may i stand unshaken [Arthur Morgan × OC]

Chapter 4

For example, I would attract a small crowd of people to sing them an excerpt of a French song, the language of which the locals had never heard, and John would carefully walk between them and grab everything that was good in his hand. Then we'd buy a bottle of sugary-sweet-tasting rum and share it between the two of us, giggling around the corner of the saloon. And when the locals suddenly realized that their belongings and money had gone somewhere, we ran away, drunk and laughing. Once Marston ended up in a pig pen, tumbling over a fence and ending up in a puddle of dirt and shit. Another time, a saloon owner left a bullet hole in his hat. But don't think he was an irresponsible clown. At the right moment, John became serious and attentive, reliable. There are not enough fingers on both hands to count how many times he pulled me out of scrapes and other men's paws. He was able to open up and talk about himself. His father was an illiterate Scottish immigrant, and his mother was a prostitute and died during childbirth. At one moment his father went blind in both eyes as a result of a fight in a bar, and when John was eight years old, he died in another fight. At the age of eleven, Marston committed his first murder, shooting a man, although he still claimed that it was not his fault. I knew a lot about John.

However, it was more and more difficult with Arthur. He was already a man, eleven years older than me. I admired Morgan, cold-blooded and calculating, cheerful and caring. One his looks scared people away, and there was no fear around him. Arthur believed that violence should be emotionless, necessary and without feelings that never come out of personal pleasure. He had some kind of morality of his own. He was different from everyone else. Not just a bandit and the best shooter among all, deep down in his soul Morgan was tossing in his own thoughts, and I still didn't understand which ones. He thought too much and wrote it down on pieces of paper or scraps of newspapers. Noticing a similar habit, one day I spent money stolen from some woman and gave him a thick diary for his birthday, which could become his assistant to save his own thoughts. It turns out that Arthur drew great, and I found out when, after several bottles of strong enough alcohol, he sat down next to me, so relaxed and smiling, showed me a small portrait made with a pencil. Morgan could be nice sometimes. For example, to bring wildflowers as a sign of reconciliation after some loud quarrel, or to catch a wild animal especially for me, cut it up and fry it with seasonings that make your mouth water.

But Arthur seemed out of reach for me. I don't know at what moment I realized that I had fallen in love unrequited. Probably when we stopped in some American town with richer business people in elegant clothes. Such places and their inhabitants suggested education, ambition and nobility, but all this was just a mask of arrogance, selfishness and vulgarity. At some point, at the very beginning of my journey with the gang, on my own initiative, I attracted a man, a well-dressed gentleman, with a beautiful and stern face, and I thought that he could have been fooled and robbed by connecting the feminine charm that Bessie, Annabelle and Susan had told me about. The man, whose name I could no longer remember, smiled affably, had a pleasant voice and conducted some intellectual conversations. The girls were circling around him, but he paid attention to me. However, when we found ourselves in his expensively furnished apartment, the man closed the door and immediately pushed me onto a soft bed with silk linen. I don't know what exactly I expected. Just walk in, steal something and run away? Maybe I try to show the gang members that I'm ready for something serious? Instead, my potential victim held my wrists, grabbed my face with her fingers, forced me not to move, and when I tried to pull away, slapped me so hard that my head rang for too long. He thought I was a local whore who could be taken advantage of.

The other girls, apparently, did not immediately agree to go to his house. Tore the dress, leaving only underwear and bruises on the skin from rough touches. And in my head my brothers' hands appeared in fragments, wandering over my body. Are men really like that? Wild animals who don't take women into account, thinking that everything is allowed to them? However, he did not notice the knife in a specially sewn pocket, so that it was convenient to take it out. And when, having spread my legs, he fell on top of me, at the same time having fun trying to strangle me, I grabbed the handle, plunged the tip of the knife into his neck and immediately pulled it out. It's the surprise in the eyes of the opposite... It gave me pleasure. And fear. It turns out it's so easy to stop everything. But when the blood poured in a hot stream on my face and chest, flooded the whole bed under me, I could not restrain the impulse, pushed his convulsing body, and I vomited on the fleecy carpet by the bed. I got up on shaky legs, looked at myself with a bleary look from head to toe. There was blood everywhere. He continued to twitch for a while, clutching his neck, making gurgling sounds. And I didn't know what to do now.