Rambles III

Aka that time Vito was doing very bad in Teneba. Set after he left Laurentius and the Goat Islands but before he got his life back together. Not sure if these written stories are what you guys came here for, but I want to share them somewhere!

---

Every day is the same. There are no seasons here. Nothing changes. It's only the sun, the limestone and the liquor. Some days the stray dogs come looking for trash. He likes to think it’s because they've accepted him as one of their own, but it’s probably because his little street corner with a pile of clay bricks is a nice place to look for trash. Not because there is any more trash than elsewhere, but because it is in the shade at all times except for late evening. The dogs must like that, too. Of course they’re still afraid of him.

The heat makes the air heavy and lazy. He feels like he’s going to melt into the cobblestones. He doesn’t like the heat very much, although he doesn’t quite remember why. Sometimes drunkards call him all kinds of nasty words that have to do with snow and milk and other white substances he’d rather not name.

Oftentimes, he says – well, he doesn't say a lot, because there's no one to talk to except the rats by the bricks and the little voice in his head that keeps saying you're forgetting something, come on now, remember, remember – but he thinks out loud, if that's something a person can do. He thinks out loud: "Damn, this place sucks.” But nothing changes. Boredom gnaws at him like the rats gnaw the pants of his legs when he sleeps. 

On this particular evening, he’s way too sober. As always, he’s situated next to his pile of bricks. He’s familiar with the bricks, every last one of them, because he uses them as an uncomfortable bed and because something about their mundane craftsmanship is calming to him. The fact that he’s thinking about craftsmanship is a sign that he’s thinking too clearly. He shouldn’t think about craftsmanship. His hands don’t create anymore.

Aren’t you forgetting something?

He remembers very little of last night. Shapes of people, shadows of names. They said: “Get outta here, dog, go sleep with your kind.” And the short one with the hoop earrings said: “You owe me five copper, Vito!”

Right. That’s his name. He isn’t supposed to forget something like that.

Don’t you remember?

He’s trying to sleep, but again, the evening is the only time of the day when the evil rays of the sun shine on his pile of bricks. The stabbing headache and the nausea aren’t helping.

You?

A drunk stumbles by. Sometimes they do. This might be Vito’s pile of bricks, but he can’t really stop others from walking by. This drunk, however, stops in front of him. He sways a bit and points a finger at something next to Vito. Probably Vito, but the guy is so drunk his aim is off and Vito is so hungover everything spins.

The man reeks of urine and sweat and old booze, so probably a lot like what Vito usually smells like. Minus the piss, maybe. Vito isn’t that bad. He likes to think that, anyway. The drunk is wearing a faded shirt with stripes and his eyes are very wet and red. His face is red, too, and angry. He slurs something about a daughter. Looking for her? Mourning her? Rambling like a lunatic?

"Hey, dude, I don't know shit about your girl. I'm just sittin' here."

Stripey keeps babbling like a fish gasping for air. 

"Look, buddy. I haven’t seen your daughter. Pretty sure I haven’t fucked her either."

This makes the guy even angrier, obviously. He yells something that is incoherent through Vito’s stabbing headache.

“Come on, ya know I’m not who…”

Stripey pulls a knife on him. It’s an ugly little thing, poorly made and poorly taken care of. This angers Vito for some reason. But the knife is still sharp. And sharp is dangerous.

Aw, fuck, he thinks. What were you supposed to do in a knife fight again? Someone taught him about knife fights once, a very long time ago. Or had she taught someone else, and he had just been on the sidelines, watching? No matter. Grab the hand, grab the knife. It doesn't matter if you cut your hand as long as the sharp end stays out of your body. But the best way to win a knife fight, he thinks, a bit too clearly for his liking, is with a gun. He happens to have a gun.

The gun, however, is a couple of steps away. Why would he sleep next to a gun? He just carried it with him because it was fun. Because it was important. That, and because firing a couple of times into the air scared away unwanted visitors. It was for home defence. But maybe… it could be for Vito-defence too. Someone had taught him a lot about fighting not too long ago. This is muscle memory.

He leaps for the gun. Alas, Stripey seems to notice his intentions. Vito’s leap falls short when the drunk grabs his arm and yanks him back. Suddenly, the knife is very close to his throat, so close he can almost feel the coldness radiating from the metal. It would be pleasant in the hot evening. 

Grab the hand, grab the knife. He takes a hold of the blade and pushes it away from his jugular veins with bared teeth. His right hand doesn’t bleed. How funny. Stripey doesn’t even notice. All elegance is gone: it’s a brutal wrestling match for the control of the blade, fought between two animals desperate for survival. Vito tries to knee Stripey between his legs, a dirty trick, but his head is still spinning and he misses, hits Stripey’s bony thigh instead. It’s like fighting in a dream, slow and desperate. Stripey pulls out his special move: a second knife. Vito sees it when it’s too late. The rusty blade is not sharp enough to sink into his abdomen smoothly, but the sheer force is enough to drive it deep.

It doesn’t hurt at all. He hears the blood rush in his ears. There’s a tender moment of staring right into Stripey’s bloodshot, wet eyes. Someone’s displeased and hoarse voice manifests into his head, saying: Never pull the knife out of the stab wound, or you’ll die of blood loss!

Stripey pulls the knife out. Asshole.

Wow, that is a lot of blood! Vito thinks. This is bad! And the little voice that is his but is not his says: You’re forgetting something.

He stumbles. So much blood. Where has he seen this before? He remembers a lot of names, none of which are his. He remembers that it is very important he doesn’t die here now.

Pain. Pain pain pain pain pain. The rush of blood in his ears turns into a sharp ringing sound. Multiple colourful ghost layers appear over his vision: everything leaves a trail of afterimages behind when he turns his head, even the bricks and Stripey. He feels like he’s wasted on something far stronger than alcohol, something he’s not a stranger to but never liked.

He thinks Stripey is being awfully polite, letting him think for a solid three seconds. Then his gaze focuses on the drunk’s face: those red-rimmed eyes are glazed over, his puffy face twisted into an expression of terror. Stripey probably hasn’t killed a lot of people before. Then he sees Vito move and snaps out of whatever drunken haze he was in, ready to finish the job. It was too late for apologies and handshakes.

Vito, saved by those three seconds, rolls across the cobblestones, scratches his knee against the rough surface, and grabs the gun. 

Stripey lunges towards him, although it's more of a stumble over a ledge into the dark, something animalistic and terrifying. Fear makes men beasts, makes them move in ways men don’t, do things men don’t. Vito doesn’t need fear for that, he remembers that now. He wasn’t human to begin with. He sees the flash of the knife in the last rays of the evening sun. The musket’s familiar weight is in his hands, the hammer is cocked,

and he

fires

the gun.

Bang and two clouds of smoke, one from the flintlock and one from the muzzle. An echo that lasts for an eternity. A thump and a horrible sound akin to someone unclogging a drain.

The fog that clouds Vito’s thoughts is bleeding out of him, bleeding like Stripey’s brains are bleeding out of his head. His conscience hits him harder than the recoil of his gun. He had always searched for connection, but not like this, not like a bullet connects with a skull. Something breaks, something he forgot had even existed. No matter. He’s a broken thing anyway, a discarded piece of machinery that can’t remember how to function. Can’t even remember his own name.

The thought of the dead man's daughter comes to him. Whether she was the product of drunken dreams or not, the man must have had a family. Maybe even a wife and a child. Vito hadn't checked if he had a ring or not. Now he can’t bear to look at the twitching corpse. The blood is too saturated, too overwhelming. Fuck, he hadn’t meant to kill the guy. Survival or not, he could have disarmed him and left. He shouldn’t have picked a fight. 

He needs to leave now. 

Now.

It is easier said than done. Everything spins. He’s going into shock from blood loss and manslaughter. Despite the suffocating heat, he feels very cold. He almost falls on his back and has to take a quick, jagged step backwards to correct his balance. He remembers her. A broken laugh escapes his lips. The way his body shakes makes the blood spill from his gut in wet and warm bursts. It’s familiar and comforting. Gentle. He wants to sleep. He’s so tired.

“If only you could see me now," he says, smiling and baring his teeth to the sky. "You would be so proud of your little hypocrite.”

After that, he says nothing. There is no one to talk to.

On this particular evening, Vito leaves his little corner and his pile of bricks. Some days later, he finds a lemon tree and spends a couple more drunken weeks there before he gets his life back together. But it is not tonight. Tonight, he finds the harbour, drags himself on the dirty beach where there is no sand, only pointy stones and glass shards, and collapses on all fours, crying like a rabid dog. His blood mixes with the salt water. 

He sleeps.