DEATH'S HEART

Chapter 2

6:14AM, WELLINGTON ST. BUS STATION, PERTH, WESTERN AUSTRALIA

It was the lowest temperature ever recorded. -0.9°C and he was shivering. He was snuggled in a thick, grey jacket, soiled by grease and mud. His faded cargo pants had the same stains and little splatters of two-day old blood spots that seeped through from his knees. He had a bad fall on the rough concrete when he decided to jump off the roof of an unsuspecting Honda CRV. It was a funny sight for me but definitely not for the owner who was swearing his head off for this sick man to get off his immaculately white, brand new car. Ah! The passion and care these humans invest in their material pride never fails to astound me. Interesting how intensely it has evolved through time.

Kurt was without a care. The profanity did not affect him one bit for he was immune to it. The first words he heard when he was born were "Holy fucking mother of god!" when his worthless mother pushed him out. I bit my lip to restrain myself from a fit of laughter when I heard it. Oooh, I would have loved to see the reaction on the Creator's face right then. But then again, the Creator could be just as immune to the profanity as my dear Kurt. Every millisecond, there is at least a handful of humans out there, swearing and keeping God "involved". Times like these, I am happy to be myself. It is, after all, very rare for anyone, even myself, to hear, "For fucking Death's sake!" I do not think anyone has ever used my name in vain. What I do know is many people try to be me or wish to be me. "I swear to God, I'm gonna fucking kill you!" Awww! There was God again...And, sad as it is, there are many humans who act like me. Just like our dear Kurt here, who killed his darling girlfriend, April, in a drunken, high, jealous rage five years ago. Lucky bastard. No one knew and no one knows except for himself, myself and April.

I do not know whom I should feel sorry for. Should I have any pity for Kurt for being the low-life that he is? Living day by day with the crime he committed, no drug or alcohol can make him forget the guilt. Or do I feel sorry for April? Just like many victims, she got cheated out of life. It was not her time. To make things worse, her family and friends are unaware that she is dead. Their thoughts? She is still gallivanting around, indulging in her vices; thanks to her good-for-nothing boyfriend.

I watched the steam that blew out of Kurt's mouth like wisps of smoke. His shoulders were trembling in the biting cold. He glanced at the big, round clock that hung above the bus lane across from him. In his intoxicated state, he found the second hand ticking so slow as if it were in suspended animation. He licked and bit his lips in an attempt to moisten them. His own spit felt like acid to his cracked mouth. Nevertheless, it did soothe him somehow. Then he swallowed several times. He was starving and he attempted to soothe his hunger with his saliva as well.

"Stupid man," I thought as I continued to stare at him disdainfully.

Kurt has not eaten for four days. Yet, yesterday, he stole a watch from Dane.

Dane is a seventy-three-year old man. He came to the park where his carer would take him, along with the other old people from the aged care facility he resided in. He was seated on a wooden bench, watching the ducks that paddle in the murky, man-made pond. Dane's carer walked away to assist a colleague with the rest of their wards. That was an opportunity for Kurt to sit next to him.

"Beautiful day," Dane greeted him with a smile so pure that it was child-like. His wrinkled hand rested on a wooden cane. "I love the spring." It was actually winter. His fingers were calcified and they struggled to keep a grip on the cane. His skin was liverish. The plaid brown pants and oversized coat that he wore could not keep his frail bone structure a secret. One look, anyone could tell that he had a smorgasbord of ailments. It will not be long until I pay him a visit.