In Blood-Drenched Circumstances
Rory
There are two customers in the Go-Go Gas at three o’clock in the morning when the gun goes off. The noise rings in Rory’s ears. From his vantage point behind the plexiglass barrier, he watches as the bullet slices through the torso of the woman who had only just turned to make her way up to the cash register, bottle of water in hand.
The bottle slips, crinkles against the floor as she stumbles backward, sliding down the freezer door in shock. Her hand clutches her stomach, white t-shirt already turning red with her blood.
An unmistakable mineral tang mixed with crushed hyacinth petals reaches his nostrils, sunlight-warm, and his gums feel tight in response, his teeth aching.
A gnawing hunger overtakes him. He clears his throat. “Excuse me? Could you take this outside?”
The other customer—the one with the gun—looks at Rory over his shoulder, startled. The woman lies crumpled on the floor, her blood framing her figure in a crude, too-bright puddle.
The man turns around to face Rory, aims the gun, hand shaking. He’s younger than Rory thought he would be based on his height. His cheeks are still round in youthful excess. His chin is scruffy in a sad, patchy sort of way and does little to hide his spotty complexion. He is young enough that the frustration and anger pulsing around him is more tragic than fearsome.
Just a kid, really, thinks Rory. He tries to guess his age but fails to pick a number with any certainty. He lands on early twenty-something.
“Give me all of the cash in that drawer,” Kid demands.
Rory sighs. “Yeah, fine. Whatever, Kid.”
Kid frowns as he moves closer, stabbing the gun in Rory’s direction, as if to emphasize the seriousness of the threat. There is a small hint of surprise in the whites of his eyes. His eyelids blink rapidly over the dark pools of his irises. Rory isn’t sure if the surprise is because he followed the command with little hesitation, or if Kid is shocked at his own audacity.
“Put it in a plastic bag,” Kid adds, his voice shaky, yet gaining confidence with each step closer to the sales counter. Rory does as told, taking extra care to shake the plastic bag open so that it is ready to accept the requested contents.
All $135.56.
As Kid comes to stand right in front of the sales counter, Rory catches a whiff of fear; it rolls off him like mold in the edges of a room. Probably hasn’t shot a gun before tonight, Rory thinks, let alone held one.
Or, at the very least, Kid has most certainly never pointed a gun at a person. Rory glances at him out of the corner of his eye. Has probably at least aimed a gun at an empty beer bottle, if nothing else. Now there’s a dead woman by the soda fountain, and he’s swinging his gun around like he’s watched too many old Westerns. A child pretending to play cops and robbers.
Except Rory isn’t a cop and the woman’s blood fills his nostrils, rushes down his throat, tears at the inside of his veins.
He closes the till with a snap and faces Kid, studiously avoiding the gun and keeping his eyes trained nonchalantly on his face. The front of the gun dips lower. If it went off now, the bullet might ricochet off the barrier.
Or it might go through the plastic and hit Rory in the belly. He’s not sure the shield is actually bullet-proof, despite the claims of the sticker peeling off in the corner.
That wouldn’t be so bad, he thinks. At the very least, it would end the gnawing emptiness he feels, if only for a few minutes. He should have eaten earlier during his thirty-minute lunch break. He never takes the break, though. His diet is sparse and he’d like to keep it that way.
Kid motions for Rory to pass the bag of money. Then, he uses the back of the hand holding the gun to wipe his forehead. For a moment, the gun is no longer trained on Rory. A rookie mistake.
The bag doesn’t fit through the space cut out of the plastic barrier, meant only for lottery tickets and change, and, at most, a pack of cigarettes. For a minute it looks like Kid’s face is going to crumple in frustration. He raises a hand to the top of his head and clutches at his limp, greasy strands before saying, “Just walk around and hand it to me. Slowly.” He adds the last bit spontaneously and looks quite pleased with himself for thinking of it.
Rory does as told, taking slow measured steps. He raises the latch on the door and the barrier swings open. He reaches through the opening, bag of money outstretched. Kid leans to grab it, eyes darting from the bag to the still vacant lot outside.
This is when the gun goes off.
The bullet lodges in Rory’s stomach, which does indeed remove the painful gnawing for a minute. However, his gums feel uncomfortably tight, his teeth aching and sharp, his mouth suddenly dry. It is a feeling with which he is well acquainted, but here, at his place of employment at three in the morning, his shift almost complete and the rapidly cooling body of a woman by the soda fountain still to be disposed of, it sends a smooth current of anger through his body.
Rory looks up at Kid, who is glassy eyed in fear. The gun is shaking visibly in his hand.
“This whole thing has gotten a bit out of hand,” he says, fists clenching at his side as he takes a step forward. There is something fouler than just body odor coming off the twitchy, gangly body and he has the sudden urge to learn why.
He extends his hand with a preternatural speed and clutches Kid’s neck, dragging him forward so he can look into his eyes. There is a short, choked whine and the gun clatters to the ground as Kid scratches at his captor’s hand.
Rory doesn’t bother with questions. Just lets his mind reach forward through his touch, sending out a command for Kid to stand still. There is little in the way of mental fortification and Rory slips easily into Kid’s memories, rifling through his most recent moments. They play out in front of his eyes, superimposed on the gas station shelves like a movie projector.
It takes only seconds for Rory to see the hard-edged cruelty that lives in his heart. Certainly, there are circumstances that have planted that cruelty there and there are some small hints of possible redemption, deep down in the fissure of his soul. But it is so submerged, so hidden, that Rory isn’t sure Kid would ever be able to find it, even with a century of soul-searching.
Should he give him a century to try, at least? Does he deserve that gift?
No, Rory thinks, his mind full of crude and violent thoughts from the Kid. It leaves a sour taste in the back of his throat. He’s known men like that; with the luxury of time, they don’t improve. They almost always become rotting, monstrous things. As he flickers through Kid’s life, a thin mist of red seems to crowd his vision. There is a high-pitched ringing in his ears, echoes of past lives, the phantom heartbeats against his tongue haunting him still, centuries later.
The red mist is an old friend, unwelcome though it may be. He hasn’t been around this much spilled blood in at least three decades and his restraint is hard-pressed to stay intact. He can feel it fraying at the edges, unraveling by the second.
Later, he will tell himself that his body made the decision for him—that he barely knew his own mind when his left hand joined his right in a painfully familiar movement. A soft twist made with barely any effort.
The thought will do little to comfort him, but now, with blood in his nostrils and his teeth aching to feel flesh, it provides him the absolution he needs to do what he, regrettably, is quite good at.
