This is my entry for the Art Prompt Writing Contest #8, kindly hosted by @gmuxx.
The man watched from the shadows. It had been a while since he had done anything besides watching. He passed each second by without much thought; grains of sand drifting dozily through his indifferent grasp, he, a cold unfeeling hourglass – the time his victims had left on Earth draining, depleting. He didn’t much mind when it happened – not in the way that they did. But then again, he didn’t much mind anything.
Some begged. Some tried to deny the cold, harsh reality of the situation. And some… Some tried to fight. They were the weakest ones.
Ah - here came his victim, right on time – a short, rotund man who stumbled along the street, his podgy hands clasping a thin, black briefcase to his sweaty chest. He was out of breath, panting, cheeks flushed with the strain of movement as his heart tried to cope with the season of over-indulgence.
The man stepped out in front of him, checking his watch and noting the time with a cold disinterest. The short man stopped, heart beating that slight bit faster as he stared up at the taller man in front of him. He tried to make out the other man’s countenance, but his face seemed to be cloaked in shadows, despite the weak, candle-like street lamp above their meeting-place.
“Beg your pardon, sir,” he said, attempting to edge his way past, without really trying. Beads of sweat formed on his reddening forehead and chilled him, an icy knife gutting his skull. All of a sudden, he felt the cold slip through the folds of his thick jacket, and shivered as a frozen wind slapped against his heaving chest.
“You’re here. Good. I hate it when I have to chase them down. It’s always easier when they’re punctual.” The man was almost speaking to himself, but held eye contact with the other in a way that the second man did not think he would be able to break.
“I’m sorry, I - I don’t think I quite understand you.” There was an edge of nervousness in his voice now, and he clutched the briefcase slightly closer to his chest.
“I think you do, Bernard Higgins. I think you know what I’m here for. It’s your time.” The man stepped forward, but Bernard stood slightly more resolutely than the man had expected.
“My time to what, sir? Please allow me to pass. I don’t want to turn this into a matter for the police, but if I must, then I will.” It was an empty threat and they both knew it. The last thing Bernard wanted right now was the police. The man let out a callous chuckle, a cold gust of air emanating from his icy maw as he did so.
“I don’t think you will, Bernard. Look around you. Look at your watch. Look at the snowflakes. I took you for a more observant man than that.” Bernard managed to break eye contact, and obeyed the man for a reason he could not quite identify – there was a tone of malice in the man’s voice, but it was edged with a harsh and self-assured authority that Bernard felt compelled to obey.
And indeed, the man had been right to call this to Bernard’s attention. Around him, people were frozen mid-step, mid-conversation. Snow was held in mid-air, the static image of a cold winter’s night – like a clichéd Christmas card. Bernard half expected to see the fat man himself in front of the silver moon, head thrown back in a hearty laugh and reindeer galloping across the sky.
“Come. Let me show you something before your time is up.”
Around them, the frozen tableaux began to fade, the colours of the scene melting like ink pouring down a canvas until only a void remained. Bernard clutched the briefcase closer to his chest in the darkness, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Then, another scene came into view, colours fading into view from the darkness of the void.
He saw a man – face fixed in a snarl – standing over a hunkering, smaller man who had his hands clutched to his head; eyes squeezed shut and streaming with frozen tears. The other man’s foot was held high in the air as he prepared to stamp down. The snow, held frozen in mid-air, was curved around his face, blown in a vicious vortex by the wind. Bernard’s breath was ripped from his chest.
“Why… Why would you show me this?”
The other man turned to look at Bernard; face still shrouded by a veil of darkness.
“Because it is the truth, Bernard. Your truth.”
Bernard held his gaze, and then looked to the man about to stamp down. Then to the other man, who lay trembling on the floor.
And he was looking at himself.
“I didn’t want to remember this.”
“Yet you remembered it enough to plan what you did.”
Bernard wiped a hand against his face, smudging tears into his flushed cheeks and sniffling.
“Why did he attack me? Why?”
The other man provided no answer to these questions. The whole scene was engulfed in a crushing silence, despite the appearance of sound – a fatal image of destruction. It then melted back into the darkness as the man waved a hand, the conductor of a mute orchestra.
“I suppose you want an answer to your question.”
This time it was Bernard who gave no response. The man obliged regardless. The darkness morphed again into another scene, this time without snow. Bernard saw a bedroom – sparse and hardly furnished, with a small, plain bed and bedside table.
His arms outstretched in an attempt at protecting himself, a young boy stood next to the table. In front of him stood what appeared to be his father, face contorted in that similar picture of hatred to the previous man, likely screaming myriad profanities at the child. His fist, which bore a heavy ring, was in connection with the boy’s face, and covered with a thin layer of the boy’s pained tears. A mist of blood was sprayed through the air, crimson and intense – it cut a sharp contrast to the white snow that had been there previously.
His stomach lurching at the scene, Bernard shakily put forward a question to the man who was showing him this.
“My God… Who is that?”
“I thought you wanted an answer to your question,” said the man displaying no sign of emotion, his voice flat. Bernard let out a small gasp, and covered his mouth.
“Oh God,” he whispered to himself over and over as though this would drive the feeling of horror from him; “Oh God.”
“You’ve seen your truth. That’s his. His cross to bear.” The scene faded away back into the void, but the feeling of horror flared up and consumed Bernard, permeating his being. Finally, they had returned to their original location. The man looked at Bernard, and Bernard felt a cold sweat break out over his entire body. He shivered, averting his eyes.
“So, Bernard Higgins. I have shown you your own truth. I have shown you someone else’s truth.” He stopped at this, pausing. “Now it’s your time. Put the briefcase on the floor.” With fat droplets of tears welling up in his eyes, Bernard obeyed, laying the briefcase gently down on the floor. The man waved his hand, and the briefcase flew open.
Inside the briefcase was a gun; its cold metal body glinting maliciously in the moonlight.
The man spoke for a final time, a cold whisper traversing the winter’s air into Bernard’s ear: “Must I show you a final truth?”
The briefcase slammed shut, and Bernard looked up to reply, but the man was gone.
Snow spattered into Bernard’s face, landing on his skin and cooling into droplets of liquid. The silence of the tableaux was gone, replaced with the soundtrack of urban life: the low rumble of cars in the distance, the winter wind tearing a path through the sky – but beneath it all, that feeling of crushing silence still remained. Around Bernard, people had resumed course for wherever they were headed, conversations picked up where they had ceased.
But, had they really ceased?
That moment, that pause the man had instigated – was gone.
Bernard looked at the briefcase, knowing what lay within and its power – the power to punctuate a life and end the sentence, end the story: that final full stop at the end of the last page.
He knew what he had to do.
For my entry, I decided to play around with the idea of the Christmas ghosts of past, present and future, a la Dickens's 'A Christmas Carol'. If you at all enjoyed it, you might want to check back soon -- I plan to post more short stories and pieces of flash fiction. I only recently joined Steemit (this is my first post), and the idea of a supportive community-driven social network with cryptocurrency integration was something I found quite interesting -- I look forward to hopefully posting more of my work here.
dex
what writing contest is this? I am a writer myself and would love to enter one of these. Great job btw
If you haven't found it yet, it's over at https://steemit.com/contest/@gmuxx/art-prompt-writing-contest-8. Thanks for reading :)
This was a very enjoyable read, Thank You.
😄😇😄
Thanks for reading! Your kind comment is appreciated. :)
Keep on writing! :D
Holy cow! How'd you get @blocktrades to upvote?
I actually have no idea! Their name just appeared in the list of upvotes one day. I'd like to think that they read and enjoyed it, but I really have no clue...
Well it's a beautiful piece, well deserved.
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