Page 25 of Merciless King

Being left alone with my morbid thoughts is painful and cruel. I can’t stop the horrid images of my death. Images of me lying on the floor, blood spilling from the slice in my neck. A bullet hole in the middle of my forehead, oozing fragments of my brain onto the marbled floor. It’s a nightmare I can’t wake from. I reflect on the fact that there is no one that will miss me when I’m gone. I wonder who the authorities will notify when they find my body. That’s if they even find it. I think about what they will do with me when I am dead. Will they take me down to a funeral home and reduce me into nothing but ashes? Will they dig a six-foot hole in the middle of nowhere, leaving me for the elements to decompose? Questions. Questions. So many questions.

Will I be front-page news or just a paragraph in the death announcements at the back of the paper? Who will mourn me when I’m gone? I have no one! Everyone I’ve ever loved before me has crossed over. My coworkers don’t even know my real hair color, they wouldn’t recognize my photograph even if it was in the paper. My one only true friend, Montana, knows I went into hiding, so she won’t suspect a thing. No one will file a missing person’s report because no one will even notice I am gone. It's sad really. When I die, there will be nothing left of me. Nothing!

I make the last fold, holding my origami swan up to the window, inspecting my handy work. I add it to the growing pile on the floor next to me before picking up a fresh dollar bill and starting another. So far, I have a dog, butterfly, rabbit, and a dozen or so oddly shaped dogs that I have attempted to make. They are nothing like what Logan used to make, but as I look at my little paper animal farm, I feel a warmth fill me, knowing my brother would be impressed with my efforts. Logan used to be obsessed with Origami as a kid. He would use anything he could get his hands on that was flat and pliable, making all sorts of shapes and objects with them. I spent a good part of the day trying to pick the lock on Luca’s office door to get some paper but eventually gave in. I have used every take-out menu that was in the kitchen drawer, every napkin in the pantry, and now I am using the six dollar bills I found in Luca’s jean pocket to fold into art.

The front door opens then clicks closed again. Footsteps grow closer, the air suddenly thickens, and I know it’s him. He has returned. I don’t bother to turn and regard him. He hasn’t bothered to acknowledge me for the last two days. Why should I grant him my attention? I am not in the mood for a fight, nor can I cope with the burden of his sad eyes. The weight of my own issues is too heavy as it is. I don’t have the energy to care or challenge him.

All this time, I have been sitting here wishing for him to come back, and yet now that he is here, I want him to leave again.

Twenty-Two

Luca

It’s been a long forty-eight hours. With Nicolai gone, I am the one the men in the syndicate come to at the moment. I am the one ironing out the creases, crossing all the t’s and dotting all the i’s. I don’t know how he does this day in and day out. It’s fucking exhausting! I’ve never been the decision-maker. I either procrastinate too much or act impulsively. I guess that’s why it’s always been easier to take orders than deliver them. You don’t have to think. You just act. I’m not a natural born leader. I was not wired that way. The elevator chimes, and the doors open. Joe stands directly in front of them, preventing me from exiting. The moment he sees it's me, he steps to the side.

“You look like shit!”

“Hello to you too, Joe.” I rub my weary eyes, wanting nothing more than to go inside and straight to bed.

“Has she behaved herself?” I ask.

Joe smirks. “She has.”

I frown. “What’s so amusing,” I question, walking past him towards the door.

“She has moved all your shit around.”

I stop mid-step and turn around. “What?”

“Go see for yourself.”

I close my eyes, fisting my hands in frustration. What the hell has she done?

As I slowly open the door, I ready myself for her and whatever she has done. But as I hit the entrance and gaze over the chaos, I realize quickly nothing could have prepared me for this. She has moved my sofa chairs, so the seats face outwards. My coffee table is a mess of take-out boxes and empty soda bottles. Every kitchen drawer and cupboard is open. My perfectly lined plates and cups have been placed in uneven piles and rows, and a stack of dirty dishes and cutlery lies on the sink. My lips curl up in disgust at the bowl of half-eaten cat food that has remnants smeared onto the tiles around it.

With my blood pressure quickly rising to dangerous levels, I take note that all my bottles of liquor on the shelf are out of alphabetical order, along with the labels not being aligned and facing forward. Cushions are scattered all over the floor between bits of what looks like chewed-up tissues. That fucking filthy fleabag!

Stomping over to the stereo, I switch off the deafening music, and that’s when I see her in the far corner. Scarlet sits cross-legged in front of the window overlooking the city with a distant stare. She doesn’t even stir from my presence. It is as though she is so lost in her thoughts, she hasn’t noticed I have returned. I open my mouth to speak, eager to reprimand her for her actions, but an overwhelming wave of melancholy punches me right in the gut as I move towards her. I let out a long, deflated breath and quickly close my mouth again.

She looks so young, so vulnerable, with the way she is sitting there like that blankly staring out at the world. Her beautiful auburn hair is tied back into a messy bun and a few stray curls fall loose to frame her face. I find myself eager to know what she’s thinking. Where has her fight gone? Where did that fiery redhead that smolders me with her flames disappear to?

As I step closer to her, she turns her head slightly but doesn’t look at me. Vacant eyes fixate on the glass. They stare as though she doesn’t want me to see her. Dozens of little paper origami litter the ground surrounding her. Bending down, I pick one up, examining the intricate swan she has made out of a dollar bill. It’s clever. She strangely intrigues me.

Her calmness and silence sedate me, making it impossible to be angry with her. I take a seat on the floor, joining her, looking out over Manhattan. The bustling cars and pedestrians below are busy getting on with their day while we sit here stalled by our reflections.

Scarlet finally turns to look at me. Her hazel eyes glow in the sunlight. She looks at me with a softness that no one has ever regarded me with before. The sharp pain in my chest reminds me that I am very much alive. That I do have the ability to feel so much more than I have ever allowed myself to. How can someone you barely know be able to see everything you have hidden away your whole life? How does she manage to see what so many don’t?

Staring into her eyes, a warmth surrounds my withered heart, breathing life back into it. I reach out to touch her face, but she turns her head away and quickly brings me back to reality. Scarlet is not the type of woman that would accept a man like me with a good conscience. The smell of death on me is a permanent, pungent stain that even someone as pure as Scarlet could never wash away. She could never ignore the darkness that lies within. That is not who she is.

Pumpkin strides towards me, rubbing himself across my arm before rolling onto his back, looking at me expectantly for a belly rub. I swear this cat thinks he is a dog. Scarlet’s face turns sour as she reaches over and picks him up, placing him on her lap. Her action of ownership displays her feelings towards me more than any words ever could.

No matter what connection we have shared, I am still the enemy, and I always will be.

Someone clears their throat behind us. I quickly stand, turning around. Joe is in the doorway, bag in hand.

“Lunch.” He walks the food over to the kitchen and places the bag on the bench. I don’t miss the smirk on his face as he looks over the room before leaving.

Twenty-Three

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