Page 10 of The Reaper's Vice

I just met an angel. A ball-busting, heart pulverizing, venomous viper of an angel.

I think I’m in love.

“Want another?”

I drag my gaze toward the sandy-haired bartender across me, the smile immediately dropping from my face. “No thanks. I have somewhere to be.”

“Uh-huh.” The bartender narrows his eyes as he snatches the fifty I place on the counter. “I don’t have change for this.”

“Keep it,” I murmur, snatching “Brandy’s” shot glass from the counter, admiring the bright red lip stains before shoving it into my pocket. “Have the night you deserve.”

“Yeah… you too.” His eyes follow me all the way out of the bar. I’m sure he’s wondering what the hell I’m going to do with the shot glass, but experience tells me the situation will be wiped from his brain the next time he witnesses something weird in the bar. Which should be in about a minute.

Just as the thought enters my mind, the bar doors bang open behind me, and two heavyset, tattooed men stumble outside in the midst of a fistfight. The dark-haired one is bellowing something incoherently, a small pocket knife sticking out of his left eye and dribbling tears of blood onto his beer-stained tee shirt. The blond one closest to the road is also shrieking, though his yowls seem to be due to the missing thumb on his right hand. Blood is pouring from the mangled stump onto the yellowed grass as the man screams profanities at the other, clenching his good hand into a fist and charging forward.

Before he makes it two steps, the clearly intoxicated man pitches to the side, and the dark-haired one uses the opportunity to rush forward, placing his palms on the blond’s chest and pushing him back into the road. Thumbless stumbles from the force, his heel catching on a stray piece of gravel that sends him to the ground. The back of his skull smacks against the pavement, causing a sickeningpopto fill the air. He’s either too drunk to feel the pain or so angry at losing his thumb that he rolls to his side, ignoring the blood gushing from his ears as he wobbles to a stand. He lets out a war cry, raising that hand in the air before taking a step toward the dark-haired enemy again.

And that’s when the truck barrels into him.

Screams fill the air as blood and parts of what used to be a thumbless blond man splatter onto nearby patrons and coat the windows of the Drunken Hound. Several people rush forward to the remains of the man—including the dark-haired man and the bartender from earlier—but I know nothing can be done. He’s roadkill now.

Ash to ash.

Salt to salt.

Carbon to carbon.

My eyes follow the red taillights of the truck now several miles down the road, my mind focusing solely on the driver who lacked the decency to stop. It makes me sicker to my stomach than the sight of the bloody mess of organs and flesh lying on the road behind me. At least death is final. The neglect for human life that plagues this city… it’s never-ending. All-encompassing.

Disgusting.

I spit, taking off down the street with my hands deep in my pockets, ignoring the wails and cries of the nameless faces behind me. They don’t matter. Nothing matters.

I walk down the street for a long while, aimlessly turning down alleyways and taking in the sights of the city. So little has changed since I last saw the streets of Moriton. So much grime and despair lingers in the air. It swirls with the breeze and pours into your lungs, where it takes root and slowly rots you from the inside out.

My heart is black. My insides are infested with asbestos. My brain is squirming with maggots. And it's this damn city’s fault.

Nothing changes.

As I walk the street that leads toward the Moriton Forest Preserve, I can’t help but let my mind wander back to the ghostly girl I met in the bar. That was something new at least. Something refreshing in all this grimy, miserable darkness.

The fluttering of wings draws my attention to the skies and my eyes snag on a singular black bird. Nothing more than an ink splatter against the red and purple sunset, the crow opens its shiny beak wide, calling its indiscretions to the heavens. It doesn’t realize that nobody's listening. Nobody cares.

They haven’t for quite some time.

I force my eyes from the sky and continue my journey along the cracked sidewalk. Occasionally, a homeless person or X-addled prostitute calls out, calling me a pig, but I ignore it. After all, they’re not mad at me. They’re angry at the injustice that’s been done to them by this city. By the officers that are supposed to protect it.

And I can fucking second that notion.

My eyes snag on a payphone, and I find myself walking toward it, an urge to hear a familiar voice. I step up to the payphone, dragging my fingers lightly across the keys. Wondering if I should make the call. With a growl, I shove my hand into my pocket, praying the guard kept some change on him so I can—bingo.

I stuff the quarter into the machine and dial the number etched into the walls of my skull. It rings once before the line clicks through, and I’m greeted with the sound of heavy breathing.

I open my mouth to speak, find it too dry, and wet my lips before trying again.What do I even say after all this time? After everything that happened?

Thankfully, I don’t have to make that decision. Because a moment later, he finally decides to speak.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

---