when it is you who hold the burden of hell on your shoulders.”
“Are you talking about the great ‘Kingdom of Heaven?” I said mockingly.’
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. She sat up on her knees, resting on her heels and she gently put my face in between her hands. “Wherever my life exists now, it’s better than the misery you go through from day-to-day. You can’t keep going like this Gabriel, you’re losing yourself and I cannot bear it anymore.”
I tore my face from her grip and stood up, walking away from her. I was furious, “I will NOT end my life! I am NOT a coward! If I have been damned to existence, then so be it! But I will see it through.”
She was behind me now, wrapping her arms around my waist and putting the side of her face into my back. “I would never ask you to do such a thing,” she told me reassuringly. She put her hands on my shoulders, turning me around. We held each other tightly and she said with humor and sarcasm, “I was only trying to prove a point.”
I couldn’t laugh, “I wish I could have said goodbye. I always tell the people I love goodbye.”
She looked up at me smiling, and put her foot behind my heels. She leaned forward and I fell backward, with her on top. I could only laugh. The sun was directly behind her head, perfecting her perfections. I didn’t care if I couldn’t see the sun.
“I see The Army has taught you well,” she said jokingly.
“You don’t want to know what they taught me,” I replied.
It’s not so much of what they taught me, but what I’ve learned that she didn’t want to know. Teachers can teach you everything they know from books, stories, teachings from other teachers, and what they have seen through experience, but they can never fully prepare you for anything. Fire only when fired upon I was told, but what if the people shooting you were those who you swore to protect? The fools didn’t know what they were doing. I assumed their country’s military turned them against us. One minute we’re teaching the children football, and the next their mothers are shooting at us. What then?
The human brain is a fickle thing.
Don’t fall under pressure when you’re being held at gun-point, but what if it was an eight year old girl holding the gun? On top of that, being held at gun-point is a total mind fuck. It’s damn near impossible to keep from sweating while you’re staring down that barrel, knowing the applied pressure on the tiny piece their finger is resting on will end your pathetic life.
I’ve seen ugliness.
“What’re you thinking about?” she asked, breaking me from my trance.
“Ugliness,” I told her.
She sighed and shook her head, “You know I don’t like it when you ramble to yourself. Let’s think of something that’ll put a smile on our faces.”
“Like what?”
She looked around, smirking with squinted eyes, thinking of our happiest moments I assume.
“Ah, Pine Forest High school,” she said gazing at the spot where the building should have been. “Pine Forest has given us history which will undoubtedly last forever.” She was grinning, baring teeth.
“This is to you Pine Forest,” I said while holding an imaginary glass in my left hand. I continued with the toast, “thank you for the hopes and dreams you have given us, and damn you in the ways you have failed.” I took a sip. “That’s awful,” I grimaced at my imaginary glass.
She dropped her head on my chest and groaned. I laughed. She picked her head up and looked at me smiling, “You’re so awkward and unpredictable.”
“It’s why you love me though, right?” I said, matching her smile. She smiled bigger.
She gasped and her face lit-up with excitement, “Let’s climb the tree!” She pushed herself up and ran for the tree. She has the ability to shed her feelings off onto anyone within the blast radius, so I couldn’t help but match her enthusiasm.
I rolled over and pushed myself up, and started toward the tree. But she was gone, disappeared without a goodbye. Not only was she gone, but so was the cheerful scenery. The tall, thick, green grass was replaced by brown mulch, crunching under my feet. Stripped of its leaves, the massive oak tree wasn’t nearly half its size now. And still, the sun was absent in the sky. My body felt hundreds of pounds over-weight. I was swaying back and forth under my faint legs.
What is this new feeling that coursed through me? Despair? It can’t be…I know despair and this wasn’t it. Whatever it is, it burns.
A fly was buzzing around my face. An annoying, shit eating fly. I felt the anger rising again.
And I opened my eyes.
A fly was buzzing around my face. An annoying, shit eating fly. It landed on the small table separating Paul and I. He was still asleep, and I was hoping to catch the fly asleep. I leaned forward and I smacked down, hard, on the table. Paul jumped up, grabbing the assault rifle lying by his feet. I didn’t care if I woke him. I just wanted that damn fly. I lifted my hand, but nothing. That bastard got away.
“What the hell happened?” Paul asked frantically.
“She got away,” I replied.
My anger quickly vanished and was replaced by a mixture of confusion and worry. I looked outside the window to realize we were stopped, and in an all-too familiar place: King’s Cross. What the hell were we doing here? Gatwick is further south.
Outside the window were five chaps holding M4 carbine assault rifles pointing at Paul and me. In synchronization, Paul and I slowly put our hands up. Down the aisle, the door quietly slid open. Three soldiers, wearing full tactical gear with woodland camo, slowly approached in a crouch with their automatic weapons at the ready. I don’t think they’re Apocalypse soldiers—these soldiers aren’t carrying the God complex like the Apocalypse soldiers usually do—their faces looked nervous. Following the armed men was a small withered old man, wearing the same camouflage outfit as the rest. His face was saggy and dirty with various smudges of black. His long silver hair bounced with every step he took.
Paul and I got to our feet before they encircled us. I realized this doesn’t look too good, as I look over to Paul and he’s still wearing the Russian uniform—he’s terrified.
The atmosphere is awkward and intense with the three soldiers ready to gun us down, Paul and I standing hopelessly in a corner, and the old fart staring at us tiredly while breathing heavy. He has to be light-headed. He’s breathing as if he just got back from a marathon. This is annoying. Break the silence you old bastard.
“Where are you boys coming from?” he wheezed. This guy is about to bite the dust.
“Seventh-Gate prison,” Paul said. He laughed at this.
“So, what? Is he the inmate,” the old man said pointing at my ragged pants, “following the prison guard?” he finished, pointing at Paul’s uniform. I already don’t like this guy. He’s snappy and a smart ass, but I can’t really blame him. I doubt I would be any different if I were in his shoes.
“We…” Paul started, but was cut off when pops threw his hand up.
He was smiling at Paul shaking his head and said, “You’re friend Vergil already filled us in. ‘A couple of Apocalypse soldiers’ he told us. ‘One dressed as a guard and the other an inmate.’ He was just fortunate to escape you murderous cunts.” That confirms they’re not Apocalypse soldiers. Most likely, they’re a large faction running England. Either way, I still didn’t like him. And as for Vergil…well, I already wanted to knock him out…again.
He nodded for his soldiers to move in, but Paul took a step back and started, “No, no, no, no, you see…” But again, he was cut off. The old man spoke louder, over Paul’s manic voice, “I really can’t see how two bumbling idiots like yourselves came here from your beloved prison, but…”
It was my turn to do the ‘cutting-off,’ “If you’d shut your God damn mouth, we’d tell you.” He was staring at me, dumbfounded. I felt the gun’s barrel press into my cheek as the front soldier closed the gap between us. I looked at the soldier, who held the gun in my face, and he was shaking. ‘Green,’ I thought.
The old man was staring at me through wide eyes, “Well…?” he pressed. I looked at Paul, raising my eyebrows, signaling him to explain our unfortunate position. I had a feeling if I spoke the edgy soldier’s nerves would get the best of him and paint the inside of the train with my head.
“Right,” Paul started, “We, just now, escaped from Seventh-Gate prison. My brother was a prisoner and I imposed as a guard to set him free. We made it out, only, with the help of the St. Andrews Liberation Front who already infiltrated the base. We were heading toward their temporary base in Gatwick, and we somehow ended up here.”
“Hmm,” said the old man. Hmm was all he could say?
“So they succeeded. This is excellent,” he finished with a scent of hope in his voice.
He was looking around on the ground as if he dropped something. His fingertips, of the left hand, were caressing his chin. He then looked at us and said, “so what about the other man, Vergil? Is he with St. Andrews?”
“No,” Paul said, “he’s not.” “But he said…”
“Who cares what he said,” I interjected, “He’s a liar. He lied to us and he lied to you.” The gun dug deeper into my cheek. I could only look at the soldier, and imagine the torture I wish I could give him. We were silent for about thirty seconds. Just long enough for my cheek to go numb.
“I’m Woodrow Barnes,” the old man said. I stifled a laugh—even his name was annoying. He threw a sharp glance at