For Pixie - 45 Days (First Published 2013)

 

45 DAYS

By William Powell

I opened my eyes, and whispered quietly to myself, "Forty-five days."

It had been forty-five days since I had killed anybody. 

I glanced around at my surroundings whilst sitting upright and dangling my legs over the bedside. Same place, Same time. 

As usual, it was my 6.30 alarm that woke me from my solitude of dreams, with me kicking and screaming the entire time. 

I didn’t sleep well those days. Any sleep I could get, I took and I cherished. It was my only escape. 

I dragged myself out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. It was as immaculate and lavish as ever. The cleaner must have come whilst I was sleeping. I proceeded to wash my face over the sink, and stare into the mirror briefly. It was usually the bags under my eyes that caught my attention, but for some reason, all I noticed that morning was the far-away look. The emptiness, the lack of emotion in my eyes... it troubled me. In actual fact, it scared me, possibly far more than it should have; is this how others saw me? 

I headed into the living room and slowly approached my work desk. My trusty notepad was how I’d left it. Good; the cleaner knew to not dare move anything. The last cleaner that had quickly found themselves without a job… and missing their right hand. 

I glanced down at the notepad, and saw the pencil marks at the top of the page, forty-four to be exact. They're arranged in groups of five, four lines downwards and one across the four to signify five, just like they were written in the days of Rome. 

Swiftly, I draw a line through the final four strokes with my pencil. 

"Forty-five days", I murmured to myself. 

Maybe I wouldn’t kill someone that day. Maybe I wouldn’t kill someone the day after. 

I quickly slipped on my uniform, grabbed my knife from the drawers next to my bed and left my apartment. Well, I call it my apartment, but it was really the company's apartment. I didn’t pay for it, and unlike my previous apartment, this one didn’t feel like home. Whilst I was grateful for the company to accommodate me, I must admit to missing my old home. There are, or should I say there were many memories associated with the place I used to live. Some good, some bad. It's funny, the longer time goes on, the more I'm beginning to forget what the place even looked like. 

Or what my family looked like. They're nothing more than faceless people in my mind now, emotionless. Like me, I guess. 

I made sure to set the alarm before I left. There was no telling who may break into my home. Anyone could; a stranger on the street or a friend I've known for years. These days I wouldn't know the difference between the two. 

There was a time I would have been able to tell the difference. A time before all of this. Before it happened. Things haven't been the same since. I don't know whether that's a good thing or not. 

Ten years ago, the world went to war once more. Some have dubbed it World War 3, though I think referring to it as such is a tad much. The United States of America wiped out the majority of the Middle East, leaving most countries a desolate wasteland. In attempting to put an end to the "war on terror", the USA opted to launch a nuclear attack before any of their enemies could. That's when it all went downhill for Great Britain. 

England found itself at odds with Wales, Scotland and Ireland, and there was soon a revolt not unlike the French Revolution. Politicians were killed, and the gang culture that had plagued much of London made its way to every inch of the country. Without a government to rule and maintain order, England became a country onto itself, officially being declared separate to Great Britain. In the wake of World War 3, the USA and the EU abandoned us, left the country to rot in its own mess that we had created.  

That's when the boss arrived; a nameless figure who worked from the shadows. He turned London into his own personal playground, a haven from which he began to control the country and its assets. Ironic, that the House of Commons and Parliament were done away with, yet now the whole country found itself in an iron grip, not unlike the reign of Saddam Hussein from yester-year. Advances were made in technology, but while London still remained glorious and vibrant, everywhere began to decay and wither away, and along with it, so did the people. The landscape reminded me of Blade Runner; there were obvious advances in technology, all the while the population was stuck behind the times. Despite being shiny and new, the devastation caused from the revolution still remained, leaving the country looking like a hell-hole. 

As I quickly made my way down the hallway, I began praying to a power higher than myself, as I did every morning. Today, I prayed that I would be able to wake up tomorrow and whisper to nobody in particular, "Forty-six days." I would’ve liked that very much. I may have been able to sleep a little better then, eliminate the bags from under my eyes. Who knew, perhaps my eyes would show something different other than despair. 

There are no guarantees in life; this is something I know all too well. All I could do is hope for the best, while expecting the worst.

Maybe I won't kill someone today. Maybe I won't kill someone tomorrow. 

But maybe I will. 

#

I entered the prison block and was greeted by a slew of familiar faces. All their smiles were far too wide, and their kind gestures far too overbearing to be genuine. I knew full well that many of them felt as I did, and were not here by choice. Nevertheless, it's the hand we were dealt; our choices and actions were predetermined by him after all. We just had to live with the consequences of what we do. 

I was told by the chief operative of the special security forces team that they foiled an assassination attempt on the boss the night previous. The perpetrators were all gunned down in a quick shoot-out, all except one lone survivor. They had found this seventeen-year-old kid lying beneath some rubble from an explosion caused by the strike force. He was wounded, but not fatally, which was reason enough for the boss to want him alive for questioning. Speaking of our illustrious leader, word had it he believed the kid may know a great deal about the resistance underground group operating outside of London. 

I was also informed the kid has been beaten and battered to an inch of his life the last six hours. 

I tried to hide my disgust. I thought about asking why the kid couldn't have been given truth serum to get the info out of him, but I stopped myself. I was no fool – I knew exactly why. 

It would have been far too easy. The boss likely wanted him to suffer. I wouldn't have been the least bit surprised if he was watching via a security camera, sipping on a glass of his finest wine as the kid was tortured. 

Two bulky security guards motioned for me, and I was ushered inside a padded cell. The light blinded me momentarily as I walked in; my vision returned within seconds, but I soon found myself wishing it hadn't. 

I'm confident there was once a handsome young man behind the deep lacerations and disfigured features. A man with his whole future ahead of him, even if his future meant being stuck in this god-forsaken country. This man probably had siblings and friends where he lived on the outskirts of London. He could have made something of himself; his future had yet to be written after all. Now however, this man had no future. He had little time left, of that I was absolutely certain. The moment he was caught by the boss' task force team, his fate was all but sealed. The man that sat in front of me would die; that was a guarantee. 

I glanced around the room, observing my surroundings. The kid was helplessly strapped to a chair, his arms and legs bound. They'd made no effort to gag him, but that’s understandable; the room was likely sound proof. Heck, even if it wasn't, it wouldn't matter; everyone working in this facility were well aware of the kind of horrors that happened down in the basement levels. 

I looked upwards and saw the security camera, just as I'd expected. I suppose I knew the boss a lot more than I originally thought. My eyes trailed downwards and I soon found myself fixated on the kid. He was slumped over in his chair, but had made the effort to raise his head in order to see who has entered the room. 

I stared at him for quite some time, trying to read his facial expressions. While he gritted his teeth and occasionally wriggled around in his chair, I looked into his eyes; there was once hope, a light at the end of the tunnel if you will. But that hope had all but disappeared, replaced with... acceptance? Yes; this brave, yet misguided soul understood, and had accepted, that there was no way out of this situation alive. I could see his anger, his frustration and rage coming to a boiling point; but as the blood continued to pour down his face creating a crimson mask, I could also sense his sorrow. I imagined as he stared back at me, that his short, and somewhat tragic life very well may have been flashing before his very eyes. 

There was no use delaying the inevitable. I planned to make this as painless as possible, and short too... but by no means would it be sweet. Make no mistake, for this kid, the end was nigh. 

I didn’t want to kill someone that day. I didn’t want to kill someone the day after. 

But maybe I would have to. 

#

The door closed and locked behind me, and I pulled up a chair. The kid broke off eye contact and let his head slump back down. He looked exhausted, defeated even. Couldn’t say I was surprised. 

"Do you know who I am?" I asked, without a hint of any emotion in my voice. If it hadn't been for the fact that technology wasn’t yet that advanced, the man who sat in front of me may have been convinced I was an android. 

The kid merely nodded. The blood continued to drip down his face and onto the floor, creating quite a mess. 

I continued. "Do you know why you are here?" 

The kid let out a splutter of sorts before coughing. It would have most likely of been a sarcastic laugh, had he had the energy to do so. He slowly lifted his head up, and there is no breaking eye contact this time. He stared into my cold eyes, and all I saw in his now is desperation; a desperate need to break out of his restraints and tear me limb from limb. 

"I'm here because your goons decided they wanted to keep me alive, Vincent." 

His answer caused me to shuffle in my chair ever so slightly. My goons? Is that what people on the outside believed? 

"I assure you kid, they are not my goons." 

He managed a half-smile of sorts, which only served to make me uncomfortable, and draw attention to the fact that several of his teeth had been knocked out of his mouth in the previous six hours. 

"They work for you, don't they?" he laughed. 

"They work for the same person I work for," I answered, biting my tongue to ensure I didn’t lose composure. 

He rolled his eyes at me, and the smile was soon gone from his face. In its place was a mean, vengeful scowl. 

"Well you know what they say," the kid coughed, blood pouring from his mouth, "if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem." 

"Funny, I was thinking the same thing," I growl through gritted teeth. My monotonous tone from earlier had quickly faded, and I was soon very self-conscious that this seventeen-year-old man... no, child, was getting under my skin. 

There was a silence for several minutes, with the kid unwilling to talk and me unwilling to start proceedings until I'd regained my composure. Personal feelings aside, this kid was still a prisoner and he needed to be questioned. That was my job after all. It seems the blunt and simple approach I was used to taking wouldn’t work in this instance. Despite only being seventeen, the broken individual in front of me seemed much wiser than his years. 

"What was the plan?" I asked. 

"Liberation," came the reply, and the kid sat upright. "Freedom." 

"And you guys thought blowing up the majority of London was worth getting to him?" 

"I'd say the ends justify the means," he replied, defiantly. 

It may have been liberation and freedom he and his friends were trying to achieve, but slaughtering tens of thousands of people in order to do it isn't right. 

I'm one to talk. God, since when did I become such a damn hypocrite? 

There you go again, Vincent; asking yourself questions you already know the answer to. 

"You wanna' tell me your name?" I probe, with a slight hint of caring in my voice. More than I would have liked to convey in fairness, but I couldn't help but pity the man sitting half-beaten to death in front of me. He was going to go down fighting, there was no doubt about that. 

"Why would I want to do that?" he scowled, eyeballing me, trying to read my face. My stone-cold gaze gave nothing away. 

"Well, I figured since you know my name, you could at least tell me what yours is." 

The kid's name was vital to the boss' information. For every captured individual, he'd managed to build an impressive database of names and connections on his enemies. I knew that going back to the boss without a name to put to a face wouldn't do me any favors. 

"Name's Daniel," he mumbled, before looking down at the blood around him. He broke eye-contact first, and I'm sure in his mind, our conversation was as good as finished. 

It was time to force the kid to face up to the truth. Little did he know, it was going to pain me to be this brutally honest as much as it would him. 

"Listen to me carefully, Daniel. You seem to have a clever head on your shoulders, so I'm not going to insult your intelligence. You and I both know that as soon as you leave this room, you are going to die. There is no way out of this facility that doesn't result in you being taken away in a body bag. Despite what you think, I'm trying to do you a favor here; the more I can find out, the less my employer will need to extract out of you himself." 

The coldness in my voice quickly peaked the kid's interest, and I could tell from his body language that my last line really hit home. It' was no secret of the horrors that went on downon the lower levels of the facility... nor was it a secret of the horrors that the boss inflicted on prisoners personally. The stories would make a blind man thankful he is cannot see the aftermath of one torture session, and a deaf man joyful that he cannot hear the screams of the helpless victims. 

"It's funny," Daniel scoffed. "For a second there, you had me thinking you actually care about me. Bravo, Vincent; you almost had me fooled." 

I moved my chair slightly closer to him, and shuffled my body forward so we were at the same level. With his head hanging low, it meant leaning downwards so that he heard me loud and clear, without having to raise my voice. Last thing I needed was those meat-heads outside ruining everything. 

"Despite what you or anyone else outside this city may think, I care." I insisted. 

Daniel looks up at me for a second, and then shakes his head. 

"I hope that isn't true," he sighed. 

I lean back in my chair, slightly taken aback by the comment. "Why?" 

"Because I don't like to believe that you would allow something like this to happen if you truly cared," he answered simply. 

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. I'd always convinced myself that I do care... but hearing a sharp reply like that, especially from someone on the outside... it put things into perspective. 

I attempted to change the subject. "What do you know?" 

Daniel shook his head. "You'd have to kill me to find out... but I suppose that's the idea, isn't it?" 

I felt my face getting red, and my heart-rate getting faster. This kid wasn’t going to tell me a damn thing. I felt the need to enlighten him still, before the end. 

"You must have been pretty young when all of this started, huh?" I asked rhetorically. Daniel went to answer but I quickly cut him off. "Probably don't know both sides of the story." 

"I know enough!" he shouted, using the last of energy to raise his voice and make a slight struggle to get out of his chair. He knew as well as I did he isn't going anywhere, but I guess he needed to show he still has fight in him. 

"I doubt you really know anything at all Daniel, which is what makes this all the more tragic. You look at my boss, and see an evil, manipulative, cold-hearted monster who has slaughtered thousands of people to ensure he has a safe haven and iron fist over this country." The look in his eyes told me I was bang on the money. 

He looked me up and down, sneering. "And what do you see when you look at him, Vincent?" 

I stood up and kicked the chair away, slowly walking towards him. He didn’t look away from my hard stare, hell he didn’t even blink. 

"I see the same as you, Daniel." 

Little did he know that when I look in the mirror every morning, I see everything I just described also. 

"I told you I was going to do you a favor, Daniel. Say hello to the others for me." 

He shot me a sharp look of confusion, his face becoming twisted. 

"Any last words?" I asked, staring him the eyes. 

"What...?" 

Daniel uttered the last and final word he will ever speak on this planet, as I snapped his neck. It was painless, and was short... but it was anything but sweet. His body went limp in an instant. 

It was better this way, I told myself. I spared the kid months, maybe even years of torture. 

This would have been day forty-five. 

On this day, I killed someone.

#

I open my eyes, and whisper quietly to myself, "One day." 

It has been one day since I have killed anybody. 

I look around. Same place, same time. 

I drag myself out of bed and walk into the bathroom. I peer into the mirror, and that cold, distant look is still there. So are the bags under my eyes. 

Unsurprisingly, I didn't sleep well last night. 

I walk into the living room and march over to my notepad on the work desk. I glance down, and I feel sad. 

I see the pencil marks at the top of the page, forty-five to be exact. They're arranged in groups of five, four lines downwards and one across the four to signify five, just like they were written in the days of Rome. 

Before I dwell on it any longer, I tear the sheet out of the pad and throw it in the bin. It's useless to me now. 

Today would have been day forty-six. 

I pick up the pencil, and the sadness inside me continues to grow. I almost feel overcome with emotion as I draw one small line downward at the top of the page.

"One day", I murmur to myself. 

I killed someone yesterday. 

Maybe I won't kill someone today. Maybe I won't kill someone tomorrow. 

But maybe I will. 

As I go through my morning routine, I find myself praying again. Praying that perhaps today will be the beginning of the end... though deep down in my heart, I know that this is merely the end of the beginning.

END