You Brought Me Love, I Have My Bullets

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Chapter 2: I’m Not Okay

And as the blood runs down the walls,

You see me creeping down these halls

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Revenge.

The screams… their fear… the blood…

tastes like…

Sweet.

Revenge.

Police sirens echoed through the city. Cockroaches and rats scattered underground into the narrow alleys and backstreets. A single street lamp flickered weakly. …Their fear… The dying light illuminated a limp figure leaning against the crackled brickwork. Tastes like… Shapes moved vaguely before his eyes looming in and out of focus. This wasn’t familiar. Blinking slightly, the world slowly swam back into focus once more.

… what happened? Their screams… blood… revenge. The boy tried to remember, but it was like trying to cup water in his hands, memories bleeding through the cracks of his mind. There was nothing more.

The street lamp above spluttered and died. Darkness enveloped the boy once more as he took in his new surroundings. There was a faint glow up ahead of the boy. Sliding his lanky frame against the wall, he eased himself into a standing position and began to make his way towards the light.

The boy stumbled forward and grabbed onto the fire escape for support. The corroded railing felt slimy underneath his fingers as he let the water tricked over them. Water? No, it was thicker than that. He breathed deeply and inhaled a metallic scent, just like…

Blood.

He stepped back and glanced down at his hand. Just like the railing, his hand glistened and dripped with the crimson blood. His eyes were drawn back to the corroded fire escape, where the trail of blood twisted its way upward.

Cold fear gripped his chest, rooting him to the spot. Glazed white eyes stared back at him from the above, its face contorted in pure agony and terror. Still streams of blood snaked their way across the body, feeding off the huge gash in the torso. Something had torn off the flesh of the neck, leaving the head to hang off by nothing but a few threads of skin. Limbs twisted off in all directions, bones protruding rigidly from its chest. The dead white eyes locked with his, forever pleading for an end.

The boy took a step back in horror, and tripped. He landed with a sickeningly wet splat. Thick, wet blood oozed through his fingers, drenching his clothes and his hands. The metallic stench filled his lungs and throat. Struggling for breath, he rolled onto his chest…

…And came face to face with cold, glassy, dead eyes. Blood leached thickly from the corner of contorted lips, fixed in a silent scream. Like the other, his neck had been viciously stripped and torn. Frozen hands seemed to grapple desperately at the boy in a last attempt to find a saviour.

The blood drained from the boys face and he scuffled back in terror, slipping in the pool of blood. Bodies lay strewn across the street, broken and bent in all directions. Everywhere he looked, he was struck with the intense reek of death and pain. Yet through it all, somewhere… something… seemed familiar about it. His stomach convulsed sickly as realisation set in.

I know these people…

Members of Brent’s gang lay motionless under the dim lights in the alley, each one gazing skyward with cold, lifeless eyes.

I didn’t… I couldn’t have…

A low moan, hardly more than a whisper, rose quietly from the carnage surrounding him. The boy’s eyes darted around and rested on something familiar.

“…Brent?”

Fresh blood still seeped from the wounds in his body when the boy got to him. Cuts and torn flesh covered his torso and face, the worst were on his neck. Three deep gashes had mutilated the skin over the windpipe, blood leaking and trickling from the cuts. Brent was slowly drowning in his own blood. His eyes turned and fixed his gaze upon the boy. His lower lip moved, trying to form words, but his voice was barely even a breath.

“Brent, I didn’t… I can’t…” the boy stammered.

The desperation in Brent’s eyes grew more intense. The boy leaned closer to him, trying to make out any word, any sound. Without warning, a hand shot out from beneath him and dragged him downward, until his ear was just by Brent’s bloodied lips. His grips held him there long enough for the boy to hear through the gurgling Brent’s last dying words.

“…Murderer.”

“IT WASN’T ME!”

His eyes snapped open as he jolted from the mattress. Clasping his hand to his mouth, he staggered uneasily to the bathroom and threw open the toilet lid. Images of the blood spattered everywhere flashed vividly in his memory and he doubled over. His stomach heaved as it brought up all it could. It felt as if his very insides were torn from his body and emptied into the bowl. Coughing and gagging on the putrid taste, his mind screamed back at him I didn’t do it! It wasn’t me. It wasn’t it wasn’t it WASN’T!

An eternity passed until his stomach couldn’t bring up any more. He turned the tap and let the water cascade over the back of his head, drenching his thick wild locks. A wave of relief washed through him as the cool water ran down his raw throat, cleansing it of the acid and alcohol. At last, he pushed his black hair and stared at the mirror once more. A drawn pale stranger stared back at him, an accusing look plaguing his eyes.

“It wasn’t me…”

It had been five years since Brent’s death in the alleyway. He’d almost forgotten about it through all the pills and drink, but now it seemed so… real.

The metallic stench choking him… those cold, black eyes staring back… bodies strewn over the street…

He shivered and looked away.

“No, it was someone else… someone… Else.”

What the hell did happen that night? Try as he might, he couldn’t remember what had happened before he found the gang. The details always slipped away like grains of sand, trickling away through the fingers of his mind.

Murderer…

His eyes drew back up to the mirror. But he knew it couldn’t have been him. He could never have done that to even them. He just couldn’t have. And yet…

…why not? It would have been so easy.

The stranger in the mirror smirked, his eyes penetrating into his skull.

They were nothing but drunken idiots.

He gripped the edge of the sink to stop them shaking. The stranger in the mirror leaned forwards.

What’s wrong? You wanted revenge didn’t you? Admit it, they deserved what they got.

The metal rim of the sink cut into his palms as his grip tightened.

“No… no one could ever deserve that… not even them!”

The words from his throat were strangled. Sweat began to bead on his forehead and just above his lip. The stranger held his gaze.

So what was it like when you dropped the dagger to lather the blood in your hands?

“Shut up, shut up you LIAR!”

Sharp shards of glass pierced the skin on his knuckles. The tinkle of glass hung in the air. Steadily, he opened his eyes and looked at the glass. Spidery fractures radiated from where his closed fist had connected with the mirror.

A crooked fracture extended across the mirror, cutting through the stranger’s face.

The smirk was gone.

He painfully released his grip on the sink and looked down at his hands. Blotched and pale, they still shook, but not as much as before. He eventually looked back at the broken mirror once more. The shattered pieces of a young boy’s face gazed back, his distorted image scattered through the mirror. The young boy’s eyes held his gaze pleadingly, as if trying to reach out to him.

Please…

But he just slowly shook his head.

“I’m trying,” he whispered to the boy, “but the pages are all torn and frayed…”

Blood seeped softly into the crevices of the glass.

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The darkness of the room closed in around him, constricting his chest, his throat, his mind. Throughout the rest of the night, he sat curled up on the bed, afraid to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, blood ran down the walls over dead, contorted faces, each one taunting him over and over and over…

…Murderer…

An eternity passed before a solitary ray of light began to strain through the tiny window. It touched his shaking face, the soft fingers lightly caressing his cheek. Bit by bit, the fear ebbed away in the dim little ray of light. Breathing deeply, he could almost taste it. When was the last time he went out? Vague memories of outside fluttered by in the darkness, tantalisingly just out of reach. The soft light beckoned to him.

Grabbing one of the shirts lying on the floor, he pulled on a pair of old shoes and made his way to the door. Without another thought, he was already out in the empty street, the first light spilling over the city. Forgotten sights and smells flooded through his head. As he savoured the city, his feet carried him to nowhere in particular.

Weaving his way through back alleys to main streets, the crowds gradually began to thicken. More and more people pushed their way passed, too wrapped in their own worlds to even spare a glance to the dark figure gliding through the streets. Above the general hubbub of the city, he could just make out bits of everyday conversations.

“…but the boss has just asked…”

“I know you did… I’m just asking if you…”

“…of the stock market, although I’m sure that…”

“…reckon you should ditch…”

“…not that big a deal. It’s just not worth the effort.”

“I saw you creeping up these halls”

He skidded to a halt in the bustle of the street, bumping into a man with a newspaper.

“Watch it, young man!”

He nodded a quick apology to the newspaper man as he wandered off, muttering something about kids these days.

Frantically scanning the crowd, he searched for the voice. Faces turned away from him, an empty street of people. That voice… it sounded…

…familiar.

Up ahead, a salesman was adjusting the TV sets on display. The channels flickered across the screen.

And remember girl: you are perfect the way you…

Click.

-ew Ab-Flux, the number one recomme-…

Click.

-reamy texture of the chocolate accentuates…

Click.

-ith the discovery of a triple homicide. All three victims were brutally mauled in the alleyways of East 12th Street. Police reports reveal the actual attack occurred two nights ago, witnesses recalling only a vague dark figure running form the scene. Residents in the area are advised to-

Click.

The TV screen buzzed quietly in front of him. He stared back at the speckled screen, cold sweat beading on his forehead.

…I saw you creeping down those halls…

Oh no.

…Not again…

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