At Arms

by A. Rosaria

  James shook his head to get rid of the image of that night. “I loved only her,” he roared.

  “And you still took me.”

  Slowly she walked toward him, swaying her hips just the way she had that night. He wanted to say no then, but unlike today, his body betrayed him. Natalia caught them in the act. She was deaf to his pleas of sorrow, and his claim that he had been bewitched.

  “I never wanted you,” he said.

  A few more feet, he thought, just a few more. It was his only chance.

  “Didn‘t feel like it when you were thrusting inside me, taking my maidenhead.”

  She had indeed been a maiden, but not human. No human could do what she did. James told the guards about what happened, but they called him crazy. Not until the lord‘s cousin was found in pieces did they heed his words.

  “You don‘t want to talk? Are you going to skulk again like when I left you with her?”

  Natalia had demanded he chose between her and Lady Christine. It was an easy choice; Natalia already owned his heart. He chose her. He could see her relief in her eyes and a hint of forgiveness. Lady Christine threw herself on Natalia. He held his tears in.

  Christine came closer. James could feel her warm breath on him. Her eyes burned him; her seductive smile turned into a snarl. “You chose her above me.”

  He thrust the knife in her chest and twisted it, tearing her heart. He pushed the knife hilt down, snapping it off and leaving the blade in her.

  Christine‘s snarl faltered. She staggered backward, clawing at her chest to get the blade out. She looked up at him, fear showing. “What have you done?”

  He smiled and circled her. Stumbling, she tried to follow him, but gave up, fell on her knees, and rested her head on the ground, breathing heavily.

  “What have you done to me,” she cried out.

  He kicked her ass, sending her sprawling into the dirt. He had to be quick about it; the silver knife covered in rust would only keep her at her weakest for so long.

  Moaning, she raised her head and pushed herself up on wobbling feet. She spat blood on him. James kicked her chest, sending her flying back to the ground.

  “Is this all because I killed that little useless whore of yours?”

  James kicked her smiling face. Kicked her ribs. Stomped her chest several time. Her blood spattered on the ground. James spat on her, cursing her for the monster she was. He inhaled deeply. With both hands, he grabbed her by her hair and dragged her to the pyre. Christine clawed his hands to let go, but he wouldn‘t. He couldn‘t wait for the sunrise; he had to burn her instead.

  “You will pay for what you have done,” he said.

  James pulled her closer to the pyre. He felt the heat from the fire, and by how frantic she started thrashing, he could tell so could she. One more pull and she‘d be burning. She slapped his hands, making him loosen his grip. She tried to stand up. He kicked her legs from under her. She fell face-first. Before she could push herself up, he grabbed and pulled her legs. She smacked her nose on the ground, blood spurting out. Good, he thought, the less blood she has inside her, the weaker she becomes.

  James pulled her closer. She kicked with her legs, trying to get free, but he held on tight. She turned her body, making his arms twist. He lifted her up, her head barely touching the ground. He turned around, facing the pyre and ready to throw her in. She punched his balls. The pain shot up, cramping his belly, and for a moment, his strength left him. She dropped to the ground with her legs in the fire. He staggered back. Christine‘s scream pierced his ears. She clawed her way out the fire, her legs burning.

  This was bad. James looked around. His eyes fell on the sword in the hands of the dead knight. He knelt near the corpse and pried it out of his fingers.

  This was the first time he had touched a sword. He held the sword in one hand. The weight felt much different from that of a knife. A bastard sword. Fitting, he thought. A bastard sword for a bastard.

  Christine crawled toward the trees, dragging her motionless legs behind her. She had stopped screaming and he soon saw why. The black skin covering her legs was peeling off, exposing pinkish skin that was quickly receding back to its normal color. He grabbed her by the hair and held her tighter this time. He yanked her head back, arching her back and pinning her in place. He raised the sword.

  “Don‘t,” she pleaded.

  James swung the sword down. Her arm shot up. The blade cleaved flesh and got stuck in the bone. He tried to yank the sword free. Christine grabbed his hand that clutched her hair. She twisted his wrist. He cried out and let go. She rolled away from him, dislodging the sword from her arm. She turned on her back and kicked his chest. Gasping for air, he fell on one knee. She didn‘t run away. She didn‘t have to anymore. James clenched his teeth. He had failed. His life was now forfeit if he didn‘t flee. He stood up. They locked eyes.

  “Nice try,” she said, “but it‘s over now.”

  He raised the sword‘s point forward at Christine‘s chest.

  “Still got some fight in you, I see.”

  James recited a prayer. Her face transformed into one of disgust. She stepped back. “Stop that.”

  He swung the sword in a long, wide arc, which she nimbly evaded. James kept praying.

  “Stop now.”

  He swung again. Christine backed down. Her face contracted; she showed her fangs. He swung the sword and cleaved air. She ducked under the swing and came up with her fist smashing his jaw, shutting him up. He stumbled back. She jumped at him. He sidestepped, swinging his sword down on her. She barely got out off the way.

  Circling around him, her eyes preyed upon him. This isn‘t working, he thought. He had to do something else. She rushed toward him. He swung the sword wildly to keep her back. She hit the blade aside and punched his chest. It felt like a smith‘s hammer had hit him. Fangs out, she aimed for his neck. He dropped down and rolled away. Holding on to the sword, he jumped up and ran for the tree line.

  He heard her footsteps behind him. He saw little in the moonlight but didn‘t dare to slow down. His muscles ached; the fight had taken its toll. Gasping for air, he ran as hard he could, but she gained on him. James couldn‘t go into the afterlife and face Natalia yet, not without avenging her. He had to get away.

  Somewhere ahead, he heard running water, a river; maybe Christine couldn‘t swim. In the blue moonshine he saw a big boulder ahead. He glanced back. He saw her face full of hate, eyes glowing red, just a few feet away from him. He swerved around the boulder and saw the steep slope descending to a small stream. He threw himself back, grabbed, and held on to the boulder, which dislodged a bit. Christine flew past him and tumbled down the slope.

  James ran behind the boulder and pushed. It gave way. He pushed harder, sending it rolling down. He heard a scream and bones cracking. He ran down the slope, jumping over branches and holes. God must favor him today. Christine lay under the boulder, her back crushed, and only her head and legs sticking out from under the stone. Blood streamed out of her mouth, nose, ears, and from under the rock. James smiled at her.

  “Evil can‘t win. The sun will soon come up, and with silver inside you, you‘ll slowly burn to hell.”

  She glared silently at him. He chopped her feet off; she muffled a cry. Satisfied he looked at the blood spurting out. This great loss of blood would weaken her considerably. “Don‘t you go running off,” he said, smiling.

  He walked away. After all, he had avenged Natalia. It was a miracle really. He followed the moon and went deeper into the forest. Wherever it might lead him, he would take upon him in the service of God to rid this world of these vile creatures of the night.

  Bonus Story: DEATH‘S GIVEN CHANCE

  Eventually death will call us all, but in the meantime it will send a postcard, or visit someone close to us, or invite you for a showing. Death likes to be remembered; however, sometimes there is a limit in how much to hold death in your thoughts.

  I don‘t like to look in mirrors. It isn‘t that I think
I‘m so ugly that the sight of me despairs anyone looking at me, quite the contrary. I‘m a handsome man—tall, dark, athletic—and I have the brightest green eyes. It isn‘t solely grandstanding. Once upon a time I was sought after by women, and even a few men tried their luck. This was before I dropped out of college a long time ago. It isn‘t that I lost my looks, I lost something else.

  However green and bright my eyes may be, when I look in the mirror I see myself in those eyes and I don‘t see the good, wholesome exterior covering me. Today I feel a pressure build inside of me, beckoning me to do it. I see it in my eyes while shaving, pleading with me to do my deepest wish. The razor scrapes my chin, cutting the stubble. It takes only one swipe and it would be over and done with, and all surrounding me would cease to be along with my forfeit life. The razor cuts into my skin and with the pain I retract my hand. With the thought of regret still freshly lingering in my mind I rinse the razor. I continue shaving, while shying to look in the mirror at my pleading eyes consorting with death. Quick to finish, I leave a spot unshaven.

  Showered, shaved, and suited up in my old suit with worn trousers, I stand outside in the breezy day with autumn leaves floating on the invisible air making small, harmless tornadoes. I prefer to have another suit on, but my current financial situation doesn‘t allow me to do so. I barely have the money for the bus fare to my hometown. It‘s not like I need another suit, with being jobless and not getting invited on job interviews.

  Ten years it‘s been since I left town, ten long years. With less happening in life the longer it seems to last. Sure, college went by fast, especially with the first year being a blast with all things being new and exciting. In the second year, I realized I made a mistake in my chosen study field. Dumb and young as I was, I decided to slug it out one more year. I dove in the books and became a recluse of sorts, only to pick up on socializing by the end of the term.

  Thanks to this sacrifice, I managed to get to the third year, but not without consequences. I was physically and mentally exhausted. To regain some of my old vigor, I threw myself into partying, but to no avail. With the gusto gone to go slug out one more year, I quit shortly after the start of the year. I left with no degree to show for it and a hefty student loan to pay back.

  At that time I thought my life was still salvageable, and maybe it would have been if I hadn‘t been so pent-up on my pursuit to get an associate‘s degree in the hope to up my chances in the workforce. Looking back it made sense, but hadn‘t known for certain what I wanted to do. No, that‘s a lie. I did know what I wanted, but I believed that people frowned upon it and in a way they do. Of course it isn‘t their fault that I ended up not doing what I really wanted; it was my own doing that stopped me.

  There is nothing wrong with being an illustrator. With a bit of daring and vision you can make a living. I do know this now after I already ruined my life and any possibility to still chase my dream. Too chicken to face peer pressure, I instead took an information technology course, believing I would get a good paying job after completing it.

  Standing outside in the cold morning, I feel the wind around me sweep up to a frenzy. It washes over me, plugging my nose with its pressure. I open my mouth to get some oxygen. The sudden cold air coming in burns my lungs, while a feeling of lightness creeps into my head. I struggle down the steps in front of my rundown apartment building, afraid a gust of wind will lift me up and smack me down hard on the pavement. With my luck it will hurt a lot and cripple me from my neck down, leaving me alive to live a life of pain and humiliation.

  I look up the narrow street, a long stretch with a small incline, hugged close by four-story brick row houses at each side. The wind funneled down between the houses pushes back hard. With one arm stretched forward I move ahead step by step, stopping with each gust of wind to regain my footing and strength. Very similar to my life, one eternal upward struggle. Breathing difficult and sweating, I reach the end of the street and see the bus stop not far from where I‘m standing. Like life, it doesn‘t matter if you want to or not, each step takes you closer to the next point. Life is really a dead-end road with death always at the end. Right now the point I arrive at in my life is this bus stop, a crossroad of sorts.

  The people in my neighborhood have the sense to stay inside away from the lashes the wind is giving freely to anyone foolish enough to venture outside. I‘m the only fool at the bus stop. Being alone is becoming a common occurrence in my life. I can‘t say I am always alone, because that would be a lie. I do have friends. I smile, now that would be lying. I had friends—that is until I left my hometown for the city to study. You see each other a few times the first year, the second one you call each other to say hi, the next year you send the occasional mail or text message, and eventually years pass by and you receive a funeral invitation reminding you of your lost past.

  With my friends out of my life, I came to know Melly. I hooked up with her in my brief party phase just before quitting college. It shocked her that I was quitting. Despite the freshness of our relationship she decided to stick with me. Good still came my way in those days, but I think that was the last bit of it. She encouraged me to get the associate‘s degree, pushed me to do my best, and thanks to her insistence, I got it.

  With the associate‘s degree earned I went job hunting. She opposed this. Being in her last year pursuing a journalism degree, she wanted me to continue with my studies. A waste of my talents, she said. How I hate that word, talents. Like a person is a set of talents that we should use to the max, or else we have wasted our lives. Well maybe she was right in that I wasted my life, but not at that time.

  I got an entry-level job working at a help desk. I tried to convince Melly that the job would be a stepping stone and only ended convincing myself. Every day I answered the phone and listened to the most annoying people demand that I solve their computer problems. The kind of problems that spanned a wide spectrum of them forgetting their passwords to them calling me to fix a monitor they forgot to turn on. The most thankless and soul-sucking job I ever had, actually the only job I ever had. Stuck in that job without any chance of getting a promotion, I finally got booted because of downsizing, a code word for moving the help desk to India.

  She left me on her graduation day, telling me she wanted to see the world and would not bind herself to someone who wouldn‘t even work for a degree to get ahead. I think even if I had, she would still have left me. Best choice she made. She saw the world, probably while on her back, and finally after a lot of that, she turned out to be one of the many talking heads on one of the major news corporations. A glorified teleprompter reader, spreader of lies.

  The squeaking of brakes jolts me out from my thoughts. I look up at the bus stopping in front of me, a long gray one. My watch shows it‘s on time for a change. The door opens to a jovially smiling bus driver who greets me as if it is a sunny day instead of the soon-to-be storm raging around us. The chilling wind whistles inside the bus with me following in its wake.

  “A ticket to Cordtown, please.”

  “Going for a trip to the small town of flowers, aren‘t you?” he says, smiling a smile I didn‘t care to return.

  “A funeral.”

  Funny how just the mention of anything death related takes all the joy away from someone who was so abundant with it before. The man‘s face sours as he mumbles an apology and offers his condolences. I‘m not family of the deceased, but people always assume the worst when it concerns death. Nobody ever stops to think about the possible release it delivers. It‘s part of life, inevitable. I‘ll leave him to his assumption, because I‘ve no need or want to explain myself to any stranger.

  “Twenty dollars,” the bus driver grumbles.

  “For a return trip?”

  “Forty.”

  My face must have paled at the mention of the bus fare, because the bus driver‘s turned from mild annoyance to one of apprehension. I‘ve been away for a long time, so I expected a price hike, but still it is a surprise that the fare doubled. I
have twenty-five dollars in bills and change, more change than bills. Maybe it is predestined having a one-way trip back to the town I hail from. Death is a one-way trip, and maybe this is a sign of my end that I avoided for so long.

  Fishing deep in my pockets I throw the contents on the small counter. The driver looks up at me with a frown etched above his eyes and mumbles just loud enough for me to hear that he would have been better off if he had just driven on instead of stopping. From the pile of bills he sorts the amount for the ticket. The bastard pushes twelve quarters back to me, while he could have given me three dollar bills back. With their incessant complaining about never having change when you try to break a dollar bill, you would expect that coins were in high demand.

  “Here‘s your ticket,” he says, pushing it into my hand.

  For politeness sake I smile a thank you and walk to the back. A young woman in a black Victorian-style dress with a corset bodice and two pairs of arm wraps, and ruffled decorated skirt, sits in the middle row. She would fit right in with the Gothic group at my old college. I won‘t deny it. I like the look on certain woman, especially redheads. However, this one isn‘t a redhead. She smiles at me, while her eyes bore through me seeing somewhere behind me as if I am not there. I go on to sit in the back away from her odd stare.

  The wind lashes at the bus, pushing it from one side to the other. A few cars drive along on the road, sweeping from side to side like the bus. It‘s a twenty-minute trip to town. The closer we get the fewer cars I see on the road. The young woman in black doesn‘t get off on any of the intermittent bus stops. She‘s probably destined to Summervile the last town on this route.

  We enter Cordtown with the roads now empty and the wind rocking the stopping bus. To my surprise the young woman stands up, walks to the front and exits without saying goodbye to the driver. She must be a new resident or a tourist. I‘ve seen everyone at least once, not a great feat being it‘s a small town with not many faces to remember. She must be an out-of-towner. I smile at the thought, because now I‘m considered one also.