Chapter VI: A scream of sorrow

Slowly the heavy wooden door opened. Not a sound escaped from its well oiled hinges; not a sound emerged from the light steps of the young nun as she entered the bright room. Yet, the small, surprised yelp that exited her mouth was enough to wake up Maria.

Despite the all-nighter that she had pulled, her eyes regained their clear shine in an instant. “What is it child?” Her soothing voice, like she was speaking to a small girl, and not a young servant of God, echoed in the room.

“I… I thought that he would be sleeping… but he’s still awake… At least he is not screaming anymore”

Maria followed the sister’s eyes to the bed that lay next to her chair. How long has it been since he had brought him here? Nearly thirty hours have passed, and most of them were full of his agony. His restrained arms and legs prevented him to thrash all over the place in his pain, prevented the thin tubes, that through them run the necessary drugs, to leave his flesh. Yet, despite the heavy painkillers, despite her hand that never left his tormented grip, he was still awake and fighting.

Maria contemplated her answer for a little, she wanted to provide reassurance for the younger girl, on the other hand, she needed her to become strong, to take care of this small place after her time was up, to grow up as a person that sees beyond the mere veil that sometimes reality threw upon them.

“I wish he was still screaming, Sister. Look at his face now, look at his cheeks. Tears stain them. It is not that the pain left his body; it is just that his sorrow overcomes it. And a broken soul is much more difficult to mend than a broken body…”

“Sister Mary, why did you bring him here? If he is half as bad as he shows, then he needs a full operating hospital. Can we provide him with everything he needs in here?”

That was upsetting, for the first time one of her subordinates doubted her. On the other hand that brought joy to Maria’s eyes. It meant that they were growing, they were starting to become independent, they were starting to care more for the patients than for her decisions.

But she couldn’t tell them yet, or anytime soon. She picked her patients according to their aura, according to what she saw in their souls. If she ever admitted that, then she would either end up caged as a lunatic, or revered as a saint, both of which would limit the time she got to spent with people that really needed her attention.

“Sister? You’re ok? You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Uh? Oh… You see my child, I always pick up people that I feel that they need our help. I’ve watched this man for several days, and the only thing that I’ve gathered is that this is a good man. His heart and mind, when not lost in the alcohol is full with kindness. But it is people like them, good people, that Satan chooses to torment, to break. I don’t know what his personal martyrdom is, but I do know that he has chosen the wrong way to fight it. He drinks to forget, and maybe that is temporarily helping, but in reality, all that this cursed thing does is to lower his defenses, to succumb, slowly to his inner demons.”

“But shouldn’t this be a fight that he has to face alone? If Satan, or God, is testing him, shouldn’t he be able to prove his own worth? And what about his physical condition? We are running a clinic after all…”

“Yes, it is a battle that he must choose if he wishes to fight or to surrender. I’m merely giving him a chance. But only when he is free of this taint in his blood the choice will be really his and not of the alcohol. When he is no longer addicted, he can decide anew if he wishes to follow the booze’s tempting path, or the painful path that leads to greatness… And I don’t think he is suffering from any real health problems, apart maybe from some slight damage to his liver. I’ve already given to the lab a sample of his blood for further analysis, and his disjointed shoulder seems to mend fine. We have him on painkillers and nutrition that his body seemed to be lacking, but until nightfall we cannot be sure. That’s why I haven’t allowed any of you younger kids to treat him…”

His screaming interrupted both of the women and hasted the exit of the younger; leaving Maria and her patient all alone in the room. His grip on her hand was getting stronger, crushing the aged bones, yet Maria knew no pain now, she just knew that he had accepted her help…

She started chanting a peaceful prayer; to calm his mind; to ease her fears. Fears that have never left her mind since he brought him here. Yes, he was special, she had seen his shoulder mending, she had sensed his liver starting to shape up in just one day of absence of the malicious substances, but above all, she had seen his aura; an aura that scared her.

As her eyes drifted to the window she gazed at the world below. This small place that acted as, both a monastery, and a small clinic, run by her as a doctor, and her nuns as nurses, overlooked the crowded city’s slums… And in there grayness ruled.

She would have been hard pressed to find a person that she could call truly evil, a man that his aura was the deepest shade of black. Equally hard pressed she would have been if she had searched for one that his aura matched the white of her own. Shades of gray, like the cement walls that barricaded their bodies also served as cells for their souls, sipping their dullness into their minds. But why did it feel like dusk was coming? Why did the shades of gray always seem to darken?

And yet, this one differed. She was almost in trance looking at the bright tongues of fire that tried to strangle his white aura. She knew not if this was a good sign, or an omen of destruction. Color was nonexistent in auras, yet he was sheathed in it. Sometimes it looked like the fire danced with the white, some others like they were battling, and sometimes it even looked like his aura wasn’t the pure white, but more like the searing light that the hottest flame can produce. She wondered if this was what auras were in the end… the fiery representation of their souls. And she feared the response on that question, did it really mean that the coals of their human souls have died out?

‘No. The flames are Hell. This one is battling with hell, the hungry, devouring, flames trying to eat up the goodness in him. That should be it. That must be it. Or else I’m dooming us all…’

Chapter V: Deus ex murder

Liz scouted their temporary surveillance base; the equipment was set, the monitors online. She could do nothing but wait now. It would be a shame for all this trouble to go to waste, and she could only blame herself for her ineptitude to catch a simple drunken slob.

She checked her watch again. Less than half an hour has passed since John left to continue his damage control but it still seemed like an eternity to her. There was nothing to do, nothing to set up. All the excitement that came with the preparations for this mission has already faded away.

Her mind wandered again to John. He may have been overly dramatic and a little stuck up at times, but at times like this she valued his experience. He was quick to blend in the neighborhood; no one could distinguish him as something different than a bum if he saw him right now. And his skills at getting the information that he needed seemed to her like a faraway dream of what her own skills could be honed to.

He had reported that there seemed to be no leakage of their whereabouts from the drunkard. In fact, no one but the liquor store merchant had even seen this guy before. It was like he was a ghost, unseen and unheard of. ‘Laying low no doubt for some crime he had committed’ 'her cynical mind shouted to her.

Yet, the suspense was killing her. John was out doing his rounds, Christian was in the van some blocks away, acting as their link to the outside world and Marcus was watching Loukas house. All doing something constructive, all having something to pass their time with, while she was stuck here, doing absolutely nothing, well… watching the surveillance of an empty warehouse…

She had to do something, anything, just to occupy her mind, to throw away the anxiety that was building inside her. Her mind drifted anew. Her gaze fell upon the leather-bound diary that she had found yesterday during her clean up of the house.

It made no sense. Who would drop such a book in a heap of broken bottles, and why. Surely, the one it belonged to cared for it; it was well preserved, clean, and even seemed expensive. Yet, someone has abandoned it here…

She tried to think if it would be such a bad thing to read it, maybe it contained one’s private thoughts, but if that was the case, why throw it away? As her mind was engaged in an inner struggle; as she was still trying to debate if killing her time with something that wasn’t her own was worth it, she found that her body had already took control and was already flipping its thick pages.

It wasn’t right. The text contradicted the container. She half-expected to find some kind of a diary, a structured accounting of one’s actions. The quality of the cover said, at least, that this belonged to someone who had enough money to spare for a decent education. But the words that this –thing- contained were nothing more than a lunatic’s ravings. They weren’t even complete sentences; just words hastily written one after another in a maddening pace. And the pages were thick, quality paper. Paper made to endure hardships and time’s decay. But the scribbling itself was, at least, hideous. She had to squint just so she could understand most of them. There weren’t even proper lines, just random notes about random things written wherever there was free space on a page...

‘Who could ever want to preserve such a thing?’ She wondered again.

Lazily, she turned to the last page. Maybe there were clues there about the reason that the owner of this book discarded it. At least it could occupy her mind with that until John came back.

Stained shirt and raven black hair come.
They look at the couple.
My husband returns.
A clock chimes twelve.
A gunshot.
Pain.
The blood runs freely out of me, paints the blond hair to a crimson color.

The whispering voice of John caused Liz to break her reading. “One of those days, I’m really going to kill Christian.”

Liz slightly pulled the shutters with her fingers and peeked outside; surely enough, she could see the disheveled form that John used as his disguise closing in. The way that he blobbed and limped looked absolutely natural. He wore some torn old jeans and a filthy brown shirt that seemed like it had seen its fair amount of alcohol and vomit being tossed upon it. Even the wig that rested on his head looked like it was made specifically for him, the same wig that contained his radio and made him look like a lunatic that was currently speaking to himself. But her eyes rested on the dirty paper-bag that he was carrying.

“Huh? What’s the matter John? You wanted to look so natural that you actually went and bought some booze for ya?”

“No… Stupid Christian and his pranks. He said that he had an important piece of equipment for us and I went to pick it up.”

“So…?

“It’s frigging donuts! They actually went to buy us some donuts just to tease us!”

“Hey, donuts are essential for a good stake out. Every movie shows so…” Christian peeped in their conversation merrily.

Liz understood Christian. He wanted to cheer them up. He was usually good at this sort of things, but really…

“DONUTS? I’ll cover you up John if any accident, like a bullet in the head, befalls Christian…” Liz snapped back while simultaneously trying to hold in her chuckles.

~~~

The door slammed in the wall as Loukas burst it open, causing the small painting of his wife that rested next to it to slightly tilt. He used to think that this painting was too small to contain her beauty. Yet, the painter had done miracles. He had chosen to work only with her face, and made her eyes the focal point of his drawing. He played with the light to make her almost shine in a, sort of mystical, halo. Even slight details, like the way that her golden locks portrayed her face, only added to the whole effect that the artist was trying to create.

It was in those same eyes that Loukas now looked with hatred.

“You bitch… You though that I wouldn’t learn?” His voice was calm, too calm. As cold as ice, and as sharp; as deadly as the pistol that he drew.

Next to the painting, an old cuckoo clock chimed twelve; a bullet went flying. Before the helpless body of his wife hit the floor, bathed in her own blood, Marcus was already screaming on the radio.

“They’re on to us. Quickly abandon the mission. Get the hell away from there…” He tried to sound calm, he tried to not scream, but the rapid succession of his words, the hasty decision calling, the anxiety on his voice were impossible to hide.

~~~

Liz’s watch beeped twelve o’clock the instant they heard Marcus shouts. She saw John pausing for a second, losing a step, trying to comprehend the severity, or lack of it, of the current situation.

Hot liquid dripped on her leg. It was blood from her hand. She realized that she was biting her own hand to muffle her screaming. Her eyes were glued to John as he was falling. It was like a scene in the movies, like it was on slow motion. Him, slowly falling, his hand grasping his dirtied shirt in a vain attempt to stop the blood from the bullet wound from gushing out. A paper bag stuck in mid-air, like time has frozen, a few donuts flying out. Liz couldn’t move, thoughts were beyond her screaming mind. The only thing that remained was a nauseating feeling of déjà vu.

Her gaze finally broke from the blooded scene, and as one by one insane pieces of a puzzle that her mind, even now, refused to accept, lowered to the leather bound book that lay on her hands; the last sentences that she had read still echoing in her mind.

A clock chimes twelve.
Stained shirt kneels and grabs his chest.
Donuts fall.
Raven black hair is stunned.
She panics.

It was at the moment that she had read that sentence that John had interrupted her. Yet, as the scene replayed in her eyes, she could do nothing but stare, once again, at the journal.

“…I’m raven black hair?” It didn’t make sense. Nothing around her now did. How someone wrote this passage? How did Loukas found out about them? Why John wasn’t standing up…

She knew the risks when she tried to become an agent. She knew that they were toying with death when they embarked for this mission. But she still couldn’t believe that her partner was lying in a pool of his own blood right now. From all the insanity going around her, this was the most difficult to accept. And yet, she felt her heart returning to its normal pulse. Her mind categorizing the things she saw as simple facts. Any emotion that existed moments ago disappeared from her eyes.

“I’m probably in shock” She whispered to herself as she meticulously continued reading the journal.

Stained shirt kneels and grabs his chest.
Donuts fall.
Raven black hair is stunned.
She panics.
Possibilities start spinning again. They dance around themselves, become entwined and choke the actual meaning of a decision. Most of them end in the same knot. Most of them spawn the same pattern on the carpet.
It almost doesn’t matter what she will choose.
Raven black hair jumps out of the window, towards stained shirt. The sniper’s bullet hits her before she can even stand up. She dies.
Raven black hair runs out the door, towards the alley, trying to reach her vehicle. She never notices the assassin that waited for that. Her back was turned to him as he pulled the trigger. She dies.
Raven black hair reads my notes… oh shit…

It ended there. No more scribbles, just blank pages, just empty spaces that denied any real clues of who wrote this, but most importantly of how she is supposed to escape. Only one sentence gave her hope.

‘Almost doesn’t matter is severely different that doesn’t matter at all. And for the record Oh shit doesn’t even begin to describe what is happening. So my actions don’t matter eh? You’ve given me enough to make them matter…’ Something inside her was screaming that at this point, there were greater issues than mocking a piece of paper… issues like how something like this was even possible.

Liz stood up instantly; adrenaline and blood rushing in her veins. Almost like a fine tuned machine she unhooked her pistol and checked the clip; her movements almost thoughtless, mechanical, emotionless. She found herself perfectly relaxed; there was nothing in her mind but one thing.

In one swift move, she kicked the door open and jumped out, her back facing the road instead of the alley. In the shadows, just across the street, her eyes caught the metallic glint of a gun that moved. Her hand was quicker, as she readjusted her pistol and shot. A slight bump as she landed to the ground with her shoulder returned her to reality.

‘Did I just shoot a man in the head while in midair?’ Her brain tried in vain to wrestle control of the body. But it failed. Her instincts prevailed over her logic again. This was no time to think, it was time to act… to survive. More assassins would close in her in mere moments. Liz broke to a frantic run. She had to reach the van, both for her life, and to show the journal to someone, anyone, just to make certain that she wasn’t insane…

Chapter IV: A saint’s lie

John checked his watch; it was six o’clock. They needed to make haste. “Liz gimme a hand will ya?” he shouted as he was trying to adjust some antennas.

Liz was frustrated that she had demoted herself to cleaning this place while John was readying the equipment; on the other hand she didn’t trust him enough to make this place as clean as she wanted. But what really infuriated her was that he was whining that his job was harder. Suddenly, a knock on the door froze both of them.

“What the heck” Liz muttered, “junkies don’t knock. They find a locked door and they just move to another joint to take their fix…”

A short pause. Liz and John waited patiently for the intruder to leave. Yet, the knocking persisted.

“For Christ’s sake, open up Liz before this one attracts a commotion here.”

With her hand ready to draw her pistol, Liz opened the door.

Her nose was suddenly invaded by filth. A rugged young man was staring weirdly at her. From the way that he moved, it was obvious that he was completely drunk. His greased brown hair seemed like a solid mass of dirt as they framed almost all of his face, denying Liz the opportunity to study his features. Even if the hair wasn’t in they way, the unkempt beard that reached almost to his chest would have done the same job. His clothes were a mismatch of grey and brown rags that seemed like that the last time they were washed was when it last rained, and it was summer now…

He raised his hand and took a sip out of a bottle, a move of defiance on his part, Liz thought. But while his hand indicated to her that he thought nothing of her being there, his gaze was fixated upon her, looking her like she was simultaneously the first and last thing he wanted to see. Suddenly he tried to move forward, to enter the house, as if she wasn’t there, as if he could march on, trampling over her. Her body took over; with a quick move she grasped his arm and twisted it almost a half circle, immobilizing him with pain and causing the bottle to fall with a dull sound to the ground. But his face didn’t registered pain, only shock. As he opened his mouth to speak a foul stench engulfed her.

Through his vile breath, a gurgle of sounds came forth, sounds that at some point they could have registered as words, but not as he spoke. Liz tried in vain to understand, but only some random words were audible.

“…Go… Really go… Die... Shoo… Shoo…”

“I think he wants me to leave” Liz mused, “he’s threatening me and then he’s speaking to me like I’m a dog or something… He is clearly pissed. Literally…” She told, over her shoulder, to John.

“Well throw him out and be done with it”

“Go. Leave. Don’t come back. You understand me?” Liz shouted to the drunk. The effect was unpredictable as he started to laugh.

“…Rum… DIEEEEEE.” His words more clear now. Liz’s hand moved to her pistol holder. John started to run towards the door too.

“Shit! I think he’ll become violent.” Liz shouted.

Suddenly a cracking sound came from his shoulder as he twisted his hand free, probably disjointing or breaking it. For a moment Liz and John froze with shock at his effort. Then they rushed out trying to catch up with him.

The sounds of breaking glass were followed by a dull thumbing noise of a body hitting the ground. As Liz’s body turned towards her back, towards were the sound originated, her hand had already released her pistol and pointed towards that same direction.

John was lying on his back with an expression of pain masking his face. Beneath his foot were the remains of the tequila bottle he had stepped on, a step that led to his fall. Should the situation wasn’t so dire, Liz would have burst out laughing, but now the only thing that filled her senses was rage; rage for the ineptitude of her partner.

“Fuck” John shouted as he gripped his sprained ankle. “Move Liz, Move. Don’t just stand there. Catch him quickly, if he tells anyone about us the whole mission will have to be canceled.” John shouted to her.

Liz was barely following the shadow of the drunkard as he ran. For his condition he was extremely fast; continuously gaining distance. But Liz hoped, she hoped that his lungs wouldn’t last him, that he would fall on his knees fighting for air in any second now. She would only have to tail him till that happened.

As she turned in the corner, a string of incoherent curses escaped her mouth; a crossroad; and she had no way of knowing were he went at. A curled body lay at the center of it, dressed in black. Maybe…

Her trail of thoughts was cut short as she looked at the body that was slowly trying to stand up. ‘What the hell does a nun do in such a place?’ She wondered as she rushed subconsciously to aid the elder woman.

Small, broken words escaped the thin lips of the elderly woman. “…My daughter… Thank you. Yes, yes, I’m ok… Just a random drunkard pushed me down as he was rushing towards there…” The nun said pointing to the right path. Liz was already sprinting towards there before the elderly woman had the chance to finish up her sentence.

As she saw the agent’s shadow vanishing in the dark alleys Maria stretched her body. Her wrinkled hands started to dust the dirt off her shirt. Within less than a minute, the disheveled old lady had regained her majestic stature, her movements themselves instilling respect to everyone who was to look upon her. The wrinkles in her hands and face, the only flesh that was visible through her outfit, contradicted the mirth of her eyes as they shone with the light that one can only expect from a teenager.

“I’m sorry my child” she whispered towards the, now gone, agent. “This one is worth trying saving. I won’t let him go to jail for some petty crime without doing at least that…” She ended her small speech with a melodic voice that seemed to belong to a prayer. Merrily, she started skipping with agile steps, like she was almost dancing, towards the left path, towards were her target had run off…

She found him in a heap made from dirt and his own blood; his hazy eyes and filthy skin of no consequence to her. She knew who she was; she knew why she had been gifted. When others just passed by a drunkard, she could really see the blinding white aura of pureness that enveloped this man, an aura almost as strong as hers. His gaze fell upon her for just a second, and then, probably feeling the calmness she emitted, she saw his eyes closing, surrendering himself to Morpheus' peaceful embrace, allowing him to pass out and maybe rest.

Her bright eyes rose to the sky “Thank You Lord. Please grand me the strength to bring a worthy man back to a righteous path.” She whispered her self-made prayer.

As she gripped his shoulder, she felt doubt entering her mind. It was the first time she wasn’t completely sure about her actions. She shrugged her shoulders and stood still for a second, thinking something. And then she repeated the now changed prayer. ‘Thank You Lord for granting me the privilege of doubt. Thank You for allowing me to choose my own path. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I’ll fail You. But I can only see this as a test for my faith… and love.’ This time, the words, were never spoken. Instead she formed them in her mind, after all, she knew that God really only listens to hearts, not words.

Chapter III: Unwanted visitors.

Loud sounds again, bright light burning my eyelids. I think I’ve have passed away. How much time has passed? As I feel a sharp instrument of pain invading my body, I scream, and I understand; long enough to have started sobering up. Deafening bangs crash in my head; one, two, three… The noises make me want to bury myself in the ground. Like a hammer crashing my mind, they smash and smash with force upon my undefended self; almost like someone has put me inside a ringing bell… That’s it, it is a bell… it stopped at the sixth beat. Does that mean that it is six o’clock? And is there a cathedral with such a massive bell around here? I don’t know… Oh God, I don’t WANT to know. My mind screams to me. How many hours have passed, how sober am I to actually comprehend what goes around me? Thankfully my trusty companion is still in my hand. I drown myself in the bliss of alcohol, and I rise again. I still need to go home.

The easy way. Follow the wall. The more drunk I am, the more the world rocks in its sea. That’s for the better, the alcohol may cause my body to drop to the ground now and then, but at least it keeps my soul from falling to the abyss. An old woman looks at me, she smiles. I think I’ve seen her somewhere before. I shrug, I don’t care. I don’t want to care. If I’ll care I’ll burst. Door. Good. Safety.

Strange, the door is closed. I’ve left it open. The least I need now is a roommate in this dump. I’ll have to drive him away. First I’ll have to see him of course; first I’ll have to enter. Weird, the door won’t budge. I don’t remember it having a lock. Actually I don’t remember it being a sturdy door at all, this one looks new.

Knock… Knock… Knock…

Why the hell am I knocking in my own house? At least I think it is my own house. I claimed it a year ago…

Raven black hair. Ok. Right. I’m seeing the same things again, that means that I’m in the same place. That’s good. But I’m not supposed to see them, I’m totally drunk. Maybe the booze is wearing off. Raven black hair looks at me funny. Ha! As if she can see me… I’m all alone in my hell…

I sip some more booze, I need her to disappear. Well… it’s not working. I walk over her. Huh? I can’t pass. Her hand stops me. It hurts as she twists it. That can only mean one thing. She is really here. Shit. That’s bad. I have to warn her.

“Look, I don’t know why you’re here, but you really have to go. Like really, really, have to go; like if you stay you’ll probably die. I know you cannot believe me like that, but you have to trust me, leave the couple at the opposite of the building alone, or else they’ll shoot you.” I tell her, yet she stands still, looking confused. What’s wrong?

Another voice behind her. Many voices, I can’t distinguish.

She looks angry for some reason, but I can’t understand what exactly she is talking about. Apart from that being funny that is. I laugh.

“Look, seriously now, if you stay in this room, he’ll find out. You’ll probably die, probably by a headshot.” I have to insist, it’s for the better, I think it is at least.

More voices behind her.

She unhooks a pistol. Someone’s running to get me. Fuck. Not good; if they catch me we will all die. I break free from her, I think that this has caused harm to my shoulder, it’s painful, but at least it’s not death.

I run wild now. Booze might not be the best ally for running, but at least my shoulder doesn’t feel that bad. I’m sure that it will be hurting like hell when I’ll sober up. Note to self, ‘don’t sober up’.

Good thing: I know the back alleys. Bad thing: it seems she knows them too. Crossroads, I’ll go left. If she goes right she will lose me, if she goes left we will all going to die. Funny thing, life that is, something that seems like a trivial choice being the judge of so critical matters.

I pant. I think I’ll throw up, again. If only there was something still inside me to expel. Now the only thing that comes out is blood. Damn liver damage.

An elder woman looks at me. She smiles. At least she wears black; I like that color, goes well with my life. I know her, I think. I faint.

Chapter II: Lifetime opportunity.

“We can finally nail the bastard down” Mark shouted.

Despite his advancing age, the joy and excitement that was painted on his face made him look much younger than what one could expect from a sixty years old man. His grinning was contagious to the rest of the people in the room.

“If our informant is right, there will be another major drug delivery this Saturday. In just three more days, we will have him behind bars.” Mark ended his speech.

The four remaining people in the office looked at each other, three long years of work were about to pay off.

“There will be just a slight change of our usual routine” Mark continued, “We cannot afford to use our surveillance van for this one. Loukas will be alert and will probably spot a van at a place that has less traffic than a country road in the middle of nowhere. Luckily for us, there is an abandoned complex opposite the warehouse that the transaction will take place, we will hide there. Liz and John, as usual, will be stationed there, Marcus will remain in our normal position to monitor Loukas house, and Christian will be near the complex just in case. We will have the local police in this on our side but they will be ignorant on what exactly we are trying to do. They will just be alert enough to be able to mobilize when the time is right. Now…”

As Mark continued to elaborate on the plan, the four agents let the joy wash off them; now it was time for work. Even a slight mistake could mean their life. As one by one they offered their opinions and views on the battle plan, they realized how risky this operation was. On the other hand, you cannot expect to drop down on a major drug dealer, with a million ties in the mafia, and expect it to be a stroll in the park.

Time was fleeting. Only three days to get ready, a small window of opportunity, and they were just a small team so as to make certain that the mobster wouldn’t have any contact in their group. A strong gust of wind blew Liz’s rich, black hair, blinding her momentarily, as she exited the vast building. She felt the need to reassure herself, an ominous feeling of foreboding was clouding her mind. She looked up in the sky and in the agency’s logo one more time, F.B.I. For some reason, that didn’t lift her spirit as it used to be, as year by year passed, she realized that the glamour that this logo held in her heart, was fading; political games and corrupted officers didn’t make things better either. She understood now, that in just a few more years, her dream will be demolished, and all that would remain from it will be a plain job.

Just after noon, Liz and John were already in the, nearly demolished, complex. Graffiti stained the cracked walls, and even that was faint behind the layers of dirt and filth that seemed to be the motif of the whole neighborhood. Luckily, the infrastructure of the building seemed intact. Even some of the windows and doors remained, although most of them were in a degenerate shape.

From the outside, the chosen room for the job, just across the street from the warehouse, seemed to be the one in the best condition.

“Heh, we have lady luck on our side for this one Liz.” John mused.

His remark was cut short as he pushed the, almost rotten, door open. The place reeked of filth, garbage was lying all over the place, and a nauseating smell, like vomit, seemed to emanate from the very walls of the room. It still had its windows, mostly, intact but for some reason no one seemed to have bothered opening them anytime in the past; trapping the stale stink inside the small place.

“Junkies…” Liz muttered with disgust as she tried to stop coughing. “We need to make this place bearable. And we will also need to secure it, so that no one can enter it for those three days.”

Thankfully, the hinges seemed intact. And in just a small time, the rest of the crew came bringing in the equipment. Among the things that lay now in a heap of the room, were some bottles of chlorine, deodorants, and a door. The last three, requests of the surveillance team that no one seemed to object to.

Chapter I: Restless Bliss

My blank stare looks at nothing; dead eyes that rest their gaze at the empty space that is my wall; gray, cement walls; gray as my life; as my hopes. I raise the bottle that rests in my left hand and I make a toast to myself.

“Drown you bastard. Just. Simply. Die.”

But rest won’t come so easy; I know. I have tried to achieve the eternal sleep more than once. But failure was met with cheering. I know that I shouldn’t give up; I’ve listened to the stories. Well… it will require more than fairytales to return to my soul what I’ve lost.

I let my stare drift; from the emptiness of a fading wall, to the multitude of broken glasses; remains of a sinful life. My only companion, my booze, and I, as an ungrateful friend, have smashed its container to bits; once, twice, uncountable times; bottles have smashed on this floor, a mattress of shards. I look at them, and my hands move simultaneously. In my left hand a drink to sustain me, in my right a pen to ease my heart, my eyes… my eyes scanning the shards, lost in their perfect mirage as the light that breaks through the crumbled windows illuminates them; an illusion of colors springing out of them… and my hands move in tandem to the countless colors that leap forth; in the rhythm that the images that fill, once again, my mind dictate...

Fragments of colors.
Colors like black.
Raven black hair gently flowing in the breeze.
Shards of realities.
Cascading memories that have yet to find their way into existence.
A thousand needles that pierce the loose fabric I call skin.
A self deformed beyond recognition.
A cardboard box.
Tequila.
He moves, he enters the building.
A clock chimes twelve.
A gunshot.
Pain.
The blood runs freely out of me, paints the blond hair to a crimson color.
Tequila.
A blank wall stares intimidating at me.
Pain.
A knife, a scream; I scream.
The pencil moves again, it scratches down things.
Necessity.
Singularities that try to enter our world; one way or another; I’ll give them the other.
Alcohol; runs thickly into my veins; needed.
A blank wall, next to a cardboard; or is this the other way around?
Tequila.
A speeding truck.
A child runs to pick up his ball.
A mother runs to pick up the shattered pieces of her life.
A father cries huddling some child’s clothes.
Tequila.
“Fuck… empty”
Was that my voice? It’s been long since I heard it.
A gun.
A gunshot.
A pause.
Another gunshot.
Fragments of colors.
The color is red.
Blood red.
Pain.
A million pictures more; each one more gruesome than the other.
The cardboard rots away.
A blank wall collapses; newer, better walls start rising.
A company thinks that cement is the only thing that is needed to build a home.
Thousands employees.
He wears a red hat. He smiles. He- I supervise. I return home. My wife is missing. Tequila. Oh yeah… none left.
I need alcohol.
Lots of it; fast.
My hand trembles as I write.
No time now; no strength; later; after the booze.
Raven black hair runs.
Stained shirt kneels and grabs his chest.
Donuts fall.
Raven black hair looks at a book.
I close a book.
I need booze; I need to see the blank wall.

I feel my strength fading. My weak fingers cannot hold anything anymore; they move as if they have their own will. Something falls; the sound as it crashes to the ground deafens my sensitive ears, a book shouldn’t make such sounds. Colors fly around me as I try to stand up. Reality refuses my rightful place as a human, she starts to dance around me, tries to confuse my footsteps. Yes, she has managed it, I fall. I hit something soft, it is the cardboard … I hope at least that it is the cardboard. Images fade. Gosh I’m pissed. How much alcohol runs in my veins right now? I should have died. I shouldn’t have died. It is toying with me; destiny laughs in my face. But I know I can win right now. My hand rests on a wall, a blank wall if I remember correctly. I’ll follow this to the exit. I’ll follow this to a haven; to a liquor store.

Damn. Why did I have to go out again? Noises, they keep attacking my senses. Hell is loose in my brain. A million pains and tortures participating in a macabre dance; their only goal to have their five minutes of fame in the chaotic stage they have set in my mind. I can’t battle them, I have already lost. But there is serenity in this acceptance of defeat, there is always this fine point between apathy and bliss. I have surrendered myself as their playground, and they let me survive, even if it is only so that they can torment me more. But this is a hell I am familiar with. Each step takes me away from it, each step brings me closer to another violent pit, each step sparks another unimaginable terror in my memory. The old ones are still there; their scars too deep in my psyche to simply subside because I left. But my mind, almost like a bottomless pit, keeps devouring those new vile sensations. Pain, agony, misery, destruction; they keep adding up in the pile. Horrors that no sane human could ever conceive fill me up. I hope that I won’t burst… today. I hope that I can make the trip back and forth. I hope that this small part of my mind that isn’t yet mad will hold. I have to, or everything will fall apart.

But it is hard. The alcohol is starting to dissipate in my veins. The horrors rub their hands in glee as they get ready to enter me again; and those horrors are new. I’m unprepared to face them. I take a step. A lady runs somewhere, she is carrying a bag. An envelope rests in there. She is ignorant of what this envelope will spark; but I know… Another step. I scream. I can’t help it; a red hot iron is poking my eyes out. Someone sticks something in my nails. I don’t know what it is, but it hurts; a lot. I scream again. Burning oil covers the last remaining skin of my body. It passes and I force my worn out body to move forward.

Fresh air. It stinks of life and death. I stink of booze. I think I’m going to vomit. An elder woman looks at me; she looks weird, she smiles. I take a step towards her; and I know; she’ll die; probably by a gunshot; probably in some months. Sorrow fills my heart again, I liked that woman, for a split second I felt comfortable. But the slight images of hopes that she sparked were swiftly crashed by the weight of the world’s injustices. Another step. I’m strong now, nearing my goal, nearing oblivion. I push a door. I enter. I empty my pockets in the counter. The shopkeeper is stunned; I guess he hasn’t seen anyone emptying a bottle of tequila in less than a minute. I buy another one. I leave.

Bliss.

Now if only I could find my way back… and pray. Pray that the new horrors that have entered me are not so strong so as to win over the old ones. I need my old home now. I need my old demons to triumph above the new ones. I need to strengthen the maddening violence I felt there. It was a violence I have won over by surrendering to it; I doubt I can do so again without losing the last bit of my sanity…

The booze is starting to work. My memory starts to fade… I don’t know where I am now. I just know that this is a new place, new images, new pains. I prefer the old ones, I’m used to them. I just know that I must leave this place.