Page 9
He scoffs at me. “Excuse me, but you are rude for nabbing me and brutalizing my body!”
His yelling forces my shoulders to tense, a coiled reaction that was always triggered by my mother shouting at me. I roll my shoulders, then shrug them to my ears, and then slowly let them relax.
“You see here, Quail—” he interrupts me again.
“It is Quarles!” He shouts once more, and my nostrils flare like a bull’s seeing crimson. Pointing my index finger, I poke his cheek—once, twice, and then thrice, just because it makes his skin turn cherry red in anger.
“Don’t like the way your name is mispronounced, huh? Well, I don’t like the way you antagonized my friend and then murdered her husband. You need to see fitting justice.” As I explain, I slowly rise to my feet and look over at my table littered with various instruments of entertainment. A bat, a crowbar, a jar of acid, a cage with three hungry rats, and my collection of knives.
Oh, the choices.
I remove my gloves one finger at a time. The scars crossing my knuckles had long since faded white. Some from fights. Some from punishment. Some from lessons I had no desire to remember.
Mr. Quarle’s eyes immediately locked onto them. Good.
Fear meant he was finally paying attention.
“Please, if this has to do with the Penis family, he was old and he died of natural causes! I did’n do nothin’. Please, I beg of you!” He begins wiggling from the rope, actually looking like an enlarged caterpillar trying to slide out from its chrysalis.
“It is Penas, and that is the final time you will state that name incorrectly. You also didn’t listen when they begged you not to increase their rent. You did not listen when they begged you several times for mercy regarding whatever false business expenses you shoved down their throats. Begging does little for me, Mr. Quarles. When I begged for my own life, by my mother’s hands, mercy was not offered. Strange, isn’t it? Everyone believes they deserve compassion the moment death comes knocking. Yet they rarely extend that same courtesy while they live.”
Of all the instruments before me, my hand reaches for my oldest companion. The sickle. I do not always employ it, but it has become synonymous with my work. A signature. A warning. A promise.
Because of it, they have bestowed upon me a title: “the Slaying Sickle.” A rather dramatic name, if you ask me, but I suppose it serves its purpose. Justice is a burden few are willing to carry.
Fortunately, I have never been afraid of hard labor.
Washing my bloodstained hands beneath the cool water, I watch my work disappear down the drain. Red becomes pink. Pink becomes clear. Gone.
Silence settles around me. That is when she always returns. Day after day, year after year, my mother lingers in the darkest corners of my mind. Her voice slithers through the shadows of memory, sharp as broken glass and twice as cruel. I have spent years trying to keep those memories from poisoning the woman she once was.
She was my mother, and in her own way, I believe she loved me.
It was brutal. It was bloody.
It left scars upon my body and deeper ones upon my soul, but violence was the only language she knew. At least, that is the lie I tell myself. I would rather remember her with love than surrender what remains of my heart to hatred.
The familiar whispers crawl through the gray matter of my mind.
Disgusting.
Waste of oxygen.
A stain upon society.
A laugh escapes me despite myself. God, that woman possessed a remarkable talent for insults, but still, I tried. She may never have loved me unconditionally, but I carried enough love for the both of us.
Drying my hands, I shrug into my gray tweed coat and settle my mailer’s cap atop my head.
Outside, the farmer is enthusiastically feeding crusty bits of Mr. Quarles to his swine as though they were honored guests at a banquet.
“’Til next time, sir!” He calls with a cheerful wave and shakes the bag of sovereigns in his other hand merrily. I return the gesture with a smile and begin making my way back to town.
As I saunter back, my thoughts swim regarding perspective. It is interesting to compare how your surroundings appeared as a child, compared to the new glass you look through once you become an adult. Things are darker, much more serious, and it is hard not to become cynical toward the world as you age, for you notice all the evils lurking behind different corners and alleyways of life.
Always look for the light though. That is the philosophy I try to live by. For there is always light, even if you must create it yourself. Even if the reflection is from the small teardrops that expel from your eyes, there is always a much brighter circumstance.
I approach my intended destination, Le Havre, a house filled with beautiful souls that give their comfort and bodies as a career. Another portion of the establishment is a shelter for those in need. I find it heartwarming and wish it had been in operation when I was a child. Lord knows I would have benefited from it greatly, and so would have my mother. I have made friends with many of the women and men in Le Havre; some have been comrades and some I have shared pleasure with. They’ve all taught me something about life, liberty, and the pursuit of orgasms, something that not many can speak of. This evening, I am to meet with my oldest friend, Delphi, who carries my deepest secrets, for after every hunting encounter I will reach for her ear to dissect and divulge the gory details.
