The glory of death

Warning - Swearing, violence and madness. But would anyone expect less from me?

**********

I hate trains. I hate the way they feel, they way they move, the way they smell, and more than all that I hate the people who travel on trains. I stare at them right now. It's half full, but I stand up. I don't like to sit with them.

People eating, people sleeping, people talking, they sit there, their very presence nauseating me. They are either dressed like slobs, or in the uniform of grey black pinstripes. The way the shoe polish of the suits who sit there, it makes me want to slit their throats, letting the blood pour out, but I don't. I stand up, my hand gripping the pole. The pole sticks to my hand, partly out of the sweat of anger, partly from the dirt on the pole.

I watch as a particularly ugly woman, lolling like a malformed frog as her spawn screech like the hideous bastard chicks of the cuckoo. The woman, her mouth open, wide like a toad's, her vast belly, swollen like a boil that could burst any minute, spreading it's vile pus and spores all over the train does nothing, expecting everyone else on the train to keep quiet as she allows her malformed mistakes run around, disturbing people.

I feel my lip curl up in a sneer as I look at her. Her hair, cut short, I assume because she does not want the bother of looking after it, dyed a particularly horrific blonde as is the fashion among her type. She wears her jeans unaesthetically, her stomach bulging out of them like a growing mould, just covered with a T-shirt the same pastel pink as her skin, making me want to retch as I thought she might be topless for a moment. She looks half dead as her equally ugly larvae, looking like huge uncooked sausages in clothes, run around, hurting my head with their incessant banter.

The suits ignore this sight for my poor, sour eyes, and act haughty and apathetic as they read that the very businesses they work in are killing millions. But they don't anger me as much as the woman. Her dirty offerings are disturbing me as they shout, and it makes me want to wrap my fingers around their little necks until I cut their jugular veins with my fingernails. But I don't. I grip onto the pole harder, holding my woollen knit black bag close to me.

I see that one of her hatchings is staring at me vacantly, ponderingly. It stares at me with its eyes, dirtying my suit with its very presence. I growled back at it, wanting to snap back at it, but allowing it this chance to stop looking. It doesn't. 'Hasn't your mother told you it's rude to stare?' I snarled, re-adjusting my wide brimmed black hat. The worn started to cry. Its mother ignored it.

I looked away, scratching my face with a long fingernail. I wrapped my cloak around me, adjusted my black weskit and checked my boots to see if they had been tarnished by their presents of the train. They were impeccably clean. I doubt that the child had ever seen anyone who had been so clean before, and again I felt the nausea flow through my body.

The sun outside has disappeared over the city full of sin and deprivation, but I liked it that way. The sunlight is too bright. And the people don't deserve it. I feel the train begin to slow, and my hand grips my black bag, the wool chaffing my inexperienced hand. I have never carried anything short of leather before, but I can learn to adapt. The train sighed as it pulls in, almost as if dreading the next lap of its continual circle. But as I step out into the thronging crowd I lose myself, surrounded by people, dirty people, disgraceful people, people who are a burden on my very mind as I pass through. People who wear thousand pound watches, people who buy expensive clothing that they wear for one season, even though the same money could have fed ten starving people for a week, people who follow the media, gloating over someone else's public disgrace, people who are sycophantic to the rich, and tyrants to the poor. People who I cannot help but despise.

I walk through the dirty train station, attracting a few stares and head turns at my clothing, although I don't know why. The woman are dressed like whores, their skirts little more than expensive belts, their shirts practically undergarments and their faces painted, rather like their minds. Painted with whatever thought they have been told to think. Painted people, hidden, masked in what has now become acceptable. But it isn't. Even the most depraved of the diseased spreading whores must wake up in the middle of the night and realise what they're doing is wrong. These men, men who are cruel, who are little more than beasts at the whims of their emotions, must want to stop. But they don't. They don't because they are weak. They are too stupid to stop it. I hate them. I hate this world I live in. I hate the way everything smells, I hate the way everything is dirty, all the time, I hate the way that no matter how much I wash, I can never be rid of its grime, almost as if the water itself is polluted by their sin.

But who am I to complain. I am one of many. I feel my hand tighten around the bag as I walk into the overpriced florists next to the station for the sickening men who have just used another woman and want to justify it in their minds by giving the person they were meant to be loyal to flowers. Flowers, an insubstantial brief offering for breaking the laws all the Gods lay down for us at the beginning of time. So flimsy. They die almost as fast as man does, their once beautiful heads rotting away first, drooping until the petals fall, one by one and rot into the ground, little more than food for the next generation. It is a little ironic that one day the consumers will be consumed by their family, although indirectly.

"Excuse me, can I help you?" asked the bored looking student staring at he insolently. I feel the cool blade resting in my sleeve, and debate whether it is worth flicking it out for her, but decide against it. I shall put up with her intolerance for my existence for a little while longer.

"I would like to buy a blue rose...."

"We have a bunch of ten for..."

"I said one." I said, my voice radiating calmness.

"But we only sell them as...."

"Then what do you have along the line of single roses?"

The woman looked at me blankly, slovenly for a moment, but she sighed. "We sell white roses as one."

I stared at her. She looked back uncomprehendingly, and I sighed, picking a flower from the bucket on the wall before taking a cloth, wiping the stagnant water off it and giving her the money for it.

"What did you do?" she asked, "Forget a wedding anniversary?"

"Hardly," I snapped, "I'm here on business, not the deprivation that passes for pleasure these days!" and with a twirl of my cloak, I walked out of the shop, fuming silently. I abhor this world I live in, but unfortunately I have to live in it. I snapped the stem of the rose in half, and placed the half with the flower in the little button hole in my black, velvet weskit before throwing the other half on the ground, scattered amongst the polystyrene fast food boxes and chewing gum. I place my black, satin handkerchief over my mouth, and walk. I walk through the high street, I walk through the park, I walk through the dumping ground where the joy riders leave the charred remains of low quality cars like a bizarre elephants graveyard, I jump over the foul walls covered with graffiti, and over the live train tracks to the abandoned warehouse.

It is less abandoned than unfinished. It is a concrete monstrosity. It isn't even a warehouse, wasn't even going to be one. It's just four pillars of concrete with a floor and top made of concrete and iron rods sticking out of the top. Tramps used to sleep here, until it got a bad reputation, even for them. Even the abandoned children of dirty poverty have left this place well alone. I put my black-gloved hand on a pillar, and although I feel soiled for doing so, I stroke the pillar with my hand, resting my forehead on it. I hate this world, but occasionally, I indulge my guilty pleasure of sensation. No, I don't mean sex, or even the feel of another human's skin on my own skin, the thought of that horrifies me so much that my head begins to spin, but I love to feel things. Marble, silk, satin, leather, all of them my guilty pleasures.

And Charlotte. The only human to be unpolluted by the sins other men and woman commit. She is sterile to their actions, perfect, like humans were intended to be, before they decided that they would rather resort to their beast-like mentality.

Other people buy disgusting images to obtain pleasure, well, a pleasant texture to me is what an orgasm is to other people, a pure, tingling pleasure so intense I can feel my knees weaken and my heart flutter like a newborn butterfly. And I indulge myself. Often. The pleasure of texture and quality is my drug, my high. It costs me a lot, but it allows me to keep focused. Ready for my next touch sensation.

I hear the click of a gun behind my head. I didn't think they'd fall for my trap so easily.

"Ah, Borley, nice to see you're here."

"I got your message. I thought I might come."

I felt the cold metal against my head. The smooth surface, laced with oil, the coldness, it was a wonderful sensation. I felt the slow tingle going up my spin, my hairs stand on end. I might have shrieked with delight if I hadn't have been in control.

"Drop the bag."

I dropped it, feeling the course woollen strap fall down my leg. I focused. I felt the metal nestle in my long black hair; I felt the coolness against my hot head. I felt the warm metal blade in my sleeve slowly slither down my arm, like a snake.

I could tell the person had knelt down, and picked up the bag, taking the CD on which I had information that could lead to this man's arrest. "Thank you. Unfortunately, you left a few clues, leading me here. You could have got a lot of glory for my head, dead or alive. You know that the government hate me."

"Not without reason." I answered, feeling the energy run into my body, "You have killed many of their allies."

The man laughed. "I thought a man of your..." Now. I swung around and thrust the knife into his stomach. I sliced his stomach in half, watching as a stream of blood followed the knife out. The man looked astonished, but I had no time. I re-adjusted my grip on the leather hilt and pushing him down to the ground, thrust the knife into his chest. I pinned him down to the ground with my knees as I threw the knife into his chest again and again, enjoying the sensation, the feeling of power, yet it was wild, unpremeditated. It was like all my anger was rushing out of my body as I plunged the knife in, watching him die. I threw the knife to one side, and giving up thrust my hand into his chest. I felt all the fat and blood all over my hands, a horrible feeling, but at the same time, a brilliant one, filling my heart full of ecstasy.

I held my hand up to my face, and licked the blood. It tasted of iron and water, but as it trickled down my throat it could have been the sweetest ambrosia for all I cared. I picked up the CD, and putting it back in my bag I stood up, almost ready to leave. I might have left if he hadn't have arrived.

"Borley, good job. I've got the money." I turned around, blood all over my clothes. Ah, it Garvin. He was dressed like a slob as usual. No pride in his appearance. I wished that I hadn't got blood all over my gloves, but now wasn't the time. I took off my gloves, and throwing them on the ground daintily, one by one, looking at him. I lowered the brim of my hat, straightened my weskit, but kept my eyes on him. "But did you have to kill him so, well, violently?"

"Business without pleasure is slavery." I answered.

"Why do you have to dress like that?" he asked, "You attract attention."

I smiled, my eyes hidden by the hat. "That's the point. No one would suspect the man who attract attention."

"You're full of shit Borley."

"You look like it." I reached into the bag, "I've got the files on him." Garvin walked towards me, and not daring to look into my eyes took the CD. I made sure he didn't touch my hands. He gave me an odd look, but before he walked away I called out, "You know why I still work for the government Garvin, you know why I don't just go free-lance?"

"Because you're a Psychotic shit who can only kill under government protection?" he sneered.

I sniggered un-amusedly. "No, the Government killed my father when he became a burden on the system, I heard you signed his death warrant yourself."

"Yeah, that's because he went out, killed lots of people. He was a danger to himself."

"Well, you've got a daughter, rather pretty I believe."

"Yeah, so?"

"Useful thing, the internet. It seems that you and her have been having problems lately, problems she could only tell me about. Problems that she couldn't come to you about." I felt the grin spread over his face, "She told me she wanted to kill you, because you treat her like she's a little girl. I said I might be able to help."

"You're messing with me!" He exclaimed.

I felt inside the bag and pulled out the extra pair of gloves. I put them on slowly as I said, "I told her that we should meet here, told her my own life story. I told her how my mother was a whore who left me on the doorstep of my father's house. I told her how my father taught me everything I know about guns and style. I told her how close I was to my father, how so very close, how distraught I was when he was killed by an evil man, and evil man just like her own father, "I cocked my eyebrow at him, "And I told her how I was left to fend for myself at the tender age of fifteen. You see, when you put emotional stress on an already mentally ill- prone person, they tend to take, things, well, a step further."

I pulled the gun from my bag, and pointed it to his head, "You see, Garvin, I am a 'Psychotic shit who can only kill under government protection' as you so pleasantly put it, but I also the son of the Psychotic shit who you killed, I am the Psychotic shit with the gun at your head, and the Psychotic shit who knows more about your daughter than you do, who loves me, if humans love, and the Psychotic shit who knows where she is."

"She's at a friends house!" moaned Garvin.

A grin a lit my face. I loved to see him squirm. I could see the panic on his face, I could see the fear and the pure hatred, but most of all I could see his terror at the thought of death. His own death. "I want you to know that it isn't just me. Your daughter hates your guts." I smiled, giggling, "She told me how un you are, how much she'd come to resent you, how much she thought that you were the one killing her..."

"You fucking bastard, if you've killed my Charlotte...."

"Who said I'd kill her? It might make more sense, you see, the blood debt paid by your suffering, but I'd rather see you dead, and take her with me."

"What?" He asked.

"Well, "I said, ripping the strap off the bag, and wrapping it with snake fast efficiency around his wrists and ankles, "it I always a bad thing to harbour hatred in your own house, because people like me can take advantage of it. I'm quiet glad I met her, you see, didn't you notice how dirty this world is? I don't mean just the dirt, which is bad enough, but the apathy. Apathy smells to me. It smells like spilled blood, and sloth, did you know what that smells like to me? It smells like shit, rotting shit. The whores who wear cheap perfume, they smell like rotting meat to me, but I've found one thing in this world that doesn't smell like that, and that, Garvin, is your daughter. You've protected her too long, but I am grateful. She is pure, almost like me."

"You're a fucking killer!" bit Garvin.

"Yes, but I kill people who deserve it, one way or another. You known how picky I can be with my jobs."

I saw him shiver, shiver with fear. I can't believe how much this man fears me, even though all I do is hold this piece of metal against his head. Then I realise. That's why Garvin doesn't like me much. He doesn't fear the gun, he fears the man behind it. But he's dirty with sin and fornication with his secretary, of course he fears the man free of that dirty smell. In the same way rats fear the sunlight. I heard the movement of cloth behind me. I know it is her. She is pure. I couldn't touch her, I could defile her as society dictates I should, but I could feel her hair for ages, like silk and cotton and stroke her skin, as warm as velvets, but as smooth as marble.

"John?"

"Yes, Charlotte."

"You wanted to meet me here."

"I'm here Charlotte, I planned this with you Charlotte, I've got your father here. We can kill him, kill him ...together."

She stepped out of the shadows. The sky was black, like her eyes, her hair and dress in ribbons. I can see the look in her eyes, those eyes that pierce your body, the feeling of pleasure insurmountable. She had a gun in her hands, a gun like mine. She walked up to me, and knowing better than to touch me, she smiled. "I know, John. We brought him here, but I've got a better idea? Why do we have to kill him? If we kill him, the police'll separate us, frightened of us, of our minds."

"I know, my lovely, "I said, stroking her fair skin with my velvet gloves, "but it will be worth it. Just for this moment."

"Yes, but I want the bastard to suffer."

"Charlotte?" Whimpered Garvin, "Charlotte, stop, don't listen to him...."

"I want him to watch us die. I want him to remember it forever. I want us to go where he can't ever reach us, no one can disturb us. No one can change us. I want him to watch me bled to death, cursing his name." Her eyes alit with glee, the same glee I felt, "John, I want to die, and take you with me."

I couldn't help it, I couldn't stop myself. I reached out for her hair, stroking it, the feeling of pleasure that couldn't be described to a mundane. I felt my whole body quiver in excitement, but I knew something was wrong. She smelt wrong, tainted. But I couldn't put my finger on it. What was it?

"Kneel down." I knelt down, and she knelt down with me. She placed the gun at my head, using the tip of the gun to play with my hair. I reached to her face, the hand stroking that soft, virginal skin. I was shaking like many a rotting junkie had done before me, but as I felt the metal against my skin, the smile on her face, everything was leading me to this moment. I was so excited by it all, that I pulled a button off my weskit, the sound of it hitting the ground audible over the dog-like whines of Garvin, and the soft breath of his daughter.

She pulled the trigger. I felt...nothing first of all, but for the vague second that I was alive, I realised what was wrong. She smelt like rotting eggs. She had betrayed me. Just before I died, falling into her deceitful arms I whispered, so loudly that only she could hear it, "The glory of death, my dear... Is overrated."

As I lay their, dead, she dropped me, but I had bled all over her hands. She left my body like one leaves the dead carcass of a dog, and untied her father. Apparently she had been in on it; apparently he had laid the trap for me, told her what to do. They had wanted me dead as well. But as my soul sunk from my body, through the ground, I knew something that they didn't discover until she picked up my body for a second time.

Betrayal costs lives. You see, when you attach a good five pounds worth of plastic explosives to your body, and pull, say, the pin disguised as a button, even by accident, things happen. All I know is that after the explosion, a single petal of a rose fell down on my twisted body.

I wish I had been alive to see the death of the betrayers.

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Authors notes - this was inspired by a lot of horror movies I've seen, but mostly Cowboy Bebop (I know it's not a horror movie, but it has a whole lot of violence in it), but is essentially a personal anger piece. A lot of themes come up in this that anger and frustrate me, but you aren't allowed to talk about because it's morally wrong.

But one theme that seems to come up a lot is woman. Don't call me sexist, I am a woman myself, but because I have been betrayed by too many of the female race before now, I still believe that women are the more vindictive gender, although men are not so good at hiding it.

Also, this doesn't have a point. It was just too good not to allow out somehow.

Please read and review - Xandra the Blue.