I Am All That Remains

"I'll bet you three drot this game."

"I don't want to play." I said. Gideon was too good at cards. Though, if it turned out he was average, it was because I never paid enough attention to work my way around the rules. I looked down at our feet, shuffling through the well-worn dirt path. The front tips of our oxfords peeled away from their stitching and collecting the dirt, like our pant cuffs, as we kicked our way into town.

"Look, I'll close my eyes half the game." He put his hand over his eyes. I swung my head low, but I could still see that dirt stain he called a mustache sprinkled across a wide smile.

"I said no." His smile quickly faded.

"You can pick the game!"

"Really?" I said half-genuinely.

"Yes." He seemed suspiciously confident in my choice, whatever that may be.

"No tricks here!" He quickly thumbed a busted pack of cards from a torn case, fanning them out in front of my face. We neared Byburn, where the thick cobblestone bricks emerged as the dirt road swept away. If we made it far enough in, there would be something much more interesting than a game of cards.

"What was it called?"

"Mau-Mau!" He interjected.

"No, that wasn't it."

"What do you do in the game?" He pleaded.

"It's my favorite. I just cannot recall that name." I facetiously tightened my face. He was dying to know. I could tell he was boiling up on the inside by a glance. It looked as if any minute, he would be foaming at the mouth. I saw the sign, "Balder's" Freshest meat turnovers in miles.

"Just name one thing about it."

"I got it!" I raised one finger. "Fifty-two-card-pickup!" Gideon sank, looking more dissapointed than enraged. Still, there was a healthy mix of the two.

"Fuck you."

"What? It'd be fun!" I looked up at him. I had broken his exceptionally gray demeanor. As if he would have kept it, anyways. Gideon was an unextinguishable bonfire of a man. Even in cloudy skies.

"Balder's!" he threw his arms out, welcoming the embrace of the smell of fresh meat hand-pies. The shop was one of our only reasons for walking the two and a half miles from my house. Just a few feet in, the bright blue awning shone like a beacon above the dingy red brick and garish hand-painted advertisements on the windows. There were a couple of wrought-iron table sets outside in the porch area that we never saw empty, and a hum of happy voices all chattering amongst each other. One woman cried out like an alarm with laughter as she struggled to catch her breath. A small bell ran across the top mechanism of the door as we sauntered in. It clanged a hollow knell.

"I think I might try something different." Gideon said, rubbing his hand across the patchy blonde stubble on his chin. He looked over the bustling crowd that hoarded the glass counter. I was jealous of the height advantage. He grew just under a foot over the summer and it was quite impressive the gap he left between us.

"Like what?" I said with a judgemental eye.

"I've been feeling a good custard." He pushed a path through to the counter. I could see his sarcastic smirk creep slow under those green eyes that combed through the display.

"Gross."

"You're gross."

"Of all the people in this world that are gross, I am low on that list."

"Whatever." He grabbed a loose wad of banknotes from his back pocket - most likely all the drot he owned - and thumbed through them. I slid mine from a tanned leather bifold.

"S'cuse me!" A stalky man pushed between Gideon and I. He thrusted forward with his wide chest, cutting through the crowd as his shoulders sliced back and forth. A patterned, dingy, green flat-cap shaded his face. I could still see his wrinkled mouth outlined by a patchy gray beard and unkept stubble. His skin was like cheese, oily and full of large divots. Gideon leaned over the display as he stumbled to catch his fall.

Some brightly dressed women fell into the arms a gent to my right. "Hey!" someone shouted from across the bakery. "That man just stole my watch!" The figure push his way further despite growing complaints. I contemplated whether I had a moral obligation to intervene. Then I realized my own hands were empty.

"What happened?" Gideon said as he whipped around. The figure shoved the door open violently with the side of his shoulder. The door hit the outside face of the window, "That man just stole my wallet?" I said.

"A petty thief!" Gideon stamped his foot to the ground and pointed an index finger in the air as if to motion his brawn and readiness for justice.

I gestured toward the door as he ran past, and reluctantly followed Gideon outside. The man attained a great distance, quicker than I expected, concealing something as he hunched over in his large black coat. He bobbed through park cars, couples walking hand-in-hand, past a few gents outside of the cigar lounge, and through their large cloud of smoke. I hated that smell, the burnt rubber of smoldering tobacco and rotting tonsils of those old men as they laughed through puffs. Gideon gained on the man until he lost himself in the smoke. I saw the black back of a dress-shoe heel hook into an alley. "There."

"I saw it." Gideon said proudly through each wheeze and cough as he ermerged. He cracked his knuckles. It was all show, however. I'd only seen him beat one kid up when we were much younger. Then he cried because he felt bad. In any case, I would not challenge him. We heard a distant voice as we neared the corner. "Stop!" before we could approach the alley, the man from the bakery stepped out. He wore a single black leather driving glove. As he held his palm towards us, I could see on that glove, a gold embroidered sigil. I had seen nothing like it: embroidery on the inside of a glove.

"We don't want trouble." Gideon held his hands up mockingly. I kept at least a foot in between us as I inched back from the man. He darted his poised palm between us like a weapon.

"Hands up." He held up the sigil at me. I noticed an incredible amount of detail as he pushed it closer. It was a circle with many shapes, geometry of sorts, with intricate lines connecting it all. I couldn't make it out, but there were words like scripture on the lines. "Do it!" He shook his hand violently. Both of my arms flew high. "Slow!" He shook his wrist forward.

"You didn't specify." Gideon mumbled.

"Slow." The man said firmly. He lifted his head, and I could finally see under the brim of his hat. He had thick eyebrows, dark like his shoes and jacket, one of which sunk low above his right eye. That same eye was scarred and gray. It shone back as cataracts do. The other eye was deeply hzel. The only thing about him that had a touch of youth to it. It was deep into that eye that I could see a worry. A feeling of longing for something out of his control. There was much more hidden behind a glossy veil. He swung his palm over to Gideon's head. Gideon looked confused, his hands slowly falling as I'm sure his skepticism rose. How could a man armed with only an ornate glove be dangerous? That's what I thought. Then again, there are those who lie on the streets: unpredictable, consumed with malice. The same who do unspeakable things with bare hands and jaded will.

The man could not bridge the gap to place his palm on his temple, but he tried. He was far too short to reach. Gideon glared over at me, as if to ask, Is this guy serious?, with the whites of his eyes.

"We just want the wallet." He said naïvely. That was one thing about Gideon. He didn't know when to shut up.

"And what are you going to do?" The man's voice, shaking as he grinned to me through his beaten face. I took another look into the good eye. I wanted so much to see the child-like innocence. To peer into the soul. Maybe I could peel back something. One of those selfish beliefs wherein I could picture myself opening a person up. Like they do on those radio dramas. The good guys talk down the villain, and chips away enough at a person until they concede. It's better that way. No one gets hurt. Except in this daydream, I'd do it with a glance. Yet, I could just as well tell that he had no intention on just handing it over. "Let him have the wallet."

"What?" Gideon said in incredulity. "We have him. You're just going to let this bastard walk away?"

I was not sure what he meant by "have" considering all his bounty must be tucked deep in his coat pocket. Nor was I certain he was weaponless. I didn't bring a knife. Likewise, did I believe Gideon thought preemptively to carry one. What shocked me was his bravery to keep prying. Or it was a show of his lack of self-preservation. Add a touch of stubbornness to go along.

"Listen to your friend, boy." The man spoke to Gideon, but kept eyes locked intensely on me. He shuffled slowly to me. Maybe he was trying to lift back a veil as well. Maybe I gave him too much credit. I'm sure it was tactical.

"Now, you've pissed me off." Gideon took a step closer. The man left Gideon in his blindside, Gideon's towering shadow looming over. The man realized all too late as he went to point his hand back over to me and was stopped by Gideon, grabbing his wrist. The man closed his eyes and scrunched his face as Gideon's other fist blew down into his skull. The sigil on the glove began to glow like hot iron in a cast mold. Then it grew brighter until a ray as bright as the sun shot out. The beam sprung fourth, straight into my left shoulder. My vision sharpened. I remember the texture in the brick, each pore deeper than I had ever seen it before. The grain in the wood of a hanging shop sign, the cracks in the worn cobblestone pavement, the sun splitting across the windows of the tailor just ahead; all were alarmingly contrasting. The blue of the sky was washed away by how striking the sun became. It turned white. Then, there was quite a significant moment where everything else was engulfed in pure white. As the image of this scene slowly faded back, I noticed I was on my side. My face lie on the curb, and I peered emptily into the ridge where the walking path met the main road. The man was also knocked onto his back.

"Borya!" The shout, muffled by ringing. A rolling wave of hissing roared in my ears. The details of faces blurred. The light shone again, intensely. Then the burn came. It was a smooth feeling that pressed on me as an equally cooling sensation curdled under my skin. Blood oozed down my arm and dripped into the grout between each stone. It ran much like the rain does.