They’re your eyes too, smartass! Trepis’ scorned voice was a tickle in Xander’s mind.
“Don’t worry, then,” Xander said, sliding the lid off the wooden box. “I’ll close them for both of us.”
Oh, aren’t we cryptic.
Xander ignored his lifelong friend’s sarcasm and, giving only a brief, sidelong glance, drew the solid black, eight-chambered revolver from the satin-lined interior, leaving its ivory twin untouched.
Yin and Yang, his late-grandfather’s custom-made pieces, were, other than the pendant, his only treasures. Ever since he’d first come across the guns and the remaining round in Yin’s chamber he’d performed the ritual:
One bullet.
Eight chambers.
Once a night.
For almost five years his solitary, suicidal game had gone on and not once in all that time had Yin’s hammer ever found purchase on anything but an empty chamber.
That dull click haunted him each night in his dreams.
Please! Trepis said, pulling Xander from his thoughts. Can you stop doing this to yourself?
Xander shook his head, “Tonight might be the night, Trep.”
You say that every night! And every night proves to not be ‘the’ night. Doesn’t that mean something to you?
“Yea,” Xander smirked, “that I’m not trying hard enough.”
That’s not funny.
Xander weighed Yin in his hand and let it hang in his loose grip, “Sure it is.” He thought for a moment and frowned, “What do you think it means?”
There was a soft tickle over Xander’s ear as Trepis scoffed. It means that fate or destiny or whatever-you-think it is DOES NOT want you dead!
“You know that’s not what I believe,” Xander said, scowling.
Then what do you believe, Xander? Huh? You sure don’t believe strongly enough in dying, or you would’ve just done it by now! The fact that this has become your only potential way out and that it’s not working has got to mean something.
Xander bit his lip, focusing on Yin’s barrel. “It means it wasn’t my time.”
That’s right!
Xander nodded, “But tonight could be it.”
Dammit, Xander, no! That’s not—
Before Trepis could get another word in Xander popped the cylinder open and checked—though he was certain that it was there—to make sure the round occupied one of the chambers. Spotting his would-be prize, he spun the wheel and slapped it back into place. With Trepis’ words still rattling in his head he jammed the barrel into his mouth and thumbed back the hammer, feeling the resonation rattle against his teeth like it did every night. With his right hand still tightly wrapped around his mother’s pendant he clenched his eyes shut and pulled the trigger.
A flash of red and black tore across the vast darkness behind his eyelids like a bloody bolt of lightning.
A rustling around him like a whirlwind; across the room, some papers on his desk shifted and fell to the floor.
A dull, empty click.
As the energies settled around him Xander relaxed his muscles, his left arm sagging and drawing the revolver out of his mouth. Before the gun hit the floor he stayed his hand, glaring at the piece.
Trepis stayed quiet then as Xander let out a heavy sigh—one of many till the next night would arrive—and set Yin back inside the box with Yang and slid it under the bed. Certain that the twins were hidden from his grandmother for another day he picked up the ashtray and clenched the cigarette between his lips as he set about getting ready for bed.
He’d been condemned to another day.
CHAPTER TWO
Dilemma
“SON OF A FUCKING BITCH!”
The Beretta pitched in Marcus’ grip; the echoes of the gunshots resounding off the walls of the mansion’s underground shooting range. One-hundred yards away, a paper target disintegrated under the assault until the gun clicked empty. Sighing, he ejected the spent magazine and set the weapon down on the counter in front of him. The fourth round had done just as much to settle his nerves as the first three: nothing.
“Marcus!” Depok’s voice roared and the others’ nervous glances moved from Marcus to their leader long enough to bow their heads.
He hadn’t even realized how much attention his furious shouts and merciless firing had attracted from the other clan warriors. Turning towards the head of the Odin Clan, he bowed his head. Positive that he was in for a lecture he braced himself only to be surprised to see that Depok was smiling as he approached.
Depok, despite his many years, had the appearance of a well-kept middle-aged man. His grayed hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail that was bound with strips of leather. His golden eyes—mirroring his bright smile—took Marcus in for a long moment before finally blinking.
When he was close enough he laid a hand on Marcus’ shoulder. “You’re troubled.”
It wasn’t a question and neither of them treated it as one.
For a short while Marcus stayed quiet, toying with the idea of lying; of maybe going so far as to tell his leader that nothing was wrong. This thought was short lived, however. Lying, of any sort, was incredibly difficult when Depok was involved.
Letting out a heavy sigh, he nodded, opting for the truth:
“It’s the Stryker situation,” he said, finding the issue easier to address than it should have been. Upon hearing the name, several of the nearby shooters rushed to pack their gear and moved away. Marcus couldn’t blame them. “I still don’t understand why we’re waiting!”
Depok took a calculated breath, “Believe me when I say that I’m just as eager as you to bring him in; everybody is. But there is a right way and a wrong way to go about it.”
“Oh come on! If Joseph was still alive—”
“If he was still alive he would be just as obligated to follow the oath as the rest of us!” Depok’s voice rang with rage both in and outside Marcus’ skull.
Marcus, embarrassed by his brashness, lowered his head, “I understand”—he lied—“I’m sorry. I’m just… impatient.”
Depok smiled, “I know. But it will be dealt with when and if the situation calls for it. Like it or not we are bound by our promise.”
Marcus lowered his gaze to the floor, “I understand.”
Depok stared at him, his face painted with his own irritation, before he gave a slight nod and turned away. “Have some patience,” he called out as he left, “Our late comrade’s son is not the only one who’s at risk from all of this.”
Marcus stood, watching the clan’s leader leave. Despite the elder’s soothing speech, his tension was unrelenting and, though he hated to admit it, he was bored with shooting.
Now he wanted to hit something.
Stepping out, he took the stairs to the upper levels of the mansion and headed towards the gym.
“Depok read you the riot act,” Sophie’s voice chimed ahead of him.
Marcus rolled his eyes as he passed her, “Were you watching in or are you in my head again?”
His friend stepped away from the wall and fell into a matching pace beside him. “You really should know better than to bring it up,” she said, ignoring his question. “The entire clan is already boiling over about it. Still, I think it’s bothering him the most.”
Marcus rolled his eyes, “Joseph’s kid is going to get himself killed and we’re just sitting on our hands and hoping that we don’t get shit on them.”
“Charming,” Sophie sneered, “You really should calm down. After all, there’s nothing we can do.”
“Bull-fucking-shit! The only things holding us back are a few limp-dick laws and a crazy old bitch!”
“We’re being ‘held back’—as you put it—by a promise!” Sophie said.
“A promise that never should have been made,” Marcus grumbled, stepping into the gym.
Sophie sighed, standing in the doorway a moment before following him in and beginning to stretch. “It’s really not up to us at this point.”
Marcus scoffed and drove hi
s fist into a triple-reinforced sandbag that hung from the ceiling. As the supporting chains creaked he turned towards Sophie. “Can’t we just talk to him? Would it really be so bad if we gave him the choice?”
Sophie stopped stretching and looked at him, “We’re not allowed to approach him at all! If she sensed us anywhere near Xander—”
“Yea yea. It’d be a shit-fit. I know.” He thought a moment longer and smiled, “But what if she didn’t sense us?”
Sophie leaned forward, a blonde eyebrow rising, “You got something in mind?”
“I might,” Marcus smirked, “And I think it’s something that even Depok can agree to.”
CHAPTER THREE
Mo(u)rning
The sun’s optimistic rays pierced through the window and into Xander’s face, creating a blinding, neon kaleidoscope inside his eyelids and forcing him into consciousness. Like every morning, dragging himself out of sleep’s embrace was nothing short of torturous. He tried to struggle against nature’s attempts at rousing him and groaned as he rolled over to hide himself from the brightness…
Only to have the alarm clock go off in his face.
Anguished, he sighed and reached up to silence the alarm’s howl. Life had won yet another round against his efforts, and he finally succumbed to its demands and sat up, bracing himself for what was to come.
He had a life to live.
No matter how much he resented it.
Groaning, he forced himself to his feet and grabbed his cigarettes. His lighter—a cheap, black BIC he’d stolen from the teacher’s lounge—was almost out of fluid and took four strikes on the flint to birth a flame. He scowled and took in the first drag, promising himself he’d buy a Zippo after school.
It didn’t take long to get down to the filter, which he crumpled between his fingers before hiding it at the bottom of a trash bin by his desk. Confident that the evidence was well-hidden, he went back to his bedside table and stashed the ash-filled tray beneath a stack of papers in a drawer and retrieved the aerosol can therein. After a healthy spray of air freshener to hide his “dirty habit,” he put it back.
His grandmother’s labored snores echoed through the hall as he padded by her bedroom door. Swallowing away the growing lump of sympathy in his throat, he quickened his pace until he reached the bathroom and shut the door behind him.
The overhead florescent lights flickered for a moment and, overcome by the brightness, Xander blinked several times. Finally, he turned towards the old Clawfoot tub and leaned in to turn the faucet. The shower sputtered to life and let loose a freezing stream of water onto the back of his neck, making him cry out.
Trepis’ laugh echoed in his mind.
“…it’s not funny,” Xander grumbled, shaking the dampness from his hair.
I thought it was hilarious.
“Shut up,” Xander adjusted the water.
The tattered tee and loose-fitting boxers that served as his pajamas were peeled away and cast aside before he pulled off his mother’s necklace with meticulous care and delicately set it down on the counter by the sink, being careful not to tangle or kink the chain. The ruby eye—inlayed in the center of a diamond-shaped, sterling silver pendant—caught the light and shone with intense brilliance. He gazed at it, transfixed, and felt the memories begin to bleed through his mental barrier.
He looked down at the scars that decorated his forearms and chewed the corner of his lip. There had been nights, several years before, when he’d felt that Yin’s refusal had been unjust. On those nights he’d turned to a razor for relief. With the nail of his index finger, he followed the length of one of the pale marks—a mock-repetition of the motion that had birthed it.
The last time he’d cut, his grandma had found him—unconscious and more dead than alive—lying in a puddle of blood. After a trip to the hospital and a long time in the psychiatric ward, Xander decided to leave his fate in Yin’s barrel.
Casting away the thoughts, he stepped into the shower and drew the cheap, red shower curtain shut behind him. The water, now hotter than he’d anticipated, scorched his skin and he suppressed a shudder as he made a final adjustment to the temperature and dipped his head into the flow and held it there. The current soaked into his hair, draping it across his face. After several slow, calculated exhales, he reached for the shampoo bottle.
It was an unfortunate truth that bathing was only beneficial to the surface. It was a shame that there was no way to wash away the stains that lingered within him; the imperfections that everyone else seemed to notice but he, himself, could not discern. It was a shame, but drenched in warmth and encased in a crimson cocoon he felt serene. It was one of his few—if not his only-—moments of peace in the day.
Like all good things in his life, however, it was short-lived.
The rush of cold air to his wet skin was yet another rude awakening and he heaved a sigh as he dragged himself out of the tub.
You could always skip school today. Trepis said.
“And—what?—take twice the beating from Christian tomorrow?” Xander shook his head. He reached for a towel and draped it over his head and began to dry his hair, “Besides, Grandma would know something was up if I did.”
So go somewhere else. Try and have a relaxing day for once. We could go see a movie!
Xander frowned and paused, knowing he should have liked the idea of doing something entertaining. Had he really grown so distant from everything? What kind of a life could he live if he couldn’t even find enjoyment in anything?
“There’s nothing I want to see,” he said.
There was a sensation in his mind that he recognized as Trepis sighing. Come on, Xander.
“Step off it already, Trep! I don’t want to go to a fucking movie!”
You’re no fun. Trepis whined.
Xander nodded to himself and finished drying off. “I know.”
Wrapping the towel around his waist, he stepped in front of the mirror and wiped the steam from the glass. His reflection, blurred under a curtain of black hair, glared at him. His jaw shifted and tightened and his hazel-green eyes narrowed.
“I hate you.”
Trepis stayed quiet.
Xander appreciated it.
He exhaled through his nose, taking one last glance at himself before carefully scooping up his mother’s necklace and going back to his room.
The process of finding what clothes to wear was a simple one. Having long ago abandoned any sense of style and adhering to a tight budget, Xander had found the second-hand shops to be a valuable resource. The only true rule he followed was one of hygiene—after all, he was already bullied enough without adding body odor to the mix. He fetched a pair of jeans from the dresser drawer and sniffed it to be sure before tossing it on the bed. Opening another drawer, he snatched a balled-up shirt from the top of a dark pile, giving it the same attention as the pants.
He was happy, for the time being, that he was still at least a few days from having to visit the laundromat. The dirty looks he got while there were made all the worse by the need to stay until the process of washing his clothes was finished. He sighed, wondering if his grandma would ever get the washer fixed, and shoved his foot through the first pant leg and, as he hopped into the second, his mind drifted to a bumper sticker mantra that he’d come to know all-too-well:
Same shit, different day. Trepis echoed his thoughts.
He nodded, pushing his arms through the shirt and pulling it on. “You bet your ass.”
I might—Trepis chuckled, a soft tickling sensation—if I had an ass.
Rolling his eyes, he pulled the shirt on and stuffed his cigarettes into his pocket. Finally dressed, he draped his mother’s pendant around his neck and ran his thumb slowly across its surface. For a long moment he couldn’t bring himself to do anything other than rhythmically caress the ruby and let himself remember.
Best to not let your mind wander. Trepis warned.
Xander frowned but nodded, pulling himself to the present and letting the n
ecklace go. “Right. Thanks.”
Anytime.
Like every morning, Xander was careful not to wake his grandma as he headed downstairs and into the kitchen. With the sound of her snores left behind, he was able to relax and grabbed a discolored coffee mug from the cabinet over the sink and filled it at the tap. As he maneuvered through the kitchen he opened the window and he turned one of the stove’s burners to “High.” When this was done, he continued on to another cabinet and pulled a tea bag from a box of English Breakfast.
With everything ready, he took a deep breath and held the mug in his left hand and closed his eyes. Silence engulfed the room as he stood motionless, focusing his energies. Tightening his grip, Xander felt the familiar tingling sensation as it crept from his shoulder, down his arm, and into his hand. Outside, a neighbor’s dog barked at a passing car and a lawn sprinkler hissed. Xander focused harder, his hand starting to shake. Though the passing car was long gone, the dog continued to bark. Nearby, the dishes from the previous night’s dinner—still sitting in the sink where he’d left them—started to shake and rattle, and as he continued to focus his energies the chair closest to him shifted and started to drag across the floor. After another moment a tiny bubble formed at the base of the mug and floated to the surface. Encouraged by this, Xander continued to focus—his hand shaking from the exertion and threatening to spill the contents of the mug—and ignored the blistering pain growing in his palm. Finally, a small group of bubbles ascended to the water’s surface, followed soon after by another, then another. Steam began to rise and Xander clenched his eyes harder and tightened his grip, worried that the mug might break under the pressure. Still ignoring the pain, he coaxed the growing number of bubbles to continue coming until it finally erupted into a full boil.
Smirking at his personal victory, Xander relaxed both his mind and his grip and put the cup down on the counter, dropping in the tea bag. He looked at his hand, still shaking and bright-red, and ran it under the cold tap for a moment.
Don’t you think the microwave would be easier? Trepis teased.
Noir: A Crimson Shadow Novel Page 3
