Anathema

[WarRatsG]

A long time ago, I remember hearing that “it is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend”. That may be why I was on the ground and my friend was on the other end of a loaded crossbow, teasing the trigger with his finger.

 

Lyle pulled me out of my thoughts by angling the crossbow upward into my chin. I tried to struggle back, but he planted his foot on my hand. I barely noticed the icy tarmac grating my skin, or the grit embedding itself into my hand like shrapnel – my fingers had taken leave of their senses several cuts ago.

“Speak!” he barked. He hit me across the cheek, which knocked me flat. I merely acknowledged the pain, but I was mildly grateful for the gentle warmth from the trail of blood clinging to my cheek. His voice lowered into a drawn out growl that seemed all too familiar, “I asked you a question.” I couldn’t think of a life-saving lie and neither of us were the kind for teary-eyed platitudes. The truth would kill us both, so I could only appeal to his survival instincts and hope for a moment’s reprieve.

“Now isn’t a good time for this Lyle, Sharky wants his crossbow back and he’s got the whole North side looking for us both. You’ve only got one shot, but I’ve got a cousin who can get us out of here.”

With the full moon behind him, his eyes no longer appeared as different colours. They had converged upon a wolfish amber. He tightened his grip on the weapon,

“The Bridge is only a half-mile away, and if I let you walk away from this my brother goes to jail!”

 

It is at times like this, when you’re just about kissing the barb of a crossbow bolt, that you try to measure the weight of your own existence. You gauge its value, and wonder in your final moments what kind of afterlife you deserve. I set out to send a murderer, who committed the worst of sins with the best of intentions, to jail – all to avenge someone who would probably kill me himself. Sadly, Death doesn’t hang around for you to decide if you were right, wrong, both or neither. Death doesn’t know the difference.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Lyle looked like he could murder somebody.

 

We were both waiting by the Bridge for his brother to come up and give us a ride home. He couldn’t have picked a worse place to wait – this was the only place to cross the river that divided the town, it was here that North became South, or more importantly, where enemy became ally. There were at least two skirmishes between the North side and the South side a week. No fights had occurred this week: violence was overdue.

 

“We’ve been waiting an hour”, I said, hoping the apparent impatience would mask my discomfort. “If we wait another we’ll probably get stabbed. We should just send Adam a text and move somewhere a little safer, or at least warmer.”

“I tried already, but he didn’t answer,” Lyle sighed, “so I’d rather hang around here and wait for another hour than walk home in the cold.”

 

Unease had coated my insides like frost, and my eyes were frozen on the Bridge. Lyle seemed uncaring, even as he notified me of two others coming up behind us. Even though I couldn’t see anybody yet I had learned to trust his judgement. Keen does not describe him: I got the feeling he could probably even hear their pulse. When they materialised under a flickering street lamp neither of us could recognise them under their hoods. That was dangerous even on the same side of the Bridge.

“We should move,” he murmured.

“No. They won’t do anything. Nobody would go out for a fight in this cold,” I replied.

“Well they’re walking straight. They’ve not been on a night out.”

“Not yet.” I was probably trying to convince myself more than him.

 

They continued to flit between streetlights, submerging into shadows and surfacing increasingly closer to us. As they neared, I noticed that they were talking hurriedly.

“Told you we should have moved”, Lyle murmured with only a shade of urgency. “These are North siders. Sharky’s waiting across the bridge right now!”

 

Sharky. It was the word that kept would-be patriots on their side of the bridge; it was the symbol that caused a generation to pick up blades out of fear; it was the name of the murderous pack leader of North side’s gang. Apologetically I muttered,

“I don’t know if we can take them by ourselves”

“We don’t have to. Look left.”

I saw the headlights darting along the waterside with a speck of red behind them. It was Adam’s car.

 

The two guys stopped suddenly, most likely to size us up. I guessed they were only a couple of years older than us, maybe eighteen or nineteen. I could see their former trepidation slipping off as chauvinism and testosterone took hold and swirled into a cocktail of violent intentions. He uttered his challenge with unmistakable hubris,

“Are you looking at us, pal?”

I took a quick reassuring glance to my left. I guessed twenty seconds before the cavalry arrived. I couldn’t help myself,

“Yeah. Is that a problem?”

“Yeah, it is.” He fumbled with his jacket as he walked towards us, revealing the glint of sharp metal. Adrenaline and regret immediately flooded my head as he took a hold of his knife. His friend wasn’t far behind with a blade of his own. I kept my arms folded.

“You better run, boy!” he laughed. I was a mere breath away from abandoning my bluff.

 

A car motor caught everybody’s attention. The headlights directed their full beam onto the thugs. One jumped to the side. The other jumped up. In a flash of red, he glanced off of the fast-moving windscreen and tumbled to the ground behind the car, with his knife still soaring through the air. The vehicle screeched to a halt.

 

His friend took off across the Bridge like a gazelle into the night. As Lyle and I ran over to the floored aggressor to ensure he stayed down, the doors of the car were flung open. Lyle’s enraged brother emerged, along with someone I hadn’t seen before. Adam stood over the thug as he coughed violently, probably fighting through cracked ribs to call out,

“Adam? Is that you? You have to believe me, this isn’t what it looks like.”

“I know what this is, Dean.” Adam’s anger was quickly turning into a sardonic growl. I could see that Dean was now wondering what kind of afterlife he deserved. I couldn’t help but pity him as I wondered how long he would be left out here before help came. He began to conjure up the precious confidence he had held on to,

“So what, are you gonna kill me?” he laughed, “if anything happens to me then you and all your pals here are gonna have a hefty bounty on your heads. Sharky will bring the whole North side down here. You, your brother, and your entire family will be biting the kerb!”

It wasn’t until now that I realised Adam was holding his own kitchen knife by his side. Almost immediately, my pulse began to drown out the sound of any thoughts I tried to have.

 

Adam twirled the knife in his hand for a second, hopefully to consider better options. His momentary indecision evaporated as he began to kneel down. With each second, my heart rate doubled.

 

And when the knife glided across Dean’s throat, my heart stopped.

Edited March 10, 2013 by WarRatsG

[Keanumoreira]

Damn, that's some mighty fine writing. Got anymore? :cool:

[WarRatsG]

Cheers mate :biggrin:

When I wrote it I had ideas for where it could go, but for a while that's probably how it's going to stay. Who knows ;)

[Keanumoreira]

Just let me know if you do. :D