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Slow Cheetah
Topic Started: Jan 8 2011, 02:35 PM (1,211 Views)
ifnotwinter
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half Iago, half Fu Manchu, all bastard
[ *  *  *  *  * ]
[[Ilario Fiametta III continued from Nothing But Soundwaves.]]

He'd lost the trail somewhere. Ily wasn't particularly fit, and he hadn't realized just how exhausted he was. By the time the trail of blood disappeared he'd been panting hard, and the time he had spent attempting to find her again had finished wearing him out. When his steps became erratic enough to send him stumbling into the sides of trees, he found a sheltered area under a long-dead tree and curled up. His sleep was alternately light and filled with Jackson's eye, popped and leaking, and deep, black nothingness. When he woke again, his mind was almost numbed, his thoughts drifting, but his resolve was solid.

So he couldn't find Kris. He didn't have to. She wasn't the only one on this island who had sinned, who had killed, and she wasn't the only one to send high school children to hell. He would find the others. He would make up for his loss. Eventually, he thought, she would come looking for him. She knew that he would be competition, that he would kill her, and she would try to kill him first. That's when he would finish his job. But until then...

There was shouting in the distance. He slipped through the trees until he was crouched at the edge of a beach, sand filling the new cracks in his expensive loafers. There was a pudgy boy in front of him, shouting at the ocean. His pack was slung over his shoulder, odd and bulky. Ily wormed his way closer, almost fascinated with the picture in front of him. What was in that pack? A gun? A knife? Not that he needed such things to kill people. Had he?

The AK-47 lay next to him. Absently, Ilario reached over and flicked the safety off, checking that the weapon was set to semi-automatic. He didn't want to waste bullets, after all. Not if he missed again. Rising into a crouch, he settled the stock of the gun against his shoulder, aiming and squinting at the broad back through the scope.

Was he a killer? Ilario couldn't be sure. He couldn't see the face, and the voice didn't ring a bell. But it sounded angry. It sounded slightly scared, but a selfish, angry fear. The fear a killer might have, worried about being caught. Yes - that would make sense. The odds were with him, anyhow. Most of the victims would be hiding the way he had been, while the killers would be out in the open. Yes. Yes. He would take the shot. He would repent for his accident, his apology in the sweet crack that was already too familiar, his forgiveness in the scent of cordite and smoke.

He wasn't smiling. But the look was on his face all the same, the almost-pride, the look he used to get when he handed in a particularly good paper.

He checked his aim. The boy was standing still. It would be easy this time.

The trigger depressed.


marc st. yves


light it up or burn it down we'll all die in fire


lydia hausen


if you don't look down you don't have to fall

sebastian conway


everything will be okay in the end


(so you've got to keep in mind, when you try to change the world for the better not everybody's gonna be on your side)
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ifnotwinter
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half Iago, half Fu Manchu, all bastard
[ *  *  *  *  * ]
There was surprisingly little blood. The recoil jerked into Ilario's shoulder, eliciting a small hiss of pain from between his teeth as bruised muscles protested, but his body remained steady and his eyes fixed on the boy. Ilario could see that the bullet had gone in, had seen a small spray of blood from the boy's midsection and now he watched hungrily as the boy toppled, his head rebounding off something - must have been a rock - with a sharp crack. Similar to the gunshot but somehow more meaty.

He waited a moment just to be safe, then exited the trees. His feet moved neatly over twigs, stirring leaves as he unconsciously muffled his steps. On the beach there was nothing but silence and once distantly the far cry of a gull. He drew closer, closer to the boy until he could smell something blood and something foul, like feces. Had he soiled himself or had the bullet pierced his bowels? Maybe both. Ilario was only half-conscious of his lips drawing back from his teeth in a grimace as he shoved at the body with the muzzle of the gun.

It rolled over, away from the rock, and although the face it revealed was spattered with congealing gore, nose smashed sideways and forehead dented in, one eye bulging slightly not quite closed - it was still a recognizable face. Timothy Skula. Ilario knew the name from - what class? He couldn’t remember. Timothy hadn’t been a bully though. He didn’t, Ilario thought, have a prior record.

A mistake...?

But no. No. That wouldn’t have - he’d looked aggressive enough, and besides, Ilario knew Timothy’s kind. Introverted that they were, they’d snap in situations like this. Probably he would have attacked women. If Ilario hadn’t come along when he had, who’s to say what would have happened next? He might have attacked Rosa, or Frankie. And that could never happen. He wouldn’t let that happen.

The expression on the dead boy’s face was nauseating to look at and Ilario turned away, suddenly sickened. His hand raised itself in a familiar movement; old now that they hadn’t attended Mass in how long? The sign of the cross, the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, a Hail Mary unfolding itself in his mind. Unbidden memories of the wooden confessional bless me Father for I have sinned and how each time he stood in Father’s office with his hands crossed in front of him, staring at the elegant green carpet the words would try and emerge from his mouth, desperate for absolution not from the abstract faith of God but from his father, his Father, the only one he ever truly believed in.

Ilario didn’t even realize he was up until his feet were carrying him back into the woods, AK-47 clutched tight to his chest like a favourite toy. He had to keep going. Had to keep moving. Had to keep shooting-

-but not killing, exterminating, like one might do to rats, bugs, other undesirables, those which should not be permitted to be in the world but not killing-

but most of all he had to keep moving because one thousand Hail Marys and ten thousand Our Fathers wouldn’t earn him forgiveness in the eyes of his own personal lord and savior.

((Ilario Fiametta III continued in ))


marc st. yves


light it up or burn it down we'll all die in fire


lydia hausen


if you don't look down you don't have to fall

sebastian conway


everything will be okay in the end


(so you've got to keep in mind, when you try to change the world for the better not everybody's gonna be on your side)
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