In the Boilerroom
The dark always put in a few extra devils.
It was always there, that feeling that the dark was watching you, that there were eyes out where you couldn't see. You hunt enough of that stuff and it gets to be natural, being afraid. The rush of adrenaline, the fight or flight reaction, your heart in your ears and that rushing sound that he could never quite figure out.
But tonight, he needs the devils. Or one devil.
He slides the knife across his palm, the blood slipping out as quickly as the words. Into the bowl. Into the dark.
The knife is put aside and the match is lit before it's dropped in as well. The flare as the fire hits the blood and the sand in the bowl takes the room from his eyes, return everything to uneasy darkness from whence he hears--
He stands and tries to see.
"What the hell are you doing down here, buddy?"
Shit.
"I can explain."
Steps, coming towards him. His hand moves, sure and simple, because he's got something to do and he's not about to play games.
"Yeah? You're going to explain to security." Smug. Superior. "Come on. You follow me."
He cocks the Colt in his hand, sure as he's ever been of anything. Sure. So sure.
Shaking and sure.
"Hey." And it feels good to hear his voice, gruff and thick and low as it is. In control. In the same key as the click of the gunmetal. "How stupid do you think I am?"
Pretty damn stupid, but that's beside the point.
But the yellow eyes that glow in the darkness make him feel a little less like an idiot.
"You really want an honest answer to that?"
He knows the honest answer to that. They'd shared the same brain space, after all. He's about to say something about it when he feels the two men behind him and it takes every ounce of will power not to curse out loud at himself. Fuck. He was losing it. Maybe he was just speeding up the inevitable here.
"You conjuring me, John. I'm surprised." He doesn't sound surprised. After all, by John's estimation, he should have been expecting this. Or maybe his opponent's not as smart as he thought? No. Fuck. "I took you for a lot of things. But suicidally reckless wasn't one of them."
He knows. This is a fucking laugh riot and he knows.
"I could always shoot you."
Sounds like a better time than what's to come.
"You could always miss."
He always has, hasn't he?
You know what they say about old dogs and new tricks. And dogs in this business don't get much older than me.
Not that I'm gonna get much older.
"And you've only got one try, don't'cha?" It's like that yellow-eyed son of a bitch can hear inside his head. Fuck, he probably could. He'd been in there before, after all. "Did you really think you could trap me?"
I thought I could.
Damn.
Dammit.
Dammit.
"Oh, I don't want to trap you."
I want to kill you.
And it takes every ounce of will he has to make his muscles obey, to lower the gun, to keep his finger from twitching and ending this stupid fucking game. He could kill him. He could kill him right now, regardless of the 'zombies' behind him. He could end this. He could end this whole thing.
But the only thing at the end of that road was another funeral. Another headstone he couldn't visit.
And Sammy's eyes damning him more thoroughly than he could damn himself, even.
And what would Mary say?
He had always tried to ask himself that. He hadn't always listened to the answers, even when he'd known them. What would Mary say? What would Mary do? And if he did this, if he avenged her, if he killed this son of a bitch and then he died and he went up to Heaven, what would he say to her?
Damned if I do, damned if I don't.
But at least this way, there's a chance.
"I want to make a deal."
It was always there, that feeling that the dark was watching you, that there were eyes out where you couldn't see. You hunt enough of that stuff and it gets to be natural, being afraid. The rush of adrenaline, the fight or flight reaction, your heart in your ears and that rushing sound that he could never quite figure out.
But tonight, he needs the devils. Or one devil.
He slides the knife across his palm, the blood slipping out as quickly as the words. Into the bowl. Into the dark.
The knife is put aside and the match is lit before it's dropped in as well. The flare as the fire hits the blood and the sand in the bowl takes the room from his eyes, return everything to uneasy darkness from whence he hears--
He stands and tries to see.
"What the hell are you doing down here, buddy?"
Shit.
"I can explain."
Steps, coming towards him. His hand moves, sure and simple, because he's got something to do and he's not about to play games.
"Yeah? You're going to explain to security." Smug. Superior. "Come on. You follow me."
He cocks the Colt in his hand, sure as he's ever been of anything. Sure. So sure.
Shaking and sure.
"Hey." And it feels good to hear his voice, gruff and thick and low as it is. In control. In the same key as the click of the gunmetal. "How stupid do you think I am?"
Pretty damn stupid, but that's beside the point.
But the yellow eyes that glow in the darkness make him feel a little less like an idiot.
"You really want an honest answer to that?"
He knows the honest answer to that. They'd shared the same brain space, after all. He's about to say something about it when he feels the two men behind him and it takes every ounce of will power not to curse out loud at himself. Fuck. He was losing it. Maybe he was just speeding up the inevitable here.
"You conjuring me, John. I'm surprised." He doesn't sound surprised. After all, by John's estimation, he should have been expecting this. Or maybe his opponent's not as smart as he thought? No. Fuck. "I took you for a lot of things. But suicidally reckless wasn't one of them."
He knows. This is a fucking laugh riot and he knows.
"I could always shoot you."
Sounds like a better time than what's to come.
"You could always miss."
He always has, hasn't he?
You know what they say about old dogs and new tricks. And dogs in this business don't get much older than me.
Not that I'm gonna get much older.
"And you've only got one try, don't'cha?" It's like that yellow-eyed son of a bitch can hear inside his head. Fuck, he probably could. He'd been in there before, after all. "Did you really think you could trap me?"
I thought I could.
Damn.
Dammit.
Dammit.
"Oh, I don't want to trap you."
I want to kill you.
And it takes every ounce of will he has to make his muscles obey, to lower the gun, to keep his finger from twitching and ending this stupid fucking game. He could kill him. He could kill him right now, regardless of the 'zombies' behind him. He could end this. He could end this whole thing.
But the only thing at the end of that road was another funeral. Another headstone he couldn't visit.
And Sammy's eyes damning him more thoroughly than he could damn himself, even.
And what would Mary say?
He had always tried to ask himself that. He hadn't always listened to the answers, even when he'd known them. What would Mary say? What would Mary do? And if he did this, if he avenged her, if he killed this son of a bitch and then he died and he went up to Heaven, what would he say to her?
Damned if I do, damned if I don't.
But at least this way, there's a chance.
"I want to make a deal."