Tragic Figure rough
“So you fancy yourself a tragic figure, eh?”
I protested of course, my cheeks growing warm with blood. I didn’t think I was any worse off than some of the other people in this world. Not really, it was just that-
“Because you’re not. But you know that, don’t you.”
It was the expression on his face that caused me to react the way I did. I think. That dark grin, the superior tilt of his head, all carefully constructed as if to say: I know what you are and I find you sadly lacking. This one could ferret out a person’s darkest secret and then parade it out at the worst- or best possible moment. Standing nonchalantly the entire time carrying that look. Everything calculated to throw the most level headed person into a blinding rage.
It’s not an excuse exactly, more like a… a reason. An explanation. Because I’d have never done it otherwise. Never.
***
Messier Dartmour was not, by his own admission, a nice person. He was courteous, civil, impeccably polite, and generous at times, but he was not nice. He knew this, but as with all things immutable, accepted it and moved on with life. Some things just were.
On the other hand, some things were to be taken advantage of.
Like the rise in minimum wage, or the near collapse of his rival company. Just because someone was down didn’t mean you couldn’t obliterate them. It was usually more efficient and less hassle in the long run anyway. So logical, so obvious. His mother had called him a monster when he’d tried to explain it to her, and thrown him out of the house. Along with the paltry coins she flung into the wet grass with him she’d also screamed that he was not her son and never would be again. He took the words to heart.
Years later, after his four-mile walk through the pouring rain; he decided from his executive office that there must have been more to it than that. His callousness couldn’t have been the sole reason for her blinding fury. Perhaps it had built up slowly over the years she’d been raising him. Little things like the failed English class in Fifth grade, or his penchant for disappearing at night for hours on end. He’d always come back though, and he’d told her not to worry once she’d discovered it. Maybe she hadn’t listened then, nor had she a few years later when he’d last seen her. She certainly wasn’t doing a very good job of listening now.
He gently hung up the phone, cutting off her whining pleas for money. He had no obligation to the woman anymore. She wasn’t a relative, and hadn’t been for years. It was necessary to understand the ramifications of one’s actions after all. Some things can’t be taken back once they are given.
And he didn’t believe in second chances.
And Mssr. Dartmour was not the kind of man who believed in second chances.
It was necessary to understand the consequences of ones actions.
***
When asked what his first impression of his employer had been, Jerry always replied that it was the man’s charisma. He always lied.
That wasn’t a particularly odd thing; Jerry lied all the time. It was necessary for his job, but that wasn’t why he could never answer that question quite truthfully.
His real first impression had been of that dark infernal grin and the all-knowing, all-seeing gaze. Some people called it amazing. He thought it was damn unnerving. Of course that was, as he learned after a few weeks on the job, precisely the point. And after seven years of seeing it, he had come to admire its effectiveness.
He still maintained that it was damned creepy though. Especially in the hands of one as ruthless as it was.
***
Afterwards, with a few stiff drinks that weren’t exactly legal, I wondered if that hadn’t been his aim the entire time. If I hadn’t been set up and knocked down as easily as a bowling pin. Manipulated like a puppet on a string, dancing to his tune and never knowing it.
I wondered that I didn’t care more.
That night, curled up in my worn blankets, I dreamt of dark, secretive smiles and glittering eyes, and promises never fulfilled.
In the morning I wondered why it felt like the world was coming to an end.
By afternoon I remembered, and wished I were dead.
***
Some people called him a devil with unnatural habits.
The spawn of Satan. A danger that society needed to be rid of. Scum that ought to crawl back to the pit from whence it came.
Some people never learned, and some people were never seen again. That was his job. If they were seen again he’d lose it. Some things really were that simple, and some things were not.
Code name Mercury Rose was one of those things.
He also thought that that was a stupid name for an operation. It simply screamed Top Secret: do not pry. It was rather like chain link fences in that regard. Designed to keep people out, with the opposite effect in reality.
Like the one in front of him. A twelve-foot monstrosity, complete with razor sharp coils of barbed wire on top and shining stainless steel links.
It was utter simplicity to pass.
When asked later that evening with the darkness framing and accenting that devilish grin, Mssr. Dartmour had claimed that that was rather the point. Jerry saw no reason to contradict him; he certainly didn’t know what it was.
And he didn’t need to know.
***
My back hurts. My arms hurt, my legs hurt, my head hurts. My teeth even hurt, dammit.
And I’m scared. I can feel the terror clawing at my chest, struggling to crawl up my throat and choke me on my fears. And I have to hold it at bay. Clamp it down, and lock it away in a cold, tight ball in the pit of my stomach. A black hole. Concentrated ephemeral mass, tangible, but untouchable; both real and imagined. Or he’ll win. He will be right. And he can’t be right. He just can’t.
***
Jerry does not enjoy his work necessarily. Like anything else it has it’s pros and cons. Sometimes it’s like an unavoidable chore. A duty he is bound to do despite his distaste. Of course this is different. This is the chase. The one thing he lives for, breathes for. It’s his wine, his food, his passion. In his more melodramatic and truthful moments he admits that it is what he truly considers to be his work. And like all good obsessive … he was dedicated to his work. Obsessed with would be more like it, but he had to be very drunk before he’d admit that.
And Jerry did not drink.
***
And I have to keep running, even after my breath is gone and my legs falter and stumble; I need to keep going. Because if I stop… if I falter…. If I hesitate even a little, I’ll remember, and then I’ll fall. And I won’t be able to get back up.
***
“So much time, and you still haven’t learned”
I can’t see the face, but I remember that voice, and I can see that mocking grin in my mind. It makes my blood boil, but I still can’t move.
“This isn’t tragic either, but you have managed to become rather pathetic. “
This isn’t happening. This is a dream, a nightmare. Unreal, fake, a lie.
Gravel crunches by my ear, and warm air caresses the sensitive flesh.
“Congratulations” A laughing, mocking whisper and he’s gone. Taking my dreams, hopes, wants, and wishes with him.
The pavement grows cold beneath my cheek and I’m starting to wonder…
Did he take my life too?
Not sure how done this is, nor even what's going on, nor what's going on. Suggestions could be useful.