An image I just couldn’t pass up despite the challenge. An old hitman reading a book. What does it say? I had to know so decided to step into that room and look over his shoulder
Thanks for reading.
Artwork by Alexey Egorov
https://www.artstation.com/artwork/aYnv2L
DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.
The Story
You always called them like you saw them, the old man read, sitting at the edge his bed of crepey sheets.
He turned the page with hands to match and read the next line.
“Don’t you dare,” he said to the words and the man who had written them, dead now, this book plucked from his corpse that hadn’t died easily enough.
I always thought the tattoo should have been bigger. I always thought you should have worn more sleeveless shirts, a tank top perhaps, to show it off. Isn’t that why we get them?
“No,” the old man said.
He turned another page, wondering why.
At first I thought I’d write you a letter, but then I worried I’d have too much to say, so I picked up this little journal, gridded, not ruled, because I found the tiny dots intriguing. It was difficult to resist the urge to connect them. To create mazes to get lost in. Where was I? Oh, yes. The journal. I fear with so many pages ahead of me, I may ramble. And God knows you don’t have much time left. I watch you from time to time, at the window you love so much, close to your arsenal that is a closet. How long did it take you to collect them all? If you added up their value, how many lives would it equal? I don’t mean in dollars, but in lives.
The old man took a moment for himself as the morning sun hit his back. It made his skin look worse. Gravity seemed to increase with the light. He looked over his shoulder and saw nothing but the wisps of hair sprouting from a single tattoo of a spade on shoulder that had borne so much.
He returned to the book but found it difficult to concentrate with his belt of knives tight around his midsection, as if it could be anything else. He slapped his belly like all old men seemed to do at some point in their lives. Few slapped a belly armored with a belt of knives, he supposed. The one thing that set him apart from all the other old bastards. That and the closet full of firearms, a kill count of, well, the number hadn’t meant anything for years so he’d lost track. He did like the way the sun fell over them all, except when it revealed their dissarray. Millimeters, but every one counted. He would have gotten up if his bones hadn’t fused together, hunched in this position for so long reading this infernal book. He tried to stand but it hurt to much. He tried to toss the book across the room, but that hurt more.
“Jesus,” the old man said.
You still keep Him on the wall don’t you? Did you appreciate the proper noun even though I think the whole thing is hogwash? And do you know why? It’s because I respect you, Julian. I respect you and all you are. All you believe. All you love. I’m not talking about religion, either. I’m sure you know that. You’re a smart boy. A big brain beneath all that hair you somehow managed to keep through decades of . . . well I don’t think I need to remind you of all you’ve been through, do I?
Julian’s scalp itched. The sensation dispersed like a thousand baby spiders escaping down his spine, across his shoulders, to raise the fine hair on his arms that had once been so coarse. Like him.
I apologize for bringing it up. I really do. I wish we could have had a conversation, but you don’t work like that. In and out, like a ghost. No, more like a rapist. Yes, that is the right word. Barging in, barging through until all is pulp. For a man with such soft hands, you’re a barbarian, Julian. But I’m not. That’s why I took care of him like you never could. I was gentle. He thanked me for it. Every night. With his eyes. With his mouth. Voiceless, but I knew. Body language holds more subtext and truth than words ever do. He was never much of a talker, anyway. And thank God, because his voice. Let’s just say it didn’t go with his face. Such a velvety peach it was. Go on. I’ll give you a moment.
Julian defeated his stiff limbs and got to his feet, watched his shadow grow to the man he used to be. Broad of shoulder and chest, a boy at his side, looking up to him for all the answers. He never had any. And in his frustration, he did exactly what this book said. Something out of place there. A word here. Innocent but infuriating. He punched, kicked, pummeled.
I hope you enjoyed your moment, Julian. I hope you saw him how you remember him, not how you found him. I pray those two aren’t the same. I did love him. You can have solace in that, I assure you. I know you did, too. In your own way. I can tell by your posture. How you face that wall with such conviction. A pity it’s just a wall. Can you face me?
Julian turned the page. This was the first book he’d ever finished, if one could consider this a book at all. The final page caught between the ridges on his thumb, but he was able to see through the thin paper. He was used to reading backward. In mirrors, in reflections of all kinds. Details were important, and he’d always loved to see the world through new perspectives.
Would you look at that, Julian read. We made it to the end.
Julian turned to the window, taking in the sun and all its glory. Taking in what was coming at twenty-six hundred feet per second. Taking in what he deserved but had defied for so many years. He saw no shadows, only light. That was fine, because he had no answers.
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