He had been quiet.
She hadn't seen his face.
Everything went as he had calculated.
Yet, Murray couldn't help but wonder if a muffled sound had leaked through the heavy hand that he held so tightly over her mouth.
Murray opened his eyes and he was back in his apartment.
This new girl had helped him to get his mind off of the dark-haired girl, if only for a minute.
He cracked the window when he saw the rain falling against it. Murray sat in his armchair and began to rock back and forth out of anxiety. He grabbed his last cigarette with trembling hands.
He coughed as he fumbled for his lighter.
He dreaded going out in the rain. It was falling harder and faster now, and he needed to go to the store.
He stepped out into the cold rain wearing his sweatshirt and the jean-jacket he stole at a thrift store. The streets were full of people. In the complete silence, they looked like wild animals. Crawling, jumping, and pushing to get a better view of whatever it was they were all looking at.
Murray fought his way into the crowd and craned his neck to see above them.
He saw women jumping up and down around a big fire and what he saw next made that fire look like a candle flame. The mosque was burning. Even the elderly men and women were helping to salvage the books and various ornaments that the fire had yet to destroy. Murray tried to push his way through the crowd. A man screamed at Murray to stop shoving. Murray, of course, did not hear his threats. The man became frustrated when Murray continued to push.
Suddenly all went black.
Murray was on the ground. Blood was running from his nose and his left ear. The crowd continued to push forward as Murray laid on the ground, bleeding in silence.
I approach the crowd of derelicts. They surround the prostitutes that surround the flames that consume the books. To the left a group is gathered. I can see their lips moving in silent prayer.
ReplyDeleteMy head throbs with the smoke and the frantic screams of the prostitutes dancing around the fire. I get scared. The faces of the homeless, the delinquent and the dilapidated men become hellish masks. They laugh and jeer at me. One of them is on my back, clawing at me. I scream. He's shoving me. I feel the familiar pop. I half-turn my head in time to see a red devil, naked and glistening in the firelight, approach the man from behind and swipe at his head with it's pitchfork. The devil's weapon connects with the man's ear and he drops to the ground.
The creature faces me, his pointed nose and mustache only inches from my face. he smiles a yellow smile, and then leaps off into the dawn. The cackling of the women reverberates in my ears. I can't move. The man lays motionless at my feet, blood pouring from his face. I can't move.
Edna squeezed through the crowd, smashing on broken bottles left by fleeing idiots. At one point, her foot landed on something soft, not glass-like. There was blood covering his face, his eyes were shut, and there was a strangle pleasant expression written on his face. This town could care less about the ones it killed, she thought, as her finally made her way to her front door, I could care less about the ones I killed. She needed the roof; she knew he'd be there.
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