Mr. Composure

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The night swallowed me. I had the impression of being enveloped in a dusky shroud protecting me from any beasts which might prowl the darkness. The lights along this road weren't working. After so long there were still some utilities which needed repair and street lighting was low on the list of necessities. After all, you were now safe walking the streets, weren't you? The only light came from the houses which watched me pass. I could feel their eyes on me as I walked. Scrutinising. Judging. The residents were watching TV behind closed curtains or making love or arguing.

Or plotting what they were going to do the day after tomorrow.

Judge me, then. I was doing what must be done. I was avenging in a world were vengeance had taken a holiday, being pushed into the plane trip and ocean view hotel room by the dawning light of a safer, happier new era. Vengeance had been purged.

Well. Almost.

As the adrenaline from my escape faded, seeping from my fingertips like stardust from a meteor which had hurtled through the sky, only to burn up with the Earth just within its grasp, a pain in my right shoulder increased. I tried to ignore it at first, thinking I'd probably banged myself during my flight, but it quickly intensified until it felt like my entire upper right side was aflame.

I began to limp, not because there was any similar pain in my legs, but because the fire in my shoulder was burning down my side. Finally, I stopped. I put my hand to my shoulder and felt a wetness. Pulling my hand away, I could see a dark stain on my palm. I moved closer into the light from the nearest house.

Blood.

The gun hadn't missed. Not entirely. Whilst the wall had taken the brunt of the shot, some of the pellets must have hit me.

I'd been shot. Me. Without trying to, Mr. Composure had managed to do the same to me as he'd done to my parents. Again, almost. I was still alive – though for how long I didn't know.

No. If I was going to die, I wouldn't have been able to run as I had. I wouldn't be still walking, though I felt I might faint at any moment. I'd been wounded. Nothing more. I blinked back tears and breathed in a long breath of resolve. Turn it around. Use it against him. Beat it.

Beat him.

I walked, as best I could, back to the corner. I put my hand back to my shoulder, digging my finger into a hole which, only a few moments before, hadn't been there. I clenched my teeth to stop my whimper becoming anything more, then fell to my knees, planting my hand firmly against the pathway. It was a sign.

This way.

I turned and started my way home – the home I'd made next door to Frank and Wendy. I stopped every few yards and left another mark. Sometimes a footprint, smearing the blood on my sole. Sometimes a few drips. I couldn't remember how much blood was in the human body. I hoped there'd be enough to both get me home and to leave a trail of breadcrumbs much like those I'd seen at a house I'd visited once.

The journey home was long. Much longer than it would have been any other time. Many times I had to stop, panting and unsteady. At least twice I found myself face down in the street. But I managed it. As the sun rose and the birds greeted me back – with a song I finally appreciated – I staggered through my front door.

I'd let the flow of blood slow as I neared my house, using what coated my hands to paint the trail. Once inside, I did the best I could to dress the wound as I'd read in my books, took more painkillers than I should have and collapsed, exhausted, on the living room sofa.

When I awoke again it was late afternoon. I could hear activity from outside and crawled to the window. People, neighbours I knew but didn't really, were readying their homes for the Purge. They were excited, a nervous anticipation. I saw them chatting whilst loading guns and pulling down barriers. I saw them being friendly with the very people they could be planning to kill or thinking they might need to protect themselves against.