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Twins in Death: Chapter Two – Part Two

Twins in Death

A Tale of The Weirdo

By Brett N. Lashuay

 

 

Chapter Two: Love Lost

 

 

March 27th, 2002

9:27 a.m.

 

            The figure was dressed very oddly indeed for an early spring morning. The leather and silk ensemble would have been better suited for a summer’s night rather than a March morning, when it was still cold enough to see one’s breath. The machine gun would have struck some one as odd as well, but there would have been no one around to see it under normal circumstances. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone there to see it any way. That had been part of the agreement. The person with the machine gun was to have privacy to do their work.

             

            The Weirdo’s massive home stood on what was more or less a private island, and there were large gates keeping the very few occupants on the other half of the island off his half. It wasn’t like anyone could get to the grounds anyway. People seemed to loose their will to invade half way to the house, there was just something about the grounds that kept people off. This one had managed though, by means which will become obvious later. The fact that The Weirdo had made it his business to eliminate as much crime as he could manage while still having a life of his own was not a factor in the home life. They were never attacked at the home, no one ever came there, it was safe.

 

            The house was a fortress, like the castles of old. It was as unassailable as a massive stone building on a cliff face. It looked like a Pre-Victorian mansion, but felt like the last modern temple to security. There was something about the house, something that would not allow it to be assailed, but there had been the agreement. The agreement had allowed the person with the machine gun to perform this terrible task.

 

            The figure stood in front of a huge picture window at the front of the house, and watched the woman come down into the front room. A feeling of energy rushed through the blood as the eyes fixed on her body as she came down the stairs tossing her long brown hair, which fell in gently, loose curls about her shoulders. She was a vision of sex and beauty, which had the luster of a Goddess about it. She looked like a life bringer, and the person with the gun shuddered. It was a mixture of hatred and envy and self pity that moved through the figure.

 

            In a large and thick bush near the house, a child stood waiting. She wore a pale yellow rain coat, with the hood pulled up over her fair hair. She had the look of a child whose gentle beauty would only enhance with age at which point she should be elected to the office of goddess and be asked to live in the sky. She touched the side of the hood and gripped it with her hand in a worried way. She was only about four years old if that much, and she knew what she had come to watch. She had come to be the witness, to verify that certain things had, or was it, would happen? How do the threads of causality run?

 

            She couldn’t tell any more, but she had to watch this, that much she knew. Her eyes fixed on Shannon and for a moment, she thought about using her plastic backpack to break the window and scare her, to ruin the moment of opportunity. That would send the world into a spiral of uncertainty and she knew that it wouldn’t work. Her heart thumped in her tiny chest as she watched the inevitable come forth. She could feel the waveforms of possibility collapsing around this situation. There was only one path left in the universe. She wanted to do something, to stop this, but it wasn’t allowed. There were rules, she had been told all of them. She couldn’t step in and stop this, she could only observe. Her tiny heart pounded in her chest and the sound of rushing blood was all she could hear save for her breath. She clutched at the hood, waiting for it all to be over.

 

 

           

March 27th, 2002

9:28 a.m.

 

            The Weirdo had been able to fight his hand from taking the broach for a full minute. He knew that his strength wouldn’t hold his hand from its evil purpose. After the minuet had passed his hand began to move slowly but steadily towards the broach, ready to take it for all its evil intent. A chainsaw, a chainsaw, his right hand for a chainsaw, which was his intent really. When his finger came in contact with the thing, the sound began and distracted him.

 

            When you stop bad people from doing bad things all day you get to know the sound of a cheaply made Mac 10 like a biker knows the sound of a Harley Davidson. This was such a sound, a fast loud snapping of machine gun fire. The short sharp and rapidly repeating sound of the machine gun was accompanied by the sound of shattering glass. His mind didn’t get into gear so much as his body did, the knife flipping open and his body throwing itself into gear.

 

            The Weirdo turned, with what seemed to him to be infinite slowness; he began to run, leaping down the stairs. It wad like moving through a dream, one where he couldn’t make it in time. The Grey Man’s hand slipped and the broach fell and clattered against the stone of the balcony. One of the gems popped from its setting and spun in the air, catching the light of the sun. The Weirdo jumped over the stairs and furniture to the front room. The Gray Man’s eyes closed, holding back tears, which trickled from the tightly held lids. He had succeeded in his mission, and had never hated himself more. He felt the shame of the betrayer as he watched The Weirdo leave. He wanted to put that pistol he had been given against the side of his head and see if he could indeed die.

 

            The Weirdo had flown down the three flights, his legs barely touching as he leapt. He had moved so fast, and yet not fast enough. She had already fallen when he got to the room and the blood had already begun. It was already too late, and he knew it.

 

            “Shannon!” The Weirdo screamed as he entered the front room.

 

            Blood pooled on the floor, streaming past and around the broken shards of glass. It formed a mosaic on the floor, which was horrific and terrifying. It was puddling in places, leaving her at an alarming rate. If she had lost that much blood in such a short span of time…

 

            Her hair was matted in the stuff, her blue eyes stared wildly and she seemed to be unable to breath. She frightened, hurt and going into shock. She looked confused and lost, like some one who’s just fallen off a horse on a carrousel that hadn’t even started to move yet. She tried to breathe, but the sound was like the gurgling of a faulty water pipe.  He slid towards her on his knees and scooped her up in his arms. He held her up against him, her blood soaking into his clothes, the warmth seeping against his skin.

 

            “No, no, no, no.” He whispered as he held her.

 

            His hands began to spark with magic; it tickled at her wounds but only served to close wounds that had let out as much blood as they reasonably could already. He held her close to him, his face desperate. He concentrated all his power in but it was useless, the wounds had closed but the damage had been too severe. She tilted her head back and looked at him. He looked down into her face, which had taken on the look that he had seen in the faces of many terminally wounded people. It was the peaceful face of some one who knew all their problems were over.

 

            “Weirdo.” She said, her hand touching his cheek. “I love you.”

 

            The fingers left a spot and then a streak of blood on his face, her fingers slipped away and she smiled again. He couldn’t think of anything else, but to say the one thing that must be said. He couldn’t have her moving on without having him say it one last time.

 

            “I love you, too.” He said.

 

            Her eyes began to close, but he was not about to give up on her. He held her close too him, using all his power and magic to try and keep her longer. Sparks danced from his hands and her body glowed golden, and yet it was all to no avail. His own hands began to burn from the power. Small cuts appeared across his hands, and a long gash appeared above his forehead. Her body stiffened for a moment, and then went limp. He pumped more of his magic into her, but she didn’t move.

 

            He buried his face in her shoulder and tried to breath in her scent one last time. He stopped trying to save her and the wounds on his body closed themselves immediately. He wanted to scream, but what would be the point? There was only one person he would want to cry his woes to and she was gone. He had come to that realization already, and some cold logical part of him had already accepted that. It would be waiting for the rest of him when it caught up.

 

            He looked up and a pale figure in a black dress looked at him as she left. The image was fleeting, like seeing a ghost or trying to remember a detail from a dream. He knew who the woman in the black Victorian dress was though. The Lady Death had come to collect the soul of his love, and had taken her away.

 

            One of the problems with being The Weirdo was that his mind had so much processing power for random thoughts that he had once actually considered all the possibilities of what he might do in this situation. He had several suggestions to choose from, but couldn’t manage to perform any of them besides pressing his face into her limp form.

 

            Max had run from his room when he’d heard he shots, he had been asleep but had come awake suddenly when he heard the shots. He had been slowed by fumbling his gun from his coat before running down the long hall and then the stairway. In truth he was working more on his body’s automatic pilot than he was with his brain. He came down the hall and felt something terribly wrong as he made his way towards the silent room. His heart was sinking in his chest, because of the ominous silence. If things were all right there would be gunshots or some one crying out how much The Weirdo was hurting them.

 

            He pushed the door open and looked at The Weirdo’s back and somehow, he knew instantly. The Glock nine millimeter he had brought from his room dropped from his hand and clunked on the ground. His eyes filled instantly with tears as he walked forward his throat choking itself closed as he tried to walk.

 

            “Oh my God.” Max managed.

 

            “Pick your gun up.” The Weirdo didn’t shout, but his voice was commanding. “Might still be out there.”

 

            Max reached down and his hand picked up the square Glock. He then began to skulk towards the shattered window, looking out at the trees and bushes. He couldn’t see anyone, and the wind kept blowing enough to make everything move making it impossible to judge by them.

 

            “What?” Mrs. Pendleton asked as she came in.

 

            She stopped as she looked at the scene, and her heart nearly failed her. The Weirdo was on his knees, holding the bloodied form of Shannon. His clothes had been soaked through and for a moment it was hard to tell which of them had been hit. She then noticed that The Weirdo was still moving and it occurred to her which one of them was dead.

 

            She often had a though about The Weirdo’s sanity, that it was being kept in tact by the thin thread that Shannon maintained, and if she were ever to go, then so would the great mind. She now feared that he would become totally unhinged, in fact she knew it. There was going to be no place of solace for him now, and he wouldn’t be able to handle it.

 

            “Oh no.” She whispered.

 

            Her eyes failed to focus and tears dripped down from them, she held the doorway for support and her thin hand covered her mouth to suppress a cry. The old woman’s heart felt like it was breaking in two as she looked at the two figures on the ground. The tears kept rolling down her face as she wept silently.

 

© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions

 

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May 21, 2012 Posted by | Fiction | , | Leave a comment