(Solo continued, please also look at the
Black Book and the previous threads of this plot line to be found in Martin's archive.
Careful, this is long! )
So light was the price he held in his fingers. Turned. His glance was fixed on the wall of his room. He felt. So light. Solid. Harsh. Brittle. His eyes turned downward on the thing he had found. Rubies sparkled. It was a gem he had found. It took so little to breach the skin. His white skin that were pressed against the glassen stone. Gloves were lying nearby; he did not care. To breach the walls he had been given, to break the circles that surrounded him, bound him, and let himself spread out. White was his color. White like freshly fallen snow. Untouched. How many had been suffocated by the touch of snow, by winters chill. Come on its just a little dream. Just take my hand and everything will be allright. Just go with me outside the door. Can't your hear the snow is calling? Can't you hear the winds are blowing? Do not fear the price that is to pay if innocence is broken. Doors are swiftly forgotten. Clouds that billowed up to heights untold, now revealed before his gaze. Winds that painted red his world blowing in his face, bathing him in color. Rubies falling from the sky. Rubies. Emralds. Sapphire in most precious gold. Are you happy now? All that was needed was the right amount of pressure and it would not stop. Never stop. He could paint the world for once.
Come with me little sapling be/
White steps in and green draws back at/
bear the pain of coming winters grasp last/
Spread your arms, learn how to fly, fast/
Narrow doors are closing, past, learn how to fly, fast/
Winters coming, drawing near, end of life to me so dear/
Hide yourself up in the sky, bright blue freedom, fly! “Halt (Stop).” The sound of a voice echoed between high walls that hid him from the touch of Helios. The walls that he had hoped would mark his safe passage through these grounds. A curse lay on his lips as his hands fingered over the last traces of what gave off the smell of metal. His fingers felt oddly sticky afterward. Another one. No. Curse my luck. Praise it? He knew that this spot had been far too easy to find. Hiding them plainly In th open was their specialty, not going to untold effort to keep them inside narrow areas. Something fishy had been smelling. And it was not the nearby river
Elbe with its ships and lights. He rushed around the next corner, already thinking hard, leaving behind the origin of the voice. A voice that turned to laughter upon hearing the staccato of steps that came to it as a response to the opening it had given.
Whenever he thought hard, his body became a useless appendage, the burning of his muscles was a phantom pain far outside his reach, somewhere frozen behind the firing squad of neurons advancing upon time. A feeling that had been hard to get used to. That still was uncomfortable. They had closed off all know entrances to the area. And they would simply go inward from there on. Or they would wait for him to be drawn out by hunger or thirst. That in turn would imply that they had enough backing to assure their safety during a lengthy operation. Highly doubtful. They might have had enough backing to ensure that the disappearance of so many people went by fairly unnoticed, but a tight circle of paramilitary in one of the biggest and busiest cities of the country? If it had come that far, then this country was truly ripe for the picking. He hoped not. That was all that was left. His fingers were burning where he knew they were red. Red by another ones blood. They would -should- try to end it quickly. Betting on his fear to work for them, a fear that was growing evermore as he could feel his body dangle in midair between two steps, the remaining pressure of pounding of life inside his ears. He was still alive. He could make it out of here! He would. But I don't know how. How can I? Ever? They'll get me. Do to me whatever they did to them. Red like fire in his hands. It smelled of fear. All their lives smelled of fear. And so was his.
Song of shadows singing. High above him Helios was fighting, running with his wagon to escape an enemy unseen. Unreachable. Untouchable. Shadows waiting. In shadows waiting. All about him was only the mantle of penumbra spun but from the most delicate of threads. Threads that had now hold to keep his life. Maybe. I don't want to. Not ever. He lunged for some waste that was strewn about in a corner. Buried himself in it, covered himself in a stinking turtle's shell that could not quench the feeling in his stomach that screamed for his head to command him to run. Now's the time to show that you are different, just maybe. Things stopped moving, as his mind raced out of all confined. Sounds stopped. Heartbeats vanished from existence. Steps advancing. Heavy steps. Heavy boots. Military issue. Menacingly in the calm pace of a meteronome their sound approached. “Hab ich euchs doch gesagt. Ihr Neulinge wisst nix. Wenn man die etwas in die Enge treibt, rennen die los wie die Tiere. Naja sind ja auch welche. Die schaun' sich nicht um und rennen in ihr Verderben.” (“Didn't I tell you? Huh? You rookies don't know anything. Really don't.” A grumble from a harsh voice was quickly exchanged with a painful cough. “Said anythin'?” “No Sir.” “ If you corner 'em, they start running. Just like animals. Heck, they are animals. They don't look back and run for their doom with open eyes.”) Heavy boots were stepping closer. Silence.
The voice was right, wasn't it? Just that he was not a deer that fled. On hooves. He had but two legs. And two arms. He was an animal. His hands were proof of that. So white as snow. He was a cockroach. An albino cockroach. And they were searching every square for insects like him. To exterminate them. And they would succeed soon, for they would easily breach the few strands of night that covered him, thew few pieces of dirt that he had used as makeshift armor to guard him, not from bullets, but from the bliss of sunlight. The others had not been roaches. The things he had found told him as much. They had started painting the walls as soon as they realized that there was not a way out of the traps they had sprung. Painting them high and wide not only with their own, but also with others colors. And great artists they had been. Was he the only one who knew of them? Was he the last one who would tell their tale? His hands clutched a small notebook and slowly, silently deposited it with the other rubble. Maybe this could be found. Read. Tell their story. Water filled his eyes, impaired what little sight he had, what little sense there was. This might be an end to him, but to the stories? Never.
Was this burning in his eyes natural? Did the lump in his stomach just melt on its own? He wanted to scream it out: That soldier didn't know a thing. There was a saying along the lines of ''Poke a dog too many times and the meekest one will bit'' thats how it went, was it not? This time, only listening had been enough, something inside him had broken. An animal had broken free of its constraints. And somehow everything was gone. The sweat on his forehead. Heaviness in his limbs. The pounding in his ears was exchanged by the humming of a hive of bees. Angry bees. No more. No more running. He was no animal. He was calm. He knew that he was different then before. Before Tempus looked into his eyes and kissed goodbye unto his cheek. And he was about to discover another side to himself, which he would later come to call unpleasant company. And much later he would come to call it truth. A silent moment. A holy moment.
Fear is a lie. Much too short. He tucked the book back in his belt. The crushing of icy mountains. Dare you awaken a sleeping giant? The pile of dirt exploded into a flurry of things. Gifts. Someone had just hit the pinata without ever knowing what he had done. Hit bullseye and was rewarded with a gift of stinking rubble flying everywhere. And the soldiers were so kind as to voice their applause in sharp cracks of noise. The firsts shots missed their intended target. The rookies had fired at the first sights of movement that caught their eyes. And there were so many things to catch that they turned stared but for a second. Eternity. Narrowed eyes were a mirror for blue steel glimmering without Helios last gift, glittering but of their own, tears, wonderful water, flowing freely for the first time. The first in a very long time that was.
Cry my child. Cry for all the pain of the world. As last grace before the coming storm, the cold took the burning on his fingers to oblivion. The ice that began falling from the skies. Falling ever without stopping. Descending on them, the avalanche did not need sharp edges, steel, powders, concoctions, the marvels of technology. A force of nature was crushing souls.
They were so young. How could they be so young? How many had they killed? Him? Curse the gift of thought and leave it.
Numb the pain with ice until it burns Just act. Be the snow. Fight the enemy. Fight to win. Fight to be. Fight. The second and third volleys were advancing on him slowly, honing in on him like the swarm of bees that was still singing their song inside his head. He closed his eyes. Knew where they were. Where every last bit of matter in this alley was. You are above the pain. You are.
Broken.
Broken so long ago.
Broken just a while ago.
Broken just now.
Broken.
Have you found your freedom? Nice/
Ice once was on our land long past/
Blue the Ice which was at last/
Skies so blue cast down their hue/
Leaves so green have paid their due/
Fallen down before my eyes, just a second now that is/
Hear my song now, hear my words/
Look my wounds for all to see/
Hurts that will forever be. Glittering red that turned in his white fingers he awoke from what could have been a dream. What had better been a dream. Something deep inside told him otherwise. This had been him. Real. This was another life. New. Untainted. And he would be the snow that crushed it. He looked down on his fingers expecting to find red, yet he was still. White. This one, sharp edge, had been trouble for him. Much more trouble then expected. And he was about to make sure that he would nevermore do that. Ravens crowing outside his window Martin shook his head, grabbed his gloves and pulled them on in quick movements. Readying yourself to face the world, aren't we? Calming actions to make him fit for human contact. Repetitive actions. Calming motion. A door was shut, a room left behind, empty.
The thing inside his pocket could tell a story, but only to the ones able to read it. He was not. And he knew of none that were. But as his luck had it, he knew exactly where to find such a person. “Taxi!” The yellow cab held screeching in front of him. “To the next police station if you please?” Soon an uninterestingly gray building came to view, lounging in what had once been a lavish position between now much grander examples of human craftsmanship. Glass of course. Mirrors. Now ordained only with twisted bushes trying to fight their living from the toxic city air, high glass tower reflecting back their distorted images. Leaves larger then life. If only they were green.
Thirty minutes and a few explanations later, he found himself seated in a comfortable side office on a single chair. It was one of only three movable objects in an enclosed bubble of space he had been led to through one of the major administrative offices full of desks covered with these good men's work. Another chair, looking just like his, was standing on the other side of the table. He had chose the one that faced the one and only entrance, namely a dark brown door. The structure of the plastic cover betrayed the harder substance below. Cheap? Public. Only the slight smell of something unpleasant kept him company here. But where was the person he was supposed to talk to? Could he find a suitable person for the little gift he had stored in a little black box usually used for giving away jewelry hidden in the back of his jeans? He waited. Patience was a virtue, was it not?
Later a creaking of the door revealed a smiling middle-aged man carrying some brown file-folders. Martin's voracious gaze was caught by eyes in dirty blue that sparkled with something like, what was it that lay in their depths? There was something hidden here. What was going on? Anticipation? “Hello Mr Stein, we had looked forward to hearing from you.” He took a while to realize it had not been English in which he was addressed, but accented High German. The book? His first thoughts went to the thing they had taken into custody for only one night. Himself. Had they read it? If he could speak, he could read, if he could read then he could know, f they had made copies of the book, if he knew he had the advantage, if.... So many ifs were swirling around in his mind, it was painful. All that had happened was that there was an officer able to speak German, if only with a horrible accent, yet the sweat was popping out on his head, on his body, everywhere. How much does he know? Suddenly the office, or was it an interrogation room, was quite hot and uncomfortable. His fingers folded tightly in around themselves, pressed until it hurt. If one would be able to see his knuckles, they would be white right now. “As we could not meet you at the given address.” Oh yeah, right. He had moved to the Mansion shortly after the incident. But meet him? Why would they want to? Oh he needed to get a hold of himself, before he made mistakes he could not..... “I got a new employment offer shortly afterward and moved. I did not know that I had to register with you?” correct. Ouch, his fingers ached. Stop the spillage now, or... “But I came here for another reason.” He finally managed to shut his mouth, teeth hurting from the strain, hands having become numb. His breaths had turned to deep rumblings, nearing ever to a cough that never left his lips. The ice was coming. The officer was still smiling and continued with visible pleasure. “We try to keep an eye out for mutants. Especially dangerous ones.” Now the smile vanished, only to reappear as an ever widening grin, and he pulled something from one of the few folders. An older picture. Just a glance. Shot. News excerpt. His eyes did not even touch the picture, a mere flicker downward. He didn't need to read. The structure was enough. Photocopy. Sh.... “Whats with that?” Leaves were turning brown. Folderbrown. “We wondered whether you recognized this.” He was almost laughing now, grin frozen into place by Martin. How would these eyes look when they were old? You can't even think that. Can't I really? Look for other options. And get a grip on those emotions.
It took an eternity between two breaths to tuck them all away. An eternity for one of Tempuses' unwanted children. All the care, love, hate, all those hormones, messengers of body and mind - stored away somehow. Experience it was all it took sometimes, sometimes just a little hate. “Is there anything you need?” Now it was Martin's turn to smile, slowly widening his grin. Mirroring the action he was presented with. Denial was impossible. Winter had come and would take this one if he was not careful. The question this herald asked was another one: Is there anything you don't know already? Anything you have not discovered already. Stripped me bare for you to see and still I smile. What is he thinking right now? What is he? What am I? I'm still a man, am I? I fear the answer to that question, fear that I know. Winter's coming home, and he's bringing you a gift of snow... No?
Welcome to my mind. Step in with care./
Did you note I put the flag out, yeah?/
Things that break are stored inside/
But we have nothing more to hide/
All seeing public eye/
Will you please not say goodbye?/
Easily broken/
My grandmothers last token/
See here, left my old schoolbooks there, knowledge, broken/
So long forgone the days I learned from my mistakes/
Pictures hanging on gray walls/
Reminders that's all life which falls/
These are the people I once knew/
Smiles long dead, conserved in black and white, are greeting you/
Out on the streets, hidden in this room, the the tree that grew/
Long past the kiss that blew away the morning dew/
I prevailed, preserved, present to you my sweetest gift of all/
Its just a touch away your fall/
No steps are needed now, no play to start/
For all my gifts go straight to heart/
Break inside and take the fragments out/
…....
INTERLUDE
An Officers life was structured, so was this. Waking up at 6:30. Going to work at 7:30. Arriving at work 8:00 Senseless talk with superiors till 8:20 Open first case 8:30 Telephone witnesses or make arrangements for visits to scenes: until 10:15 Coffee break including senseless talk with underlings 10:30 Continuing the arrangements 12:00 Midday break, getting away from senseless talk usually fails 13:00 First visit to crime scene. 16:00 Second crime scene 18:00 Back at office to write reports 20:00 Going home 20:30 Eating Dinner 21:30 Watch Television until falling asleep.
Our Officer was – to make it brief - a highly qualified and motivated worker. Some called people like him profilers. Others, especially his colleagues at the lower ranks had much less friendly names for his job description. But one fact remained: He solved cases. The dream of every employer. Structure only broken by little spots of excitement as the one he would be presented with later today. The pinnacle of an investigation that had been keeping him busy for weeks, making a mess out of the carefully crafted schedule that had kept his life full of tranquil repetitive grace for over a decade now. Darn the Bachelor that had contained German as a major. It had been so easy back then, attractive too, learning a foreign language, learning a culture, masks, skills long buried beneath the heaps of everyday life he had to painstakingly now unearth during weeks of attempted reading in, out, a journal that had, by you-know-whom on curvy paths, been acquired, and found its way unto his desk. A stern warning of his chief had accompanied it to be finished with the translation soon. As if translations were easy and quickly done business. An almost impossible task. Was he the best? A desk he prided himself in, where every folder had its immaculate place, edges touching barely, towers of brown bricks. Now it was a mess of yellow dictionaries, blue handwritten notes with colorful traces of marker on them, folders buried under black photocopies of the little books pages, whose cover was only known to him by a single picture with white background.
He had spent his last weeks buried in the mind of a criminal, or a suspect. Except that he now knew that he was more then a suspect. What he had read in the book had surprised him. It was a journal of sorts, scrapbook in a way. It contained scraps of life. Most things were written by a single hand, only the colors and textures changing with the pens. Sometimes there were inserted news reports, stuck between the pages as though the careless writer had forgotten them after putting them away. Only their carefully cut out nature revealed that they were intentionally left in between a certain set of events. Some related, some seemingly unrelated, he had even found an advertisement for female shoe wear between two pages that had not yet revealed its intent to him. To him they were breadcrumbs. Hansel where are you leading me? The thought crossed his mind many times, why he read a story that seemed to be written by a fiction author and not by life or fate. Events so unlikely they were lined up in all their naked ridicule reality one after the other with only small interludes, pictures, of a life like his own. Senseless, careless, stupid, tranquil... normal.
Now there were a few possible solutions to this problem that he found acceptable. His first impulse was to conclude reading after the first two chapters and send his superiors notice, that they had another nutjob on their hands. Mutant or not, whatever he be, they would find a nice place for him somewhere safe for the public. He receded that notion only a few chapters later, suspended all writing of reports. It was a frightening question to ask, but he could not help himself: What if this were real? Genocide? In modern day Europe? Americas closest Allies resided in Europe. In policy and intelligence, politics and industry. This could not have happened there. The implications would be earth-shattering. Or rather: World-changing. But it happened here, right? Unbidden news reports sprung to his mind, reports of a time, when the government had declared all Mutants a threat on public order. Forced them to wear armbands, footholds, strangleholds. And then there were the camps. Not that he believed most of the slandering in the media that happened after their dissolution, the liberal media was much to well known to exaggerate stories. One could not believe them, or was it that he had decided on not listening? Was it not much more comfortable to live a life where the state secured the streets with all its might to make it safe for the citizens to walk with their heads held high? Not much easier to forget what had been carefully removed from sight? How often he had dismissed allegations of family members? Had dismissed the search requests on grounds of some odd order? How safe had those grounds once been. Quicksand at your feet. Can you feel it rising comfortably warm? Safety of the present just don't look back and forth. Believe in yourself. You are right.
He had postponed all work on other cases, postponed every evening TV session with his wife, postponed his schedule, much to everyone else's disgust. He was reading now. Living. The pages were sometimes only marked with a few words, sometimes covered in dense scribble that had been made in acute haste. Fear? He was looking through millimeter thin windows into another man's life. And not once did he feel like he was peeping. First illness after awakening, first attack recorded with blood streaks, first arrest, first counterstrike, it went on and on. Not even when the words flowed on, about, over the dangerous issues, on towards a love long gone, a life long vanished flushed down the way of time. Down the drain. Traces? Only on these pages. Perhaps on some impulse of duty, he called the German embassy, conducted an Internet and general database search, following the exact procedure he had been taught to discern a false story from a true one. Very few things were verifiable. Much too few things to conclude the story was true or false. His notes of that time were almost intelligible. So much had the coffee started to shake his hands. Or had he shaken from another thing? Fear?
Martin Stein. That had been a true name, that much he had made sure. He had existed and indeed been the one survivors of a bomb attack on a German military training facility over ten years ago. He had been on the news back then. He found reports matching those in the book exactly. But then the reports stopped suddenly. Hansel why are you running? Whom are you running from? The paper trail that an individual named Martin Stein had left with the government vanished soon afterward into thin air. The embassies response to his inquiry for help in the matter of Martin Stein was more then cold. All files regarding an individual named Martin Stein had gone missing and all further questioning into the topic were strongly suggested against. Diplomatically of course. The Embassy made it crystal clear that they would rather not have him looking into this topic. Searching hints and second meanings was his nature now. This was a disgusting letter. Journal? Not entirely unexpected after his good read. Damn it. It might not even hurt his career, it most certainly would. Whatever he did, stop investigating and his superior would be... most dissatisfied, continue and the gray eminences would turn him into a black sheep with a few words behind closed doors. Doors he would never come to see. He would be stuck in his position for the next years, maybe decades. Thus was the nature of working official business. He could literally see the files stocked away in some folder, the first page reading that these were never supposed to be opened again, red markings on their cover. That was if they still existed at all. This was as close as he got to understanding, and maybe, maybe just a little bit, he hated his job this day. And every one after that. From the book he had already taken the information that a certain colonel had seen to the closure of all files the military had regarding the individual M.S. Sole survivor back then. Vanished. Sole survivor now still, but it was quite visible, that someone important would rather forget his existence. His government considered Martin a closed file, more so, even a dangerous one, going by the wording of the letter. But then why had they gotten him out of jail? Spoken on his behalf? Things just did not add up the way they were supposed to. He would have to rely on this book alone if he pressed on. And hope that none of the windows were broken until its story was told, since one thing had come apparent. This was no ordinary diary of a madman. And what else was there to do but go on, deeper into the labyrinth of thoughts and memories.
Turing around he was in a room with now windows. Walls in their brute gray existence all around him. No doors. He was alone. All alone. No light. No Darkness. Gray was the air he was breathing, gray was what he was seeing. Gray was what he was feeling. Not hate. Not love. Not fear. What was this? Borderlands? Waking up at 5:30, Laying awake until 6:30 Going to work at 7:30. Arriving at work 8:00 Open next page of diary 8:15 answer usual phone calls from superiors; Translation still in progress 10:15 Coffee break at desk 10:30 Continuing translation 12:00 Midday break, trying to talk to colleagues 13:00 First visit from secretary 16:00 Translation 21:00 Write daily report 21:30 Going home 22:00 Eating Dinner (alone) 22:30 Getting tired
The gray was immovable, insufferable to him. There was nothing here, no structure, no familiarity. When do I get out? When will I be free? Will this ever end?..... Why are you hurting me?..... Silence..... There is no answer from the fog, from the walls. Just when he was ready to start clawing at his hair - had he really not started already?- He... found something, was drawn to a section of wall, gray. Here would be something, would there not? Here must be something.... No? Silence of the Borderlands.Waking up at 6:30, Laying awake until 7:30 Going to work at 8:30. Arriving at work 9:00 Sitting in front of pages till 9:30 Open next page of diary 10:15 answer usual phone calls from superiors; Translation still in progress 10:3ß Coffee break at desk 11:00 Continuing translation 12:00 Midday break 13:00 First visit from secretary (impolite) 16:00 Translation 21:00 Write daily report 21:30 Going home 22:00 Eating Dinner (canned) 23:30 Getting tired
Nothing in the Borderlands. Routines had been crashed. Comfort ruined. All by a single name. Martin Stein. He knew him, diary nearly finished, nearly finished the scribbled pages of translation on his desk, the little numbers behind words or objects being cross referenced with similar events or verifiable facts. Articles and books were strewn all over it in no discernible order, but the one that his hands had decided on making. Gone were all his private pictures, old files discarded. Shards. Mirrors of his life? He understood the individual labeled M.S. now. Partially? Understood his life. Understood his memories. And what he found had scared him. Him the hardened officer. Him who had not even felt the need to step out of rooms in which most obscene murders had happened. There was something about this book that made his fingers twitch whenever he had to start a new page. Maybe it was the implications. It was tranquil work now. Mechanical grace had returned, as had his German. Start the next page, why are the fingers shaking? Why are my fingers shaking? Why am I afraid? “Officer!” A young colleague approached his desk in a hurry. Had he even noticed? “Officer.” “Yes?” “A suspect named Martin Stein is here. I understand you are working on his case.” So many things going on at once. He was here? How? Why? He was about to tell the pup, that he was only translating, had been taken off field and case duties.... Taken? Really? You took yourself. No? Was it them? Was there a them? Of course there was. He was about to tell the truth, so startled was he. He brushed stray thoughts aside. Fact was Martin Stein was somewhere in this building. And he was not even remotely responsible for his case. He was a translator, used like some old secretary by the higher ups to take the heat of this uncomfortable job. He was replaceable. But he got a chance now. It was a way out of the tangled mess he had been put in. If he could arrest this one, then he could possibly win the support of either the embassy or his direct boss. Or both? It was an event that had not happened in a while since he started the case. It was an event that gave him hope. “Which room did you put him in?” “Guest room one.” Thin lipped smile. An interrogation room. Perfect. “Thanks. Take care that no one disturbs us.” He stood up from his chair as the youth left to do his newly assigned duty. How vigorous. He lifted himself up and quickly put the file to order. He grabbed it and rushed off to the room, where he was. The suspect. This was what he had become part of this force to do. His job. The thing he was good at. Screw translations. Today he would arrest a criminal. Today was the first day of his return to normal life. Taking a deep breath he entered the room, folder tightly clutched under his arm.
…...
Shout! Shout it loud!/
Public frustration/
Public prostration/
Break inside and take the fragments out/
SHOUT!
Break inside and take the fragments out/
Break with sound, noise, draw in a crowd/
Break LOUD. “Oh there is yet much more we need to know.” Silence. Yes? Know? He simply spoke on as if his consent was only a matter of small importance. “For example: This article speaks of only two unknown bodies being found in an alley around ten years ago.” Yes. Two bodies had they been. Were they? Young. Unmoving. The others? He did not know. He remembered their eyes. Both had the light shade of gray in the photograph, the shade that was blue. Clouded. Dead. He clutched his arms around each other. How content this officer was. How calm his voice. How easy all the hidden meanings, the burrowing questions. Where, where did you put the other ones? “Does it make a difference, whether it was none, two, or all?” Smile, Martin, smile. None was the appropriate answer in this case. They did not leave anything but red behind. Bloodred. The smell of metal. Two bodies... their eyes had not been blue. Revenge, yes? So predictable the results now. So harmful back then. Human nature. Those had been his training days. If only his memories were less fuzzy. But ignorance was a bliss more then sometimes. Ignorance was what kept him whole. Rarely.“No it doesn't...” A statement that made winters chill seem warmest summer. This man was up to something...bad. “You see, theres three types of killers we get around here...” He raised his hand and counted. Finger raising one after another. Each one an indication. “The crazy seeking attention, the furious working in heat of the moment and the envious.” He did not even ask a question. Just stated. And winters wind made a comment of his own. “Theres deadly sins you forgot dear officer....”
He blinked as Martins hand raised itself alone. He was a spectator to this event. Had this young boy in front of him really killed already? He had to look into these eyes. These unrelenting eyes. And he knew the answer. Yes. No boy could have these eyes. Too old, too worn. The eyes of a man who had seen much more then life. Death. “The greedy, the lustful, the slothful...” He just blinked, tried to catch himself, caught himself. It was like looking into a mirror, was it not? A broken mirror. “What is your name?” “That does not matter.” He wanted to get him for this. Wanted to get him badly. Calm yourself the experienced ''conversationalist'' in him called out. Calm yourself or you will make the fatal mistake in this interrogation. Take back the lead. Lead the conversation where you want it to go. Leave things unsaid. Make him fill in the blanks from his own memories. He will give himself away then. And then you can arrest him. Take care of him. A criminal. “Lets talk about the incident a few weeks ago. The alley.”
Now it was Martins turn to blink. What had happened again? He reached for the book in an unseen pocket, a motion practiced hundreds of times. Closed his hands around it.... Left it where it was at the triumphant glitter in this would-be questioners eyes. Failed. He had just given him another piece to cling to. Another bit of power over him. Don't make mistakes. Dance on the rope or fall into oblivion. Dance. “What is it you need?” Maybe a little bit too defensive. Just right then. Draw him out, lure him out. And sever him. You can do it. You must do it. For what reason? Survival. Survival is imperative. “Just a few words. We call it confession.” The smug smile. It flowed around the edges of his vision like the snow. The so self confident smile. The knowing smile. You may know me. You may know what cornered animals can do. But can you survive it, little one? Do you have the guts to take it? Do it? His eye, the left one. It was twitching. “I don't think you are a priest.” “But don't your sins burden you?” Very good. Oh this man was very good. You know that I'm guilty. “Don't you think the burden would be a little bit too much for you?” Twitch. Hit you, didn't I? How did you feel reading my life? Is it not a little hard for you to understand?
This man was dangerous. Every nerve cell in his brain screamed. Just a little bit too late. He realized that the conversation, interrogation it once had been, was slipping from his grasp more and more. These blue eyes seemed to absorb every single one of his reactions. Even when they were closed for a blink, he could still feel him looking, seeing, hearing. He had omitted one type of criminal from his list. They were rare. He had not been able to believe it when he read it, but it was sitting here, right in front of his eyes. The book spoke of pain, of suffering, of conflict. And here this man was calmly taking, breaking him like an unwanted toy. This was intelligent thinking. This was purpose, planning. This man was going to take him apart, if he did not leave. And he could not leave. Did he know that? Were these eyes really able to see past his mask? The well trained one? The professional one he had worn for over twenty years now? Twitch. This was the final chance. His final chance. Conflict was wonderful, was it not?
“But then I don't understand why you left them, the bodies I mean, so please enlighten us.” He unfolded his arms and his smile became smaller, earnest. Dear officer, you just made a mistake. “And I thought you could figure out this much on your own.” He enjoyed this little mans last wiggles. He knew of the inevitable that was to come. He had lost the war of words, wills, wits. Arrogance was dripping, sweet honey, from his lips. He relished the sweet taste, enjoyed the sickness of the moment for a small eternity. Can you live with that decision? Will have to do somehow... The officer was still blinking. He had just slapped him in the face. He did not seem to notice. Verbally. And physically. Not very hard. It was not an assault on the mans body. More one on his questioners already very fragile composure. The slap of a father in his unwilling sons neck. Loose your dignity to me, little boy. Loose yourself and everything will be alright. Just let me see your hurt and take it to the grave. Was it not all logical? Push him over the edge, survive and drive him on? Sometimes, often really, he was disgusted by himself and still did what he had to. Rarely he had hated himself for ruining a man, rarely was it that he permitted himself weakness. That the weakness became so strong he had to gloss over his failure with pretty words. Rename them. Redefine them. This was such an instance. He carefully examined the feelings in a pause between words, in the drawn out silence that fell between them after his first real motion. Movement so quick it was barely a shadow. We are going forward, are we not? That is what you wanted, when you called me. Shut up. And there was the mask of the young boy in place again. Winter gone, replaced by spring. He drew out the gift from the back of his jeans pocket, the black jewelry box with its red content hidden from light and air. “This is blood from the crime scene. Presumably its from the killer. I suggest you use it well.” Left it on the table, officer still sitting in his chair. Stood up and walked around the table until he stood behind the man that had tried to ruin his life. That knew his life. Was he a brother or an intruder? The last fragments of cold managed to get a sentence out of him. “I suggest also that you loose all of the copies of my life.” Silence. He tried to open the door, only to find it locked. Knocked. A young policeman opened. Said something. Martin did not listen, just walked out. Later he might allow himself -in remembrance of old days- to cry. Just a little. Requiescat in pacem. Amen.
