An entry for the Writing Contest at the Review Marathon! Vote Vegetarian Serial Killer!

The Martyr Who Doesn't Know His Cause

Pierre Lafalier was there when the man was found in the prison. Later on, he'd tell authorities what he saw, sign a complete and unabridged statement for the courts, and then try and forget the scene for the rest of his life.

Two custodians had been assigned to clear out the unused, practically medieval cell because of the horrible stench that was coming from it. It was assumed that a creature had crawled in there and died, for no prisoners had been kept in that place for something close to centuries. Lafalier, handkerchief pressed against his nose and mouth, fumbled with the key that unlocked the door. The other custodian, a fellow named Patric, or some other name like that, waited impatiently, a broom in his hands. Pierre had the feeling that the broom would be woefully insufficient to mop up whatever mess was in there.

Finally, he got the door unlocked, and swung it wide open. Almost immediately, he ventured to close it again. The smell was so strong that it nearly knocked the two men over. Once they had gathered themselves properly, Pierre opened the door again and struck a match. What was inside made him cry out in fright and revulsion.

A man, probably a man, was lying facedown on the ground, his blood smeared across the walls and on the floor. He was facing towards the door, his hands reaching for the threshold. One of his legs had been literally ripped off and thrown haphazardly into a corner. Patric got the courage to turn the man over. One of the corpse's eyes was missing. That's when Pierre realized what he had stepped on upon entering the cell. That's also when the two realized the man was breathing and very much alive.

The rest of the tale does not need retelling, of course. The story has been reported so often since Pierre and Patric's initial discovery that it would be foolish of me to tread this familiar ground.

Let us instead move on to the prison's hospital wing, where a wooden leg is being fitted onto a very still patient. A half-empty bottle of laudanum sits on the bedside table and a crucifix is affixed above the headboard of the bed. A hand is clenching and unclenching unconsciously, and an eye stares at the ceiling in an unfocused reverie. He has not spoken a word since he woke up for the first time in the hospital wing, but that's not because his mind has broken, as many of the doctors seem to believe.

No, his mind is full of names, his life, and other marginalia. He can recall his entire life to the age of twenty-four; if he wanted to, he could name the last book he was reading before this unfortunate interlude. But most of all, he can remember the inherent uselessness everyone counted on him for.

If he could keep all his memories together for more than ten seconds before being distracted by a laudanum-induced dream, then he would easily tell all the people who pretend to talk to him, making a point not to look at his injuries, just who he is and why this had been done to him.

Meanwhile, there is resentment on the streets. It can be felt, like the subtle rolling of the heating water in a pot just before it starts to steam and boil. They don't necessarily require a martyr to start rioting in the streets, but then again a martyr never hurts.

Constantin walks down the street, scrawny alley cats yowling at him as he walks by their sanctums. He is humming a tune that was quite popular a decade or so ago, and in his hand is a yellowed newpaper from last week. However epimethean his character appears, however, his mind is emersed in the future. If one were to cut open his cranium and look at his brain, they would report that the organ was pushing against the inside of his forehead, constantly trying to go forward.

Right now Constantin is thinking of the new dawn, by now a hypothesis in the revolutionary-mathematicians' theory. The new dawn has been evading the people for something like forty years now, but could be set off by a factor as simple as bread riots, or as complex as a marriage gone awry.

Since they figured out how many things could trigger this new dawn, Constantin has been made the machine that will find out how to capitalize on every single oppurtunity for revolution. Right now he is rereading the story of the nameless prisoner found in the disused cell. He smiles vaguely as he recalls his plan.

He appears at the hospital wing of the prison, and introduces himself as a doctor, a specialist brought in especially for the unnamed prisoner by the King himself. He is ushered in with no time to waste, and sat down beside the mutilated man. He asks for privacy and is given it almost immediately.

"My name is Constantin," he says. His eyes, instead of avoiding the injuries, probe them very closely and take not of every detail. The man doesn't react at all to his words, instead murmurs some nonsense in a lanuage not familiar to Constantin. So Constantin continues.

"Would you laugh if I said you were destined for something great?" he murmurs.

The man doesn't answer. However, inside he is laughing.

"I want you to know that you will not have died in vain," Constantin says softly, and draws a knife with a benevolent gleam in his innocent eyes.

"Wait," said the man, his voice cracked and barely audible. His drug-hazed eye is widened in fear as he looks at the knife. "You're mistaken... wrong man..."

"No, I'm afraid not. But, seeing as you're lucid, you must have a few questions," Constantin says, putting down his knife calmly on his lap.

The man nods and murmurs, "Why are you killing me?"

"You are already as good as dead, my friend. Embrace it," Constantin says. "But, I suppose I owe you an answer. I have selected you, my friend, to open the gates, usher forth the new dawn. Your death will spur on a chain of events. It's a pity you will never see the outcome, but there must be casualties for every war. You, my friend, will go down in history."

"History?"

"Yes," Constantin confirms, and smiles. He knows he's won.

Meanwhile, the man thinks, focuses his scattered thoughts. Never before has he contemplated being a part of history. To him, history is compiled of untouchables, kings and rebels, politicians and crazy men. He has always been anonymous, useless to all who have known him. To think that his death at the hands of this man will usher him into the company of these people is a little bit staggering. And just because of death! Something he knows he will not be able to evade for much longer, even without the help of a knife. Finally, he returns the other man's smile.

"Do it," he whispers.

Constantin plunges the knife through the man's ribcage. Unfortunately, he is no doctor, nor is he an assassin, so he has just missed the man's heart. He will die, but it will take a little longer than Constantin had anticipated.

It will take long enough for the man to start to have second thoughts.

"Oh my God... what have I done?" he whispers, choking on his breaths. "I don't want to die. I could still live... live..."

"You have ensured your place in the pantheon of martyrs," Constantin hisses, and suddenly his eyes do not have the saintly gleam any more. He has the overawed look of a man who has met his God. "You will die now."

And, sure enough, he does.

A martyr may die for a cause even if he doesn't know what it is.

A crowd may riot for a martyr though they don't know his name or his cause.

A king may be dethroned and beheaded because of the ensuing revolt.

And thus, a revolution can be carried through from conception to birth without the cause ever being known.