The Devil of Whitechapel (Under Editing)

iv-i. Ezra

ACT IV: ENDGAME

"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you."

-Friedrich Nietzsche

Ezra walked back home in a daze. He was fairly certain he had a concussion from how hard he'd hit his head on that wall: the entire world felt like it was tipping to one side, and his head was pounding where it had collided with the wall. Every once and awhile, he would put one hand on the back of his head to see if he was still bleeding. At about the point he reached Aldgate, he noticed that he no longer was: his hair was now just a horrible, matted mess. He would have to wash it when he got home, and that was something he wasn't looking forward to. It would hurt, he knew. And he knew full well that Vera would tell him that he was being a baby every time he winced and cursed as he cleaned out that wound. He didn't want any of that: all he wanted at that point was to go to bed and wake up with everything back to normal.

It would not.

He knew that there was something wrong from the moment he got back to the house and saw that the front door was ajar, while all the lights in the house were out.

He stopped, frowning. That wasn't like Vera: she never kept the front door unlocked, let alone, wide open.

Ezra walked slowly into the house, one hand resting on the butt of his gun. The house was still; too still. And there was something spilled on the carpet, something red. It was either wine, or...

Blood.

Ezra looked around, frantic. "Vera? Tristan? Verity?"

He walked through the parlor and to the kitchen, hoping - praying - that he'd be able to find them.

Please, God: please, God, let them be alright!

Finally, as he walked into the hallway where his study was, he heard a small whimper coming from his study.

Ezra ran into the room without so much as a second thought-

And froze.

Tristan was in his study, laying on the ground in the fetal position. In a pool of blood. With his arms wrapped around his stomach.

No, Ezra thought as he rushed to his son's side. No. Please, God, no!

He put a hand on Tristan's shoulder.

Tristan yelped and flinched. And then, he curled around his stomach a little tighter.

"Dad?" Tristan's voice was weak, and quiet enough that Ezra could hardly hear him.

Ezra tried to push his emotions down. He couldn't afford to let them get the better of him: the second he did, he would start to panic, and Tristan... he might not make it.

"Be still," Ezra said as he gently got his son to roll onto his back. When he saw the wound to his son's stomach, he knew immediately what it was: a bullet wound, one not unlike the wound Haytham had just given John an hour before.

Ezra could feel the bile starting to rise in his throat. "Tristan, what happened? Who did this to you?"

Tristan's eyes began to well up with tears, as if he were just beginning to remember what had happened. "Mom and Verity... are they okay?"

"I don't know," Ezra said. "Where are they?"

Tristan squeezed his eyes shut tightly. "I tried, dad... I really tried. I told them to go upstairs, and I tried to stop them, but I just..."