A Warrior’s Devotion

The sky scuffs at my resolve as it spews black tar and ash. I choke on the scent and taste of iron and despair. I pick at the scar on my bottom lip and devour the bloody salt water. My blade drags by my side. The chips in the rusted steel masked with flesh of the fallen. All my comrades lie atop the scorched dirt. I stumble upon a figure in the short distance. It stands shrouded in an ominous cloak. I maladroit across the river of parish toward the figure. I collapse at the feet of the figure. The oddity of the situation was the figure's lack of flesh. The feet were pure bone and as I continued my examination, I see but a skeleton wrapped in black garments. Its eyes beaming like two suns, as it glares down at me.

"Stand, warrior," it hissed.

I use my knee to support my rise.

"I am the very thing that lies around you."

"Death," I whisper under fractured ribs.

"You have conquered through immense odds. But there lies one more test."

I ready my weapon with tiresome swagger.

"I bare a question, warrior."

I retire my stance in perplexity.

"A question?"

Death pulls out a double-edged scythe.

"Which do you prefer, love, or pain?"

I stagger at the question, but open my mouth to answer that-

"Stanley!" "Stanley it's time to go to bed, honey."

"Dammit Stephanie, I told you to never interrupt me when I am in the middle of a story."

Stanley stands, pushes her out and slams the door of his office.

"Stanley, quit ignoring me and talk to me," she cried.

After several minutes of no response she sadly returns to bed. The next morning Stephanie gets up and heads to the bathroom for a shower. No sign of her husband anywhere in the home. The warm water carcasses her skin as the droplets hold hands down her smooth skin. Steam kisses the ceiling for only moments before she stops the running water. Stephanie leaves the curtains and stares at her reflection in the mirror. She was disgusted by her reflection. She pinched at the meager weight around her hips and thighs. She was voluminous in all the wrong places, according to her. Why couldn't she be slim, like that sun-kissed model on TV, Veronica Stacy? Stephanie wanted to be an object of desire, but her husband never even looked at her anymore. 12 years of wasted potential, she thought. She dries off and gets clothed for work. She looks at the door of Stanley's office and heads out to work. Stanley wakes up at the slam of the front door. Drool bellows from his mouth onto his desk, smelling of morning breath. Stanley rises and goes to the bathroom. He closes the door and his reflection catches his attention. His hair is unkempt and the stains in his shirt smell of musk. His image sickens him. He hates the way his hair curls at the tips and the way his eyes glint like suns. Those damned eyes. They always made him feel deprived. He'd been working on this story for weeks, but writers block has prevented him from making any headway. So, he just hopped in and out of the story when he could. He washes his face and brushes his teeth, all while peering into the dirty mirror. After spitting out the baking soda paste, he heads back into his office, closing the door behind him. The chest in his closet lit up, like a star in the ominous sky. He approaches it and opens its contents. His grandfather's rifle from decades ago. It was past down through generations. He hadn't used it for hunting since he was a child. But he still remembered the satisfaction he felt from ripping through the flesh of deer after gunning them down. The control he felt was almost enough to push him over the edge. Caught in deep thought, he failed to realize his fingering of the rifle. He placed it back in its wooden case and returned to his desk. Atop it lie his notebook and pen. He was old-fashioned and refused to conform to modern technology. Perhaps it hindered Stanley's reputation. But how would he ever know? A plethora of pages lie scattered throughout his room. The scribbling of a mad man to some, but the loose leaves of brilliance to him. He sits back down at his desk, drinking a glass of wine, he contemplated how he could continue the story. Then as his pen touched down on the paper, he hears the front door open and close. Stephanie wonders into the home and closes the door behind her. Her day was less satisfactory than the one before it. She went into her room to get undressed. She wondered what Stanley was up to all day. Did he think about me? She curiously echoed in her mind. She goes into the kitchen to prepare dinner.

"Stanley, are you ready for dinner?"

The silence garnered no response. Stephanie's attitude quickly shifted. She heads to the bathroom to wash up, but finds her reflection to be unsettling. She saw someone damaged. Someone tired of being ignored and used. Her reflection starts to frown at her. She realizes that she has had enough of Stanley's behavior for the final time. She darts toward his office, banging on the door and then immediately entering the room. Stanley is feverishly writing on his notepad.

"Well, warrior. What is your response?"

I gazed into death's cold, blazing eyes.

"This is a trick question."

Death forms a devilish smirk.

"To love is to be forever in pain, and to be in pain...well I suppose that requires a little love."

Death first looks puzzled, but then quickly grabs his weapon. This would not be my first brush with death. I readied my weapon an-

"Stanley!"

Stephanie pulls on Stanley's shoulder.

"I am sick and tired of your lazy ass. I cook, clean, and go to work. I do literally everything around the house. You are going to answer me right now!"

She pulls on his shoulder to turn his body toward her's, but ends up pushing him into the glass of wine perched on his desk. He pauses and stares at all his work swimming in a sea of blood.

"Oh my God, Stanley. I am so so sorry."

He rises in a rage and throws her to the ground.

"You destroyed my work!"

"Stanley, please. I didn't mean to. I swear!"

He slowly walks toward the chest in his closet. Stephanie knows exactly what lays inside and quickly gets up and runs to her car, speeding off into the distance. Stanley holds the rifle like a child as he snakes through the blinds of the living room. Visibly upset about her getting away, he runs into the bathroom. The mirror glares at him. He looks rabid, nearly foaming at the mouth in a rage. His skin is almost as red as his eyes. His eyes! They piss him off. Just staring back at him. Implying that he was in the wrong. Like he was the bad guy! Stanley rapidly jabs the mirror until it shatters into micros. He was going to finally make it big with a story like that, but now it's all ruined. His hand now cries out as blood slithers down his wrist. Villages of glass now lie embedded in his right hand, but he simply doesn't give a damn. He needed to think of something. That story will finally make him famous if he can get it out somehow. He walks into his office and examines the wine-soaked notes. His frustration returns once again and causes him to toss the wine glass at the wall. He slowly walks into the living-room and sits in a chair. His rifle nestled in his arm, as he sits in obscurity. Several hours pass and Stephanie returns home. Before exiting her vehicle she becomes caught up in deep thought.

I'd have to be an idiot to come back here without a friend, or hell, even the police!

She ran a slew of scenarios in her head of how things would play out and she couldn't help but shake the feeling that she may end up hurt...or maybe even killed? These assumptions only fuel her want to stay alive and safe. She turns the key back in its ignition and drives off. She had no idea where to go, but she figured anywhere would be safer than here with this lunatic. Stanley hears the singing of Stephanie's engine outside as it pulls off in the distance once again. She was probably not going to return, but that was okay. Stanley rises from his chair and saunters toward his bathroom. His rifle drags heavily behind him, like a dead body. Stanley steps into the bathroom. The mirror that he thought was put to rest, bore a sliver of glass near the top edge. Stanley approaches the mirror and sees two, flaming eyes staring back at him. You are filth. You were never good enough to be a successful writer. Although the eyes were disembodied they still spoke to him. Stanley smirks a slimy grind.

"I choose love."

He points the rifle at his skull and shares a glance with the mirror once more. Those eyes. Those damn eyes.