Soul Quest

Head of the Chain

The date was a hot night in July 2014, when an innocent soul named David was thrown out of a bar with half a beer bottle in his hand. The bar owner shouted in a sharp voice:
"If you've got no money, you've got no drink. Now get the hell out!"

David was dead drunk; it was clear even from his eyes. He stared blankly at the shouting bar owner, then, after the door closed, struggled to stand and shook his bottle as he spoke:
"We don't need your filthy beer anyway!" he muttered, though his voice was barely audible.
He took a few sips from the bottle, tossed it into the trash before finishing, and wiped his mouth.
"Damn bastards, they begrudge a single bottle!"

He started walking down an alley. Darkness blended into darkness; the moon shone above. He paid no attention to where he was going; each step more unsteady than the last. He muttered to himself, words spilling out without meaning. Unaware of the dangers of the alleys, he only sought a place to collapse. A man was coming toward him, but he didn't see. Unaware that death was approaching, he bumped into the man, shut his eyes in shock—and never opened them again.

By seven in the morning, rats were gnawing at his body when a beggar found it and screamed. People gathered; a police car and an ambulance arrived swiftly at the scene. The pitiful shell's name was David Mason. He was 1.83 meters tall, a thin man. The police looked down on him. He was forty-nine years old, married, and had a child. They too stood behind the cordon, shivering in the heat. What made them tremble was not the warmth, but the uncertainty of their future—the looming fracture of their family. Peaceful and happy they had never truly been, but family was family; they didn't want it broken.

Evelyn Mason was a graceful woman, a true lady from England, but now tears welled in her blue eyes. She did not weep uncontrollably, for even though the dead man was her husband, her love for him had long since faded. Her body bore marks—slap marks. Her neck bore bruises, the imprint of belts. Despite the beatings, she had never left him, for she had no other choice. But now, before her, was only his lifeless body. Eighteen years of marriage left memories, and she felt the sorrow of that. Still, she tried not to show it, for her son stood at her side: Lucian Mason.

Lucian was a small boy of fourteen. His black eyes and hair stood out starkly against his pale skin. He wore a white shirt fit for the hot weather and jeans, the right knee slightly torn—fashion, they said. His hands were in his pockets; though he felt his mother's hands clutching his arm, he stared at the corpse without tears. He had never loved the man before him, and never would. Though he himself had never been harmed, what the man had done to his mother was burned into his mind. His gaze was empty. Hatred was slowly growing, but for now it was hollow. His thoughts swirled in a storm: What would happen now? Would they stay in this small country with his mother? Would he have to quit school? Work and earn money? These were the questions that weighed on him.

The body was zipped into a black bag, loaded into the ambulance. The police discussed the cause of death; Lucian overheard:

"No bruises or stab wounds."
"His throat was bruised, wasn't it? Maybe that's what did him in."
"Not that bad. More like he'd been gripped and then let go. If he'd been slammed against a wall, he'd have had fractures."
"True enough. Another mystery—you like those."

The two officers chuckled softly, returned to their car, and drove away. Lucian watched them go. What was so funny? He wanted to ask what they meant by mystery, but his tongue wouldn't move. He turned to his mother; Evelyn looked back. Blue and black eyes met. Evelyn swallowed and spoke:

"Darling, I need to take care of your father's funeral arrangements. Do you want me to take you home?"
Lucian shook his head.
"I want to stay here a while. I'll come back on my own later, Mom. Don't worry."

Evelyn paused, considered. She looked at him again, weighed his gaze. Seeing that he was less affected than she, she nodded, bent, and embraced him tightly.
"I'll see you at home then," she said. She ruffled his hair gently, gave a faint smile, and walked to the car.

Lucian remained in the alley, eyes fixed on where the body had once lain.

The car engine growled and trembled as Evelyn drove away. Yet Lucian still stared at the chalk outlines. He had questions for the owner of that corpse. Why had he been such a pitiful man? Why such a cruel one? He had always wanted to ask, but never dared. He had locked himself in his room to avoid that heavy hand, even to flee from his mother's screams.

Now it was all over; fate had delivered them. But one truth remained: his cowardice. The fact that he had hidden from his mother's cries consumed him. The longer he stayed, the more suffocated he felt by his own thoughts. He longed to flee again, but his feet felt coated in lead. The truth had come to visit him; walking was hard. His Adam's apple rose; he drew breath and whispered:

"So you've finally let us go, huh? After all these years, I hope what you made us endure was worth it, Father. But don't think I'll let you go." He paused, then continued:
"If there's a world beyond, I'll follow you there. Before God does, I'll be the one to punish you."

His voice trembled. Speaking to the dead was easy, but when he felt his eyes begin to shake, he remembered he didn't want to cry for this wretched man. He strode quickly out of the alley, into the streets of Dublin. His steps didn't slow, though he bumped into passersby. They scowled at him, but he didn't care. He didn't even want to wait for a bus. He would escape this misery the same way as always: with solitude. As he lost himself in the relatively busy street, his mind drifted away.

At that very moment, the trash container in the alley trembled.

The lid creaked open slowly; a pair of eyes peeked out. Seeing no one, the man sighed in relief but couldn't resist complaining:
"Thank heavens, a moment more and I would've become one with the dark!"

The eyes rose; a man crawled out of the trash. He was gaunt, face triangular, long black hair, sunken eyes, filthy teeth, clothes all black. As soon as he climbed out, he dusted himself off, though the stench would not leave so easily. He took a deep breath and spoke into his mind, knowing Selene would hear:
"Prepare my bath, or I'll drown you all!"

His anger was still evident. Muttering curses, he pulled the corpse from the container.
"So, he wanted to punish before God, did he? Hah! If there is a God, then go ahead, boy."

He grinned, hoisted David's body onto his back, and spoke again:
"The Irish police are really troublesome. Why gaze at the darkness when you could touch it?"

He stretched out his hand. From his shadow, darkness poured forth, merging before him into the shape of a door.
Crowe stepped into the darkness—and vanished.