooting down my back muscles anyway. Fucking back wounds; I'd be belly up for a month on this one. Still I'd gotten the job done and the client would be happy.
Poor guy had stepped into my 'office' of choice looking like the risen dead. Looking into his eyes was like being stabbed with red hot pokers. Grief and rage both burning so brightly I wasn't sure where one began and the other ended. He'd layed out his case in a tightly controlled voice that worked my nerves badly. After hearing it though, I was amazed the man was standing at all. I'd have thought he'd take a gun to his temple after all that.
I put the question of how he handled it so well as gently as I knew how and had gotten a grim smile in return. "Revenge, of course. It never seems to fail in inspiring people does it Miss Kalen. I say now that it is more inspiring than love or art." I wanted to argue the point, but after many years of experience in this sort of thing I couldn't disagree totally without it coming out like a lie.
Connor Graves used to be a normal guy; well, a normal financially comfortable guy at any rate. He had a wife who he was gaga over, and two daughters who weren't technically twins, one being a year and change older than the other, but who looked so much alike they might as well have been.
Graves loved his daughters very much; perhaps because they were very beautiful, having inheirited their mothers' golden, fey good looks. Hair the color of old gold and sunlight and eyes a shade of green and blue darker than the norm.
Indeed, when I studied the pictures I had wondered if the fey part was looks only. They'd been married for fourteen years when she'd been killed so even if she had been one of the fair folk, it didn't matter. Staying that long with a human raising their family made it obvious that she loved the man more than any words or trinkets could have. Considering the way they died though...she was probably human. A shame then...if she'd been one of the fey folk at least this guy would've still had a wife and maybe a chance to heal a bit.
Apparently, Graves had a keen mind, a degree in political science and history, very firm beliefs in freedom, right, wrong, and the direction our country was headed. He had a brother who paid attention (if only with amused affection) and aunt and uncle who were both dear to him, a mother and father whom he loved, a sister whom he loved, and of course the wife and daughters he definitely loved. He had them at his house all in one place for a family dinner. And fate decided to step in and set a bloody blow on the side of his life with a metaphorical sack full of quarters.
They were laughing, joking around and his daughters were playing a game on their aunt when the doorbell rang. Connor got up, walked to the front door and opened it. A stranger stood huddled there, wearing an embarassed smile on his face that was reflected in his gray eyes. His brown hair was damp and his jeans were old and faded. His car had broke down, he said, and he wondered if maybe he could borrow a cell phone...?
Connor, who had still believed in the greater good at that point, let him in, asked him to sit down on the couch and use the living room phone. When his brother frowned at him for this action Connor had looked back and said "No reason to loose all good manners just because the world has gone anarchy." It was at that point that he felt the touch of the stranger's sawed off shot gun. "How very well put sir, very well put. Makes me almost regret what I came here to do. Please, sit down with your family."
He didn't go into much detail of the humiliations, the taunting cat and mouse games the stranger played, but he did relate how his sister had rammed a table knife into the killer's thigh and took off with his two daughters leaving the madman howling. With no heasitation the family moved in on the killer as one, but unfortunately underestimated his resilience. The sawed off shotgun was raised steadily enough and the first hole went into Grave's mother. Then his father who'd let out a cry. Then his uncle, and then his brother, who had leaped in front of Connor instinctively.
In a rage, the gunman had gotten up and started hunting for his sister and daughters and met Connors wife instead, who had armed herself with a chair and swung it at him. The blow connected but the gun went off...blowing a hole through his loving wife's sternum. He eventually found the sister and daughters hiding in the laundry closet of all places and Connor was right behind him, trying frantically to get a hold on the gunman before he could kill the last of his family. Too little, too late; the killer pressed the sawed off shotgun right against the face of his sister and blew her head off, covering his daughters in their aunts blood. Then, he shot both of the 10 and 11 year old girls in the chest. Connor had collapsed at the sound of their pain filled cries.
He completely ignored the gunman at that point and crawled towards his babies. He picked his youngest daughter up, cradled her and began to sing. That's how the cops found him an hour or so later. The shotgun thrown against the far wall. He was a suspect at first until they found the stranger's blood leading from the kitchen to the landry closet. Thanks to his sisters boldness they were able to clear the husband and go after the killer...who they caught a month later and put in jail.
When Connor learned of the gunman's capture he felt a small relief. Connor, who wasn't handling anything well was indeed thinking of getting a gun of his own and ending all ills. He decided to wait until the sentencing was done and the animal was put away. Unfortunately...justice and law and order rarely go hand in hand. Apparently the doubts that a very good defense lawyer had brought up and the pity story of the gunman's past had moved enough of the jury for a mistrial. the gunman was able to put up the extremely high bond for his release and of course disappeared the next day.
The detectives came by to tell Connor only to find that the media had thoughtfully done their job for them. Connor packed up his things and left his house and didn't bother leaving anyone a forwarding address. It took him months to find a way to contact me, but he finally had. I was known in particular for taking on client for whom the system had failed and getting rid of the wastes of space like mobsters, gang bangers, serial killers, etc in general.
After he'd layed out the whole painful experience and my stomach had slid somewhere slowly south he dropped a duffle bag with 500,000 dollars to kill him-with a knife, with lingering attention, and with information of just who had arranged his killing. I agreed to take the job without heasitation; some things you can't let slide.
I tracked him down, got into a surprisingly close battle with the guy, in which he'd wielded a knife with no small competence and finally came out on top after driving my bootheel into his temple. Then I sat and carved bloody paths on his body before slicing his throat open. While I was there Connor was at one of the detectives' house, watching TV and apparently trying to reasure the 15 year vet of homicide that he wasn't going to do anything permenant to himself. Airtight alibi.
And if the detective suspected of being used as an alibi, he decided to keep it to himself. All and all, a good night's work.
I made scrambled eggs, ate them, and watched the clock. When it hit 7am I took a shower, retaped my ribs, got dressed and paid Mr. Graves a visit. I pulled up to the motel Graves had relocated to and knocked on the door. No responce, but I could hear the TV. "Connor? Come on, open up. We need to talk." Still silence.
A ball of ice formed at the base of my spine and slid upwards. "Shit." I whispered the curse softly, feelingly, then used a credit card and popped the door open. I stood in that room and left the door open. Connor had apparently gotten the good news early, the media once again thoughtfully letting the public know as soon as fucking possible.
I could see the TV was turned onto the news; they were onto something new already, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that they'd found the body of the gunman mutilated. I'd left the face intact of course, wanted the cops to figure a bit of vigilante justice was involved. Connor's face however, would never be intact again and wherever he was now I doubt he cared. While I was making coffee and the news was being diligent Connor Graves face went the way of the dodo. He'd purchased a shotgun to do it; messy, but ironical to. He'd once been known for his wry sense of humor.
Numbly, I turned around, wiped off the doorknob, went back to my car and got out of dodge. I checked out of my own motel room, packed, left the key on the manger's desk and drove out towards my real home. It was dark before I realized I was crying.
The End
Dark memories flitting in and out of my head, taunting me with both their arrogance and their grief. If the laughter of the dead is a horrbile thing then the laughter of memories is just as bad in my mind; that jeering, ringing sound that says something more than a part of the brain that houses memories has taken life in the darkness.
A hard thump wake me and I growl in the main direction of the ceiling. "You mind keepin' it to y'self?" A pause, then a sheepish apology. I turn over and feel my muscles protest. Loudly. I hiss a breath out with my teeth and hold still. Goddamn ribs are bruised and there were stitches in my back to. At this point I should just apply for paraplegic treatment and call it a day.
I narrow my eyes in remembrance of the fight; fucker had a knife and managed to put it to good use before I disarmed him the little bastard. Next time I bring a gun, I don't care what the contract details are.
After an hour of lying in bed, feeling the wraiths of memory snickering and sliding beneath my pillow waiting for me to drop my guard and sleep I let out a sigh of resignition and get out of bed. I make coffee, sit down very carefully and manage to send pain shooting down my back muscles anyway. Fucking back wounds; I'd be belly up for a month on this one. Still I'd gotten the job done and the client would be happy.
Poor guy had stepped into my 'office' of choice looking like the risen dead. Looking into his eyes was like being stabbed with red hot pokers. Grief and rage both burning so brightly I wasn't sure where one began and the other ended. He'd layed out his case in a tightly controlled voice that worked my nerves badly. After hearing it though, I was amazed the man was standing at all. I'd have thought he'd take a gun to his temple after all that.
I put the question of how he handled it so well as gently as I knew how and had gotten a grim smile in return. "Revenge, of course. It never seems to fail in inspiring people does it Miss Kalen. I say now that it is more inspiring than love or art." I wanted to argue the point, but after many years of experience in this sort of thing I couldn't disagree totally without it coming out like a lie.
Connor Graves used to be a normal guy; well, a normal financially comfortable guy at any rate. He had a wife who he was gaga over, and two daughters who weren't technically twins, one being a year and change older than the other, but who looked so much alike they might as well have been.
Graves loved his daughters very much; perhaps because they were very beautiful, having inheirited their mothers' golden, fey good looks. Hair the color of old gold and sunlight and eyes a shade of green and blue darker than the norm.
Indeed, when I studied the pictures I had wondered if the fey part was looks only. They'd been married for fourteen years when she'd been killed so even if she had been one of the fair folk, it didn't matter. Staying that long with a human raising their family made it obvious that she loved the man more than any words or trinkets could have. Considering the way they died though...she was probably human. A shame then...if she'd been one of the fey folk at least this guy would've still had a wife and maybe a chance to heal a bit.
Apparently, Graves had a keen mind, a degree in political science and history, very firm beliefs in freedom, right, wrong, and the direction our country was headed. He had a brother who paid attention (if only with amused affection) and aunt and uncle who were both dear to him, a mother and father whom he loved, a sister whom he loved, and of course the wife and daughters he definitely loved. He had them at his house all in one place for a family dinner. And fate decided to step in and set a bloody blow on the side of his life with a metaphorical sack full of quarters.
They were laughing, joking around and his daughters were playing a game on their aunt when the doorbell rang. Connor got up, walked to the front door and opened it. A stranger stood huddled there, wearing an embarassed smile on his face that was reflected in his gray eyes. His brown hair was damp and his jeans were old and faded. His car had broke down, he said, and he wondered if maybe he could borrow a cell phone...?
Connor, who had still believed in the greater good at that point, let him in, asked him to sit down on the couch and use the living room phone. When his brother frowned at him for this action Connor had looked back and said "No reason to loose all good manners just because the world has gone anarchy." It was at that point that he felt the touch of the stranger's sawed off shot gun. "How very well put sir, very well put. Makes me almost regret what I came here to do. Please, sit down with your family."
He didn't go into much detail of the humiliations, the taunting cat and mouse games the stranger played, but he did relate how his sister had rammed a table knife into the killer's thigh and took off with his two daughters leaving the madman howling. With no heasitation the family moved in on the killer as one, but unfortunately underestimated his resilience. The sawed off shotgun was raised steadily enough and the first hole went into Grave's mother. Then his father who'd let out a cry. Then his uncle, and then his brother, who had leaped in front of Connor instinctively.
In a rage, the gunman had gotten up and started hunting for his sister and daughters and met Connors wife instead, who had armed herself with a chair and swung it at him. The blow connected but the gun went off...blowing a hole through his loving wife's sternum. He eventually found the sister and daughters hiding in the laundry closet of all places and Connor was right behind him, trying frantically to get a hold on the gunman before he could kill the last of his family. Too little, too late; the killer pressed the sawed off shotgun right against the face of his sister and blew her head off, covering his daughters in their aunts blood. Then, he shot both of the 10 and 11 year old girls in the chest. Connor had collapsed at the sound of their pain filled cries.
He completely ignored the gunman at that point and crawled towards his babies. He picked his youngest daughter up, cradled her and began to sing. That's how the cops found him an hour or so later. The shotgun thrown against the far wall. He was a suspect at first until they found the stranger's blood leading from the kitchen to the landry closet. Thanks to his sisters boldness they were able to clear the husband and go after the killer...who they caught a month later and put in jail.
When Connor learned of the gunman's capture he felt a small relief. Connor, who wasn't handling anything well was indeed thinking of getting a gun of his own and ending all ills. He decided to wait until the sentencing was done and the animal was put away. Unfortunately...justice and law and order rarely go hand in hand. Apparently the doubts that a very good defense lawyer had brought up and the pity story of the gunman's past had moved enough of the jury for a mistrial. the gunman was able to put up the extremely high bond for his release and of course disappeared the next day.
The detectives came by to tell Connor only to find that the media had thoughtfully done their job for them. Connor packed up his things and left his house and didn't bother leaving anyone a forwarding address. It took him months to find a way to contact me, but he finally had. I was known in particular for taking on client for whom the system had failed and getting rid of the wastes of space like mobsters, gang bangers, serial killers, etc in general.
After he'd layed out the whole painful experience and my stomach had slid somewhere slowly south he dropped a duffle bag with 500,000 dollars to kill him-with a knife, with lingering attention, and with information of just who had arranged his killing. I agreed to take the job without heasitation; some things you can't let slide.
I tracked him down, got into a surprisingly close battle with the guy, in which he'd wielded a knife with no small competence and finally came out on top after driving my bootheel into his temple. Then I sat and carved bloody paths on his body before slicing his throat open. While I was there Connor was at one of the detectives' house, watching TV and apparently trying to reasure the 15 year vet of homicide that he wasn't going to do anything permenant to himself. Airtight alibi.
And if the detective suspected of being used as an alibi, he decided to keep it to himself. All and all, a good night's work.
I made scrambled eggs, ate them, and watched the clock. When it hit 7am I took a shower, retaped my ribs, got dressed and paid Mr. Graves a visit. I pulled up to the motel Graves had relocated to and knocked on the door. No responce, but I could hear the TV. "Connor? Come on, open up. We need to talk." Still silence.
A ball of ice formed at the base of my spine and slid upwards. "Shit." I whispered the curse softly, feelingly, then used a credit card and popped the door open. I stood in that room and left the door open. Connor had apparently gotten the good news early, the media once again thoughtfully letting the public know as soon as fucking possible.
I could see the TV was turned onto the news; they were onto something new already, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that they'd found the body of the gunman mutilated. I'd left the face intact of course, wanted the cops to figure a bit of vigilante justice was involved. Connor's face however, would never be intact again and wherever he was now I doubt he cared. While I was making coffee and the news was being diligent Connor Graves face went the way of the dodo. He'd purchased a shotgun to do it; messy, but ironical to. He'd once been known for his wry sense of humor.
Numbly, I turned around, wiped off the doorknob, went back to my car and got out of dodge. I checked out of my own motel room, packed, left the key on the manger's desk and drove out towards my real home. It was dark before I realized I was crying.
The End
Pisces
Snake