Post by tylatz on Oct 22, 2011 14:51:04 GMT -5
He remembers that day. It was raining. It always seemed to be raining back then. Tiny drops of water rapping against whetted pavement. The sound would rattle in his ears for hours on end, keeping him awake, dulling his senses of what was around him. The rain was annoying. He hated the rain. The way it felt against his skin, sometimes soft, sometimes sharp, and always cold. The way it weighted everything, oppressing everything it touched, forcing all but the most resilient to bow before it. The way it smelled, especially the rank scent of rotting cardboard and food that the water exacerbated. After a heavy rain the whole city would smell of wet dog and shit. There was nothing good about rain.
Hearing people speak of purifying rains and the wonders of rain made his lips twist and his stomach curdle. What the hell did those people know about rain? They lived happily in their homes, sheltered from the life that trudged through this shit hole of a city left in the wake of war. All of them acted like they never heard that old idiom about walking in another person's shoes as they drove around the city in their cars, careful to never let their eyes stray to the menagerie of the destitute. He could teach them a few things about walking in another person's shoes. Fuck, he didn't even know the name of the corpse he jacked them from. But the guy was pretty well off at some point, at least better than he was leading up to his death, judging by the dental work he had done and the shoes were pretty damn nice if a little worn. At one time that old bastard was just like the people driving by. Maybe that's why they didn't want to look at him as he drowned in that cesspit. Maybe his ilk was what the rain was supposed to purify the city of. Ignore it. Let nature do it's work. Fucking shitbags. Rain wasn't great. It was God pissing on them.
A forward edge of his bucket hat drooped, funneling a steady trickle of water in his face. He quickly corrected the problem with a click of tongue against ridge, a swipe across his face from the soaked sleeve of his oversized coat, and a fussing with his hat to shift the water away from his face. It could all go South real quick if his vision was distorted like that. You see, the worst thing about rain is that it made it harder to get food. More agile and lithe wanderers of the streets liked to take to snatching food left on restaurant patios by patrons wrapped in their lives of excess. If you were slow a busboy would whisk the remains away and dispose of the food. All of the shops had strict policies about preventing them from snatching left overs. It's like a stray dog, if you feed the dog it will keep coming back, but customers don't like filthy people hovering around to eat anything left on the plate. Someone finally made the pragmatic decision that the homeless dying of starvation was good for business. Of course, that was all moot when it rained. There were no people eating outside and he was forced to use different methods. Methods that weren't as safe as running by and snatching a few fries or the fat cut from a steak. That's why he couldn't have the rain in his eyes. He needed to see to pull this off.
A chipped blade twisted in the gap between the coat's cuff and the palm of his closed fist. It was only intended to intimidate. He didn't have any plans to really use it. Just flash it, get what he needed, then get the fuck out of there; there being the nearly barren parking lot. It was late, late enough that no one sensible was shopping, but there was always somebody that needed something and that would be his opportunity. He had been there for hours, lurking, waiting for just the right target, when she finally appeared. She was young, much older than him, but she was far from being old. It was unfortunate that he was aiming to take care of his stomach's appetite.
She walked quickly through the rain, juggling an umbrella and a couple bags of groceries on the way to the car. He followed, keeping low, arcing around to not be seen. This wasn't his first time, he knew how to make his approach. If there was anything good to be said of the rain, it's that it was difficult for someone to hear him coming and she was no exception. He was only feet away, hidden by her own car, when the locks were released and the door opened. She had a foot inside, the umbrella sticking out of the crack between the top of the car and the door, when he rolled around the rear corner and grabbed her from behind. The crook of his sleeved elbow covered her mouth and pulled her from the car, the thick material protecting him from her teeth and smothering her cries. He yelled in her ear to stop struggling and pressed the knife against her cheek, he made sure she saw the dirty edge and felt the prick of it's still lethal edge. It didn't work. She kept fighting, trying to scream, flailing in his grasp. To make matters worse, his hat shifted again in the rain, he was having a hard time seeing and the umbrella, moved by the wind, was battering at him. When he saw the small pistol she pulled from her purse it was too late to stop her. The shot missed him by a hair and scraped the edge of her car. In avoiding he had released her and slashed her face with the knife, it was an opening she tried to capitalize on, but he was faster. The knife sunk between her ribs and punctured something vital, he wasn't sure what it was, but he felt her body go limp against him almost immediately.
He gasped for air, drops of water were sucked to the back of his throat with the deep breath, but he found himself unable to exhale. His face went pale as the sound of the gunshot faded and was replaced by another sound. On looking into the car his heart ceased to beat. Sitting there, dressed in pink, was a small crying child, probably not even a year old. Somewhere along the line he lost himself at that moment. Reality shifted and he acted without thinking. He never figured out why he did something so stupid, but he did it.
Ten minutes later and almost a mile between him and the crime, he sat there with an empty stomach, his arms wrapped around the child, asleep from exhaustion. Instead of grabbing the purse or the groceries he had come to snatch, he made off with a baby and the blood of a mother on his hands. Why the fuck did he take the baby? He had no food to give it and couldn't care for it. No one would take it in now, the orphanage was destroyed in the fighting. If he had of left the baby then the police would have handled everything, but he had to be fucking stupid. It was difficult for him to remember what went through his mind back then. So many emotions and irrational arguments boiled up in him as he debated on what to do with the child. There is little about the thoughts he could recall with any accuracy. He could only correctly remember what happened.
He closed his eyes and told himself it would be alright like that. No one would know and he would just forget about it. It was a lie, but it was a comforting lie. He was ok living a lie to get by. It was ok to not remember. It was ok, he told himself time and time again. Gently he placed the blade as to not wake the child and closed his eyes.
He stared into one of the lights of the small cell with glossy eyes. It happened again. It always happened like this. He needed out. He really needed out.
“Fuck.”
Rem had better be quick.
Hearing people speak of purifying rains and the wonders of rain made his lips twist and his stomach curdle. What the hell did those people know about rain? They lived happily in their homes, sheltered from the life that trudged through this shit hole of a city left in the wake of war. All of them acted like they never heard that old idiom about walking in another person's shoes as they drove around the city in their cars, careful to never let their eyes stray to the menagerie of the destitute. He could teach them a few things about walking in another person's shoes. Fuck, he didn't even know the name of the corpse he jacked them from. But the guy was pretty well off at some point, at least better than he was leading up to his death, judging by the dental work he had done and the shoes were pretty damn nice if a little worn. At one time that old bastard was just like the people driving by. Maybe that's why they didn't want to look at him as he drowned in that cesspit. Maybe his ilk was what the rain was supposed to purify the city of. Ignore it. Let nature do it's work. Fucking shitbags. Rain wasn't great. It was God pissing on them.
A forward edge of his bucket hat drooped, funneling a steady trickle of water in his face. He quickly corrected the problem with a click of tongue against ridge, a swipe across his face from the soaked sleeve of his oversized coat, and a fussing with his hat to shift the water away from his face. It could all go South real quick if his vision was distorted like that. You see, the worst thing about rain is that it made it harder to get food. More agile and lithe wanderers of the streets liked to take to snatching food left on restaurant patios by patrons wrapped in their lives of excess. If you were slow a busboy would whisk the remains away and dispose of the food. All of the shops had strict policies about preventing them from snatching left overs. It's like a stray dog, if you feed the dog it will keep coming back, but customers don't like filthy people hovering around to eat anything left on the plate. Someone finally made the pragmatic decision that the homeless dying of starvation was good for business. Of course, that was all moot when it rained. There were no people eating outside and he was forced to use different methods. Methods that weren't as safe as running by and snatching a few fries or the fat cut from a steak. That's why he couldn't have the rain in his eyes. He needed to see to pull this off.
A chipped blade twisted in the gap between the coat's cuff and the palm of his closed fist. It was only intended to intimidate. He didn't have any plans to really use it. Just flash it, get what he needed, then get the fuck out of there; there being the nearly barren parking lot. It was late, late enough that no one sensible was shopping, but there was always somebody that needed something and that would be his opportunity. He had been there for hours, lurking, waiting for just the right target, when she finally appeared. She was young, much older than him, but she was far from being old. It was unfortunate that he was aiming to take care of his stomach's appetite.
She walked quickly through the rain, juggling an umbrella and a couple bags of groceries on the way to the car. He followed, keeping low, arcing around to not be seen. This wasn't his first time, he knew how to make his approach. If there was anything good to be said of the rain, it's that it was difficult for someone to hear him coming and she was no exception. He was only feet away, hidden by her own car, when the locks were released and the door opened. She had a foot inside, the umbrella sticking out of the crack between the top of the car and the door, when he rolled around the rear corner and grabbed her from behind. The crook of his sleeved elbow covered her mouth and pulled her from the car, the thick material protecting him from her teeth and smothering her cries. He yelled in her ear to stop struggling and pressed the knife against her cheek, he made sure she saw the dirty edge and felt the prick of it's still lethal edge. It didn't work. She kept fighting, trying to scream, flailing in his grasp. To make matters worse, his hat shifted again in the rain, he was having a hard time seeing and the umbrella, moved by the wind, was battering at him. When he saw the small pistol she pulled from her purse it was too late to stop her. The shot missed him by a hair and scraped the edge of her car. In avoiding he had released her and slashed her face with the knife, it was an opening she tried to capitalize on, but he was faster. The knife sunk between her ribs and punctured something vital, he wasn't sure what it was, but he felt her body go limp against him almost immediately.
He gasped for air, drops of water were sucked to the back of his throat with the deep breath, but he found himself unable to exhale. His face went pale as the sound of the gunshot faded and was replaced by another sound. On looking into the car his heart ceased to beat. Sitting there, dressed in pink, was a small crying child, probably not even a year old. Somewhere along the line he lost himself at that moment. Reality shifted and he acted without thinking. He never figured out why he did something so stupid, but he did it.
Ten minutes later and almost a mile between him and the crime, he sat there with an empty stomach, his arms wrapped around the child, asleep from exhaustion. Instead of grabbing the purse or the groceries he had come to snatch, he made off with a baby and the blood of a mother on his hands. Why the fuck did he take the baby? He had no food to give it and couldn't care for it. No one would take it in now, the orphanage was destroyed in the fighting. If he had of left the baby then the police would have handled everything, but he had to be fucking stupid. It was difficult for him to remember what went through his mind back then. So many emotions and irrational arguments boiled up in him as he debated on what to do with the child. There is little about the thoughts he could recall with any accuracy. He could only correctly remember what happened.
He closed his eyes and told himself it would be alright like that. No one would know and he would just forget about it. It was a lie, but it was a comforting lie. He was ok living a lie to get by. It was ok to not remember. It was ok, he told himself time and time again. Gently he placed the blade as to not wake the child and closed his eyes.
He stared into one of the lights of the small cell with glossy eyes. It happened again. It always happened like this. He needed out. He really needed out.
“Fuck.”
Rem had better be quick.