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Twins in Death: Chapter Eight – Part Two

Twins in Death

A Tale of The Weirdo

By Brett N. Lashuay

 

 

Chapter Eight: Concerning Birds and Clones

 

 

October 24th, 2002

11:26 p.m.

 

            The Weirdo sat alone in his bedroom, thinking about things. He was thinking at the moment about how he liked the autumn better than any other season. He liked how the days grew shorter and the cooling in the air. He liked the air itself, the very smell of the air. He loved the winds, the odors and the scents that were carried on the air. The spiced apple smell seemed to be coming from a million scented candles and things were just very much in the sort of mood his world needed. Besides there were cloudy days with wind, strong winds at that. What every trench coat wearing person wants, really wants, is a good cloudy day with a lot of wind to blow their coats and hair dramatically. It makes them feel like they’re in a fantasy novel, or at least an Anime.

 

            He closed his eyes and suddenly the image replayed itself for him. The young girl’s head exploding in a rush of blood and skull fragments, in delicate slow motion. His high-speed camera of a brain had recorded the spin and trajectory of each piece, so it could be played back for him at a moment like this. He saw the pavement shattering and the single piece striking the mother on the back causing her to turn, as the tiny body fell. The young face looking around the square, and then simply a cloud of blood. The image came over and over again, accusing him, reproaching him. He should have moved sooner, shouldn’t have tried to banter, and should have run in front of the bullet. Omega would have caught it, but Omega was dead, just like the little girl. The little girl was dead because of him, and there was nothing he could do about it. If he had done something when he’d had the chance, she would still be alive.

 

            He looked at the full moon beams as a figure appeared in the flapping curtains.  She had a form so shapely that simply observing her was one of the world’s five most erotic experiences. He watched as she walked into the room. The silk and lace that billowed around her exposed every curve of her form as she walked towards the sixteenth century chair he sat in. His eyes seemed to look right through her at the photograph that lay at the other end of the room. She placed her still partially transparent hand at his chin. After a few more seconds she became whole again.

 

            “Hello, Weirdo,” she said to him. Her soft fingers touched his cheek. “So alone, still you mourn her?”

 

            “Yes Eoster.”  The Weirdo said as she moved around the chair and ran her fingers over his chest. “I still mourn her.”

 

            The Goddess of spring and re-birth smiled and ran her fingers through his hair.

 

            “Then I can’t take you into your bed?” She said, kissing his cheek.

 

            She walked over to his bed and sat down on it. The outline of her breast was apparent as she leaned against the post and let her sable hair curl down. Odd that she hadn’t had dark hair before. She looked at him with a seductive air of someone who was trying to look right for him. Her body was soft and taught, promising of a thoroughly athletic and faith assuring lovemaking session. The sort of thing that left a person, or perhaps people, lying in a heap, sweaty and breathless. It would be the sort of thing that would result in being a physical wreck in the morning, no matter how good it felt tonight.

 

            The Weirdo, however, was not impressed. One might almost say that he didn’t notice. It would be untrue to say that he didn’t notice her per se, because he noticed everything. It would be more true to say that he didn’t care to be swayed by the argument. There were things that had come and gone in his life and he thought this was one of them. He noticed her body, the seductive face, and yet he could do nothing. It was as if he didn’t remember what he was supposed to do at this point. There had once been a rather short series of commands, but they had gotten lost somewhere. They had been too near his heart, and that had been torn out. Now the thoughts of her body, possibly glistening with sweat, only touched the raw spot of pain in his chest.

 

            “Eoster.” He said shaking his head. “It has only been a few months now, and yet, once a month you come to visit me.”

 

            “I was sent to comfort you, I still await my opportunity.”

 

            “No.” The Weirdo said. “You can’t. No one can. That part has died.”

 

            “It hasn’t, you just won’t let her go. You’re keeping the wound open and raw.”

 

            “It hasn’t even begun to try to scab over, much less heal.”

 

            “You keep picking at it.” She said leaning forward, placing her arms together in such a way as to accentuate her breasts. “You won’t even let the wound close.”

 

            “It’s not time yet.” He said.

 

            “It won’t get any easier.” She said. “I know about this, it will get harder the longer you drag it out.”

 

            “What do you care?” He asked, looking at her with something coming close to anger. “Why are you so obsessed with this?”

 

            “It’s my job to guide you through.”

 

            “Who gave you this job?”

 

            “I can’t say.” She said.

 

            “Then you can’t do the job.” He said turning away. “I won’t spend that kind of time with you, if you aren’t going to be honest and open with me.”

 

            “I’m sorry.” She said standing up and walking towards the open door. “Have you thought to consider that can’t isn’t the same as won’t? That maybe I’m just not able to tell you who sent me?”

 

            “Yes.” he said nodding. “I’ve considered that, but my answer remains the same. I think that even if you can’t actually say, there are things you could say but aren’t.”

 

            “Okay.” She said. “Just so long as we understand at least that part of it. That I can’t actually answer the question you’re asking.”

 

            “You could help me find the right question.” He said.

 

            “Not right now I can’t.” She said, “I wish I could.”

 

            “I’m sure you do.” He said turning to watch her fade from view.

 

 

December 7th, 1208

10:04 p.m.

 

            The Weirdo could feel Kei’s warmth next to him, and it was amazing to think that she was here with him. He had missed her warmth last night, when he had sat out with the other monks, in nothing but the thinnest garments. They had knelt down and concentrated and managed not to freeze to death. He knew that they should have died, that the Tibetan winter was not that warm in the day, the nights could kill at fifty paces. Yet they had endured the entire night in the freezing cold.

 

            He had ignored the cold, like they had told him to, and it had worked. He had wondered for a long time before going out if it would work, but it had. If one centered properly, La Kin had told him, you could survive anything. He didn’t know if he would always have the time to center, but he could certainly hold onto the center if he had to.

 

            He rolled gently and looked at the dying fire, as his gray cloak dried in the heat. He was going to have to leave soon, and he was going to have to leave Kei behind. She was going back to Japan, but he hated to just break it off like this. It had to be done though, and he had to move on. He thought that it was going to be Australia next, if he understood right that is. He was going to have to start the gun work now, now that he had finished with the swords and the temples. It was time to start with the last few parts of his journey. It was time for the guns and the science, all the science he could manage.

 

 

October 24th, 2002

11:29 p.m.

 

            There was a knock at the door, The Weirdo looked at the door. He looked at the place where Eoster had been a moment ago and then back at the door.

 

            “Come in.” The Weirdo said.

 

            “You all right?”  Max asked as he entered

 

            “No.”  The Weirdo said.  “No I’m not fucking all right. I am very not fucking all right. I got beat today, how could I be all right?  I mean it was all over before you guys even had a chance to show up. I didn’t even wait around for the police.”  

 

            Max wanted to tell him he knew all of that, which he had shown up about the same time as the locals did. That the federaliees had also shown up and it was only Jack threatening to kill them that made them finally leave him alone, that was also an issue. He couldn’t say these things though, because he didn’t know how. The Weirdo had saved him, and yet had left him in the tiger trap.

 

            When Chip had shot him and let him drop into the river, he had been alone. The bullet had sunk into the vest, which had saved his life, but his collarbone and a few ribs broke under the strain. His left arm still didn’t want to raise above his shoulder without great pain. He had fallen in the river, caught hypothermia as it turned out. He had swallowed water and as the hypothermia was just taking hold pneumonia had swept in, but that was all later. He had lived through it all, and he had even killed his good friend Chip, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem had been that later The Weirdo had told him he knew all about Chip, that he thought it safer to know where he was. Chip had tried to kill Max and The Weirdo had thought he might do it, yet he had let it happen.

 

            Max had been all right in the end, but it still galled him a little that they had known and done nothing. Max couldn’t say any of this either, because he had understood the lesson before The Weirdo had talked to him. He had been forced to do something for himself. He had chased Chip down and shot him.

 

            The Weirdo took the bottle of scotch and poured it into the glass.  He closed his eyes and the glass lifted, floated toward his open mouth and then turned. The liquid remained at the bottom of the glass. It began to pour out suddenly, flowing like a bronze spike. The liquid hung in the air, like a horizontal stalagmite. It then poured into his mouth, which he closed.

 

            Max was annoyed at this and felt this he could talk about.

 

            “I thought you didn’t believe in using magic like that?”  Max said.

 

            “Any point?”  The Weirdo said.

 

            He looked exhausted. Even though the bruises had faded from his face, and the cuts had closed, he still looked beat. It wasn’t that he was wounded in body so much as spirit. He had gone a long way towards trying to heal the internal wounds. His spirit didn’t fix itself in the same way that his body did though.

 

            “I guess not.”  Max said.

 

            “There you have it.” The Weirdo said.

 

            He looked at the bottle and a bulb of liquid exited from it and flew towards his mouth. The scotch floated like a soap bubble through the air, which was gently pushing its spherical shape out of a perfect sphere with the air currents. He opened his lips and the scotch slipped into his mouth, sliding down his throat. Max looked at him with some disapproval. The Weirdo looked back and understood the stare.

 

            “I got the hell beat out of me today. I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.”

 

            “So you’re a bit rusty.”  Max said.  “Just have yourself a workout, wait out the problem and just roll along.”

 

            “It wasn’t rust.”  The Weirdo said. “He’s stronger, faster and can immediately heal from gun shot wounds to the head.”

 

            “So we all gang up on him, get a tactical nuke and blast him from the solar system.”

 

            “That might take most the city with it.” The Weirdo said.

 

            “Would it?” Max asked, rubbing one of his eyes.

 

            “Yes.” The Weirdo said scratching his scalp.

 

            “Well we’ll think of something else.” Max said. “There’s always a way isn’t there?”

 

            “Sure.” The Weirdo said. “I’m going to bed.”

 

            He got up and walked to his bed, pulled back the sheets and fell into the mattress. Max watched for a moment, expecting him to move, instead he began to snore. It was such an immediate and rolling snore that it couldn’t have been faked. The Weirdo didn’t know what he sounded like snoring, so he couldn’t fake the effect. Max sighed and pulled The Weirdo’s legs into the bed and covered him with the blanket. He looked at the can of coke and wondered how well The Weirdo slept with all the caffeine in his system.  He lifted the bottle and held it in his hand, watching The Weirdo roll over. He walked slowly towards the door and opened it, walking out the door and into the hall.

 

            He walked, with silent grace, down the hallway, bottle in hand. He knew this was expensive stuff, but he didn’t much care. His mother had been killed by a substance deadlier than this, but it reminded him of her. She had gotten to the point where she couldn’t hold the needle any more, and asked her young son to do it for her. He had held the needle until he couldn’t take seeing her like that any more.

 

            He had spent everything they had on that last hit for her, even the money she still had the presence of mind to set aside for food. He had spent it all on the last hit, which he, like a dutiful son had cooked and injected for her. He knew it to be far too much, but he also knew it wouldn’t hurt her to go like that. She had simply slipped away, falling deeper into a sleep until her breathing stopped. He had held her hand until he couldn’t feel the pulse anymore. He had thrown up, for a long time after that, and it still bothered him. There were nights where he woke up, his face wet with tears and could only beat the pillow.

 

            He opened the bottle as he entered a bathroom, unscrewing the cap so hard that it spun from the top of the bottle and onto the floor where the plastic cap made an odd hollow noise. It bounced around on the tile floor like it was doing some sort of dance. He took a whiff of the booze and held his head back from the smell. There was about ninety-three dollars worth of scotch left, he could tell that somehow. He knew it was ninety-three dollars worth. He looked at the bottle and poured the ninety-three dollars worth of its contents into the sink. He watched as the bronze colored liquid drained away all ninety-three dollars worth. He washed the bottle out and threw it away into the garbage, where it made a defeated bang against the can.

  

© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions

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April 23, 2013 - Posted by | Fiction | ,

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