Page 34 of Violent Possession
“I get it.”
He continues, “Some people are tools. Others are the hands that wield them. It’s the natural order of things.”
Seraphim.
I’m thinking of him again.
His voice in my head, the same fucked-up story about divine purpose and sacrifice.“This is a divine gift, Myrddin.”The same justification for his own thirst for power and control, dressed up as bar-stool philosophy. I believed him. Maybe I still do.
It’s true: it only sounds beautiful in his voice. It only sounds prophetic when spoken by angels.
Kirill is looking at me again. He tries to arrange his face into some semblance of composure, but every time I look away, he’s picking at the skin around his nails, chewing the cuticles until they bleed. Some people just know, instinctively, when the air is about to crack with violence. He’s not one of them, but his body is catching up to the idea.
I place the beer bottle on the counter. The sound of glass on Formica is the only real thing.
Kirill says, “So? Can we go? We’ve wasted enough time.”
I push myself off the counter. He takes a step back, instinctively. The atmosphere in the room has changed, and even an imbecile like him can feel it.
“You know, Kirill...” I begin, “...whether or not you were getting out of here alive was still under internal debate.”
His face contorts in confusion, then panic. “W-what? What are you talking about? We have a deal! Alexei...”
“I was really on the fence,” I continue, taking a step toward him. He stumbles backward, falling into the armchair. “I thought: maybe he’s just another piece of shit trying to survive. The world is full of them.”
I pull the knife from my ankle. The blade catches the dim light from the balcony. Kirill’s eyes widen, fixed on the metal.
“But then you opened your mouth,” I say, stopping in front of him. “To talk about purpose. But only a prophet can talk that shit. You understand?”
He doesn’t.
“No… wait,” he stammers, his eyes fixed on the tip of the blade. “That was just… a figure of speech. A metaphor.”
Seraphim would never use such a cheap word—metaphor. He didn’t have to. He lived the fucking metaphor.
I almost laugh.
Seraphim was patient zero, the prophet with eyes of fire who spat the gospel of violence as if it were the only truth. He made it sound beautiful.
“Fuck your metaphor,” I mutter, more to myself than to him. “Just don’t think I’m doing this solely because I wastoldto. Alexei doesn’t own me.”
Outside, a distant siren cries for some other poor bastard, in some other alley.
“Wait,” he tries. “We can negotiate! Whatever you want, money, information, I have it all. Just tell me what Alexei promised you, I’ll double the offer!”
“He didn’t promise me anything,” I say, the only truth I’ve told today.
The siren outside dies. Kirill has stopped shaking. He understands there’s no deal to be made.
I let the silence devour him. He fills it with everything he’s ever regretted, every betrayal and every time he stepped out of line. Probably wishing he had run farther, or at least had drunk that whiskey, or maybe just called whoever wore the other half of that wedding ring. The best part about endings is how they clarify what matters; in Kirill’s case, what matters is that no one is going to save him, not even Alexei.
Kirill is nothing. He’s just a bad echo of a voice I would give anything to forget. And I hate echoes.
I look at the distorted reflection of my face on the polished blade.
I don’t recognize myself. I see something else there, something older and uglier.
“This,” Seraphim once told me, with my blood on his face, “only we understand, Myrddin.”
