Dystopia part one
I hate them. Do you understand me? Nothing about them is redeemable in my eyes. I hate their smell, their looks, their viciousness and blighted beauty; I hate their hunger, their violence and their laughter…I hate what they do it the ones I love, the madness they inspire and the monsters they create: I hate them!
Alex had been hunting them for years along the borders of the township. He had been trying to keep us all safe; to keep the promise he made to the people. But something had gone wrong tonight. He had been left to struggle alone and vastly outnumbered. He had lived up to his name though and to his lineage: he was dying with dignity.
His men managed, somehow, to recover him. They dragged him in and slung him onto my table, sweeping the pots and ceramics off the surface with their brutal arms. The crockery smashed on the stone floor and their shattered fragments scoured the surfaces and rattled into the corners, hitting the boards. The flowers I had lovingly grown were crushed beneath their boots and the purple and pink peonies bled their petals among the smashed plates. The blue cloth I’d laid on the table began to stain crimson as the blood smothered it.
I watched the crimson spread over the blue; it was turning a once calm sea into a cursed lagoon.
I reached for Alex but his arm lashed out and knocked me across the room. I lay stunned in the wreckage of crockery, my face and hands were cut from some of the sharper shards. I had hit the wall hard and both my head and body ached, I knew I would have bruises. I put pressure on the worst cut, and tied it up efficiently with a handkerchief; but otherwise I ignored the wounds.
His companions laughed at the action. They clapped him on the shoulder and laughed again as he lashed out at them too.
Alex growled and moaned in his delirium. He had little idea that he was now safe, I guess he thought we were the monsters. Or perhaps he knew exactly where he was, and hated us all, maybe he felt betrayed by all of us.
I sat up and I licked some of the blood off my fingers. My dress was rumpled and torn from the violence; I attempted to straighten it out and the light fabric drifted easily beneath my hands as I stood and dusted myself down.
I forgave him for the slight. Besides, in this world, violence was nothing new.
I heard a man's voice from outside in the corridor ask sharply "Where is he?" I didn't recognise the voice, but he sounded authoriative and stern.
A doctor (or surgeon, or charlatan or wizard) made his way quickly into the room. His bag of instruments was clutched in his arms. He hurried over to Alex and attempted to assess his condition but he got almost the same treatment as me. The doctor was swift and had fast reflexes though, and after the first glancing blow he managed to easily dodge the flailing limbs. In the end though when the doctor wanted a closer look the men had to hold Alex down. He was still violently defensive and appeared to have little awareness of what was happening.
Blood ran freely from his wounds, and I watched intently as it dripped over the edge of the table and onto the floor; some of it hitting the peonies.
The doctor had him stripped.
I saw the deep cuts and slashes. I saw the wounds (his bones too), and I stared at the contrast of red and white. His skin seemed so pale compared to the rose red of his insides.
The doctor's neat stitches closed him up and the bandages shrouded his figure, like winding cloths. My table cloth contiued to drink up the blood. But we all knew the wounds were too deep and terrible; his bones had shattered and skewered his organs. He was destroyed on the inside even if he appeared fixed on the outside.
I held his hand as he slept and I prayed that Morpheus would grant him a wonderful abyss. Alex had always loved the darkness, the quiet of night and close physical warmth. He would lie curled up, deep within the bed, below the covers, like a babe in the womb.
He stopped breathing just before dawn, as Aurora rose from her own slumber and opened the gates for Apollo's chariot to enter the sky.
I had to make sure he wouldn't Rise. If I didn't do it then one of his men would have to, and I couldn't bear the idea of it. I beheaded him (quickly and easily) with my cleaver, and then removed his heart. I wanted it to be buried with me when my time came. My dress was covered with stains, and I knew they wouldn't come out in the wash.