Another shrill scream pierced Mural's head and thrust him into the doorway with a thud that shook the windows. His vengeance had ruled these streets for a couple years now, but she, this very one, had to be the last. Not by Mural's choice, but by fate's choice. If he had a say, this retribution would go on ceaselessly. He would sell his soul to be plucked from the grave after God called him to His kingdom to continue his crusade. Mural knew how to go about his duty without being caught and that filled him with the necessary arrogance to need to go on forever. He had spread his killings over a span of time and had changed the appearance of his motives, to create the question in the authority's minds that there were multiple killers with similar objectives. Mural was careful to never create the same scene twice. One attack would appear out of jealousy, one like an accident and another like a ritual, and so on and so on until he ran out of ideas. And then he'd flip back kill as he did right off. With each attack he'd pick the scenario and act it out to music in his house during the day. Reading the note sheets on his harpsichord, he would weave out his act in preparation of that evening. After he weaved his masterpiece together and it felt harmonious, he would kill and leave no other conclusions to be drawn other than what he chose to leave. He had a job to do and no man would stop him.
Mural made his way out of the tavern and trailed this unlucky woman by mere footsteps, watching her stumble off towards her home, as he fingered his butcher knife in the back of his trousers. The handle would tell him how he would pounce. He hadn't done a ritualistic killing in some time and planned a particularly gruesome end for this woman, for she seemed more evil than the others before her. Horrid whispers bled from her presence and a hush of faithlessness fixed in his mind. The handle of his knife grew damp with sweat as they strolled down the street several paces apart.
Mural was so close he could smell her sex and laden perfume. The stink was thick and leapt over and coated his skin. He swore it began to seep into his pores. He had to end her soon. Mural reached out to run his stubby fingers through her hair but before he touched her, wisps of white fog flowed out from her as if they were strands of hair in the wind. This overpowering mist wound around Mural in a cocoon of bellows that forced him into retreat, keeping the knife fastened under his belt. Mural gagged and ducked into an alleyway. The woman turned to investigate but found an empty moonlit street.
Mural covered his mouth with his sleeve to mute his gags. He could see her look about for someone and once she faced his direction, he covered his eyes. If he ever saw her face, ever saw any of the women he stalked faces, he would lose the whispers in his head. The noises would disappear like they never were there, and no matter how hard he tried, the whispers would never return and he'd have to move on to another. That taught him that his purpose was strictly business, nothing personal, just cleaning Boston of its adulterer plague, and there was nothing more personal than a face. These betraying women had to remain as another face in the mob. A surprise attack for both the predator and the prey. The only thing Mural wanted to see was a cold dead face. If that was all he would see, it would appear that she was never really alive to begin with.
Emerging from his hiding spot, Mural left the shadows in the brown and maroon brick alleyway and resumed his course, closing in on the woman again.
His hand slipped around the butcher knife handle and the whispers resumed.
Then something snapped in his mind, some alarm went off.
"Wait ...this is familiar. I've been ...I've done this ...she's..." Mural thought as panic and his past engulfed him. "No. Not now."
The past and the present mixed in his head. The woman before him began to shimmer and fade into a woman from memory. Both their figures hugged their dresses like the cloth was drawn on their skin. Their hair flowed together like two rivers converging in the moonlight. The white mist captured Mural in a memory of one of his past victims and he was helpless to do anything but replay the memory in his head.
Chapter 7
The night Mural recalled was etched deep within the pitch-black depths of his mind.
He remembered, with fascination, that the woman from time past had downed several pints at the tavern before flowing into the street. She was eyeing some poor sap all night, breathing deeply to accentuate her chest even further up in her decolletage. The unfortunate fool of a man bounced about in his seat to get her. They met in the alley, showered by their own clothes flying through the air, gripped in fervency as both moaned and gasped. Mural had heard moans from donkeys that sounded more attractive. She pushed up against the brick wall repeatedly bouncing and spreading her toxins all over her poor victim.
Finishing with her man quickly, she slapped her clothes back on and left him panting against the alley wall. He tried to whisper in her ear a yearning to remain in her, wanting her more with each step she took away, but she knew this speech all too well and couldn't stomach it. Blurting some slurred insult in his face, she stumbled out into the streets. Mural cradled his own forehead in pity hearing this pathetic fool as he finished his pint, still in the tavern. Her wicked thoughts led her out into the city streets in a bright white glow, creating beacons of whispers for Mural to follow. The moonlight draped her in a spotlight as Mural stalked, pacing himself with her stumbles. The butcher knife sang from the back belt line of his trousers, yearning to perform, but he hushed its eagerness; the time wasn't right yet. She walked on. Familiar buildings and sights passed by them both until Mural's ears could no longer hide from the blade's cries. So he wielded it.
The building before her broke into an alley as the woman he tailed abruptly darted down the dark lane; an amazing feat of dexterity for a drunk. Her hair flipped up over her shoulder like an inviting wave and the whispers disappeared. Mural felt unprepared, losing sight of her, but remained close. Both of his sweaty hands were curled around his knife as he plunged the wide blade into her side, snapping and sinking past ribs. Black flaps of Mural's long, rough coat and folds from the woman's delicate dress clashed in the air, splattered with blood. Her legs went limp as they fell flat onto the alley floor together.
He was on top, pulling on the knife with all his massive power to pry it loose, smug with his simple performance. Mural pressed his foot on her back and yanked violently to remove the blade. Glancing up from her back, with a smile ear to ear, he peered down the alley to see a gang of men. Mural pulled and struggled but couldn't free the knife.
"How could it be this stuck?"
The sounds of a mob began to form. Things were wrong. Her body was too limp; it felt too easy.
Mural flipped the body over to see another woman, a corpse, dead long before he got to her. Decay and dirt riddled her nails and face.
"I've been tricked - she staged this. How?"
In a blaze of white, a gleaming metallic wedge caught light from the moon and a portion of Mural's peripheral vision. He spun too late to avoid a plummeting knife as it tore away a piece off the side of his head, leaving a bloody notch in his ear. Mural winced and froze in shock and rage.
"Whore!" His voice resonated off the walls.
"You bastard!" screamed the woman as she revealed herself.
Her hand didn't pause a moment as she swung the blade around again, but Mural grabbed her wrist and her knife halted. He followed with his right hand, bringing his blade down with a thump. She cried out in pain, blood flowing like lava from her ruptured chest, tears glazing her eyes, her mouth trembling. Her eyes spat insulting glares at him, her deception bled out in shambles.
"Damn you," she sputtered.
"Nice try, adulterer," he smiled.
"Do ..." she coughed, "do you think I'm that ...stupid?"
Footsteps. A dozen men or so, running closer.
Mural glared at her, then up at the running figures clopping down the long alleyway towards him. They were not police. No, this was vengeance. The one in front had a noose in his hands.
"They're too late for you," Mural said getting up.
He turned to escape but sli
pped on a thick puddle of her blood. His legs wish-boned over her body and he tumbled over her feet, his head crashing against the wall, smearing a streak of his blood along the brick. The mob was upon him as the woman laughed with what life she had left. As her last sounds pushed past her lips a noose wrapped around Mural's neck. The men circled in. They were a scruffy bunch, most reeking of whiskey and sweat. Their blood boiled with hate. Two men held the end of the noose and pulled as Mural gurgled and spat, trying to force his fingers between the rope and his throat.
In the now, Mural's hand cupped his throat as he gasped for air. This past incident strangled the present so completely that he was left at the mercy of his invidious flashback.
Back in his memory, blood pulsed incessantly between Mural's eyes, marching over the bridge of his nose and bulging into his sinuses. The air left in his throat smashed firmly together into a ball as he coughed and murmured, fervently trying to wiggle the rope up to his chin. A heavy fist crashed into his face, forcing his head into his own shoulder and his fingers from the noose.
The thud of the impact rang painfully in his ears. Mural's limbs were secured as he gritted and heaved to break free, struggling to get even the smallest whiff of the air. The attackers were firmly atop of him and he grew weary; all the dead weight was too much. His consciousness seeped out with the blood that dripped from his nostrils. All sound became faint and barely made it to his ears. Mural knew he was done breathing soon.
"Off," Mural spat.
The men paid no attention as they continued locking him down. Mural gave one last desperate push against their force, yet they still suppressed him. In the haze of near unconsciousness he lost all energy and went limp. The sudden slack tumbled men about and Mural grasped at his only chance. A terrible fire erupted within him and found fuel in all the hatred cursing in his blood. Mural's arms rose with the men still on them. Their concentration broke as Mural flexed his colossal arms and rammed the assailants together, crushing their heads into a bloody fracture. The noose was still primed to constrict his last breath until Mural's head lashed back and connected with a skull.
Every man shed from Mural. He rose and ran with the noose still fastened about his bruised neck. More blood drained from his nose and ear as he dashed away without coordination. The street was a swirling mass streaked in gray and black that heaved about as he tried to run. His feet hadn't an ounce of weight to them, and Mural fled down the avenues of Boston at incredible speeds. Out of instinct, Mural looked over his shoulder at the lane behind him and saw it ebb away, his senses quaking from the quick change of his head's direction. His body gained its weight back with his disorienting movement and his feet became stone. Mural turned to look forward and crashed against a wall. Heartbeat pounding in his ears and lungs aching, Mural felt sleepy yet fought the urge to fall to the ground and rest. His eyes began to close but he quickly awoke to strange haunting echoes of clapping thunder. Air pushed its way into his nose as the distant roar came closer. Mural pushed himself off the wall and struggled to focus on the cobblestones ahead. The path heaved like a turbulent ocean and he became nauseous as he started to run again. But the galloping thunder was upon him.
The rope around his neck became taught and jerked away his panting breaths. Mural's loose sweat and blood splattered against the brick as he was launched off balance, and crashed flat onto the street. The top of his head hit the road first and he somersaulted onto his back. Laying flat on his back, another quick wretch stretched his neck and he choked out a scream. The thunder started again. Mural looked up in a daze with his palm to the sky as the rope around his neck snapped tighter as he was dragged into a gallop by the noose around his throat. The fires that lit the streets streaked by like comets.
Mural struggled in vain to gain control of his body as he was towed through the streets. Scraping along, Mural's face smeared splotchy bloody streaks down the ragged road. The rider whipped the horse, laughing at the end of the taut noose that was tied to the horn of his saddle. They galloped about the boulevards, Mural dangling from behind him like a sack. Mural flailed, pounding off every jagged edge of the road, with only some of the scrapes absorbed by his long black wool coat. Bruises quickly swelled around his ribs and face. Cobblestones rammed into his shoulders and threatened to dislocate his arm.
The rider began to struggle with Mural's weight and the rope veered off to the side of the horse, rolling Mural up onto the sidewalk. Mural was thrust up onto the curb and the snap of two of his ribs was drowned by the rider's laughter. As the world flew by in streaks, the rider heaved the rope with all his strength and led Mural into a torch post cradling burning logs. The streetlamp exploded on impact, dumping a shower of sparks onto Mural. Searing and blistering for only a short while, the fires soon rolled out as he rolled on. The horse picked up speed again as Mural began to black out.
Under such great stress that Mural's head, but not his body, was beginning to succumb to, plagued the rope as well. It frayed and smoldered as they rode toward the outskirts of Boston. A small fire spread down the rope towards Mural as he pulled his body wearily up to meet it. His arms tightened to steel as air piled into his lungs. With each breath, the air he found gave him the strength to climb the rope, looping it up in his bloody hands. The rumble of the city became distant and its people shrunk behind him as the shoreline came into sight. Everything inside him was bruised or broken and every inch of his skin felt tender and raw, but Mural vowed to reach the rider. Already half way up the rope, with the rider close enough to smell, the flame ate away the noose and spit off Mural. He soared away from the horse into an explosion of sand. The soft land spread into a cloud and masked his landing point as he rolled into the ocean where he lost consciousness.
Mural sat lifeless, quite fortunately face up in a foot of water, until he awoke to the calm kiss of dawn's light. He softly rose and slipped into the familiar shadows and they accompanied him all the way to his doorstop.
That same gloom reappeared and hungrily ate away the white fog from the woman before him. The darkness greedily attacked the light until the shade draped Mural. It was comforting like a warm blanket, and it brought him the calm and control he desperately yearned for.
Chapter 8
Slowly sliding back into the present, Mural watched the woman's black hair sway as he continued to finger his knife. Stealing away from the fire lit soiled streets, the woman rounded a corner and turned down a shaded alley. All the grit and grime disappeared in the dark and he felt comfortable, almost clean, as he brandished the knife to end all of her whispering lies. But she disappeared. She must have noticed something, catched some glimpse of him, but the lane was short and he still heard her whispers.
"God, not again," Mural thought.
Her indiscernible lust was heavy in the air, surrounding his ears. He searched with his eyes until he found her in a leaden block of shadows. He turned and smiled.
"Nice try, but you will not fool me again," Mural said.
She sulked into the half-light and showed her face and the whispers changed. Sounds morphed together into a pale face and shock took Mural, as familiar eyes connected with his.
"Another memory, she has to be." He squinted and shook, almost not recognizing her.
"Veronica?"
The instigator. The worst of all women. Estranged from his touch, but not his heart, Mural had convinced himself that she was his wife only in a past life. She was dead to him, beyond his scope, and no longer around to haunt and torture his soul. But there she stood, plain and real.
Mural began to pray. He had never wanted to see her again. He barely made it out of his depression the first time she left. Imploring God to exchange this moment for death, Mural could find no way out of this pain. At the core of his being was a love for her that begged and pleaded for air ever since she disappeared. He swore it had suffocated ages ago.
It was at dawn almost three years ago that he sat under an oak tree at the top of a hill where the cool breeze first introduced him to Ve
ronica. Under that tree he wanted to see the land he once loved one last time before he ran a blade through his neck, ending his hopelessness.
As twilight crept up, he steadied his butcher knife at his collar, with the blade partially pushed in his flesh to prevent any accidents. He was determined not to miss. Veronica did not miss his heart.
A line of blood leaked out from his neck and meandered down, pooling red onto the same white shirt he wore back when he first met her. The stage was set. His elbow was ready to straighten and pull the blade's edge into and across his jugular, ending his misery and every promise. But a whisper sulked from the bottom of his skull. The whisper repeated louder and told him, "Hold the light."
As the whisper faded, calmed hushed his confusion and pain. He became reassured, feeling that the whisper was an order of sorts, one that he instantly stopped his blade. Mural took a deep breath and once he exhaled, thousands of crippling whispers poured in from over the horizon. All these thoughts came from Boston below. They were the moon and he was the tides. At that moment Mural made his choice. His wrist relaxed and his knife fell while he listened, and as the sun fully rose, he chose the whispering voices over his death.
Hold the Light Page 4
