I stood on one side of the road: a shadow within the night sky, a still figure of black and grey, a gentlemanly scholar at the mercy of winter wind and December rain. To my side, shedding pitiful glimmers of light unto the desolate streets below, a flickering lamp post stood tall and foreboding — a hearkening of what’s to come.
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And though the orange glow somewhat warmed me, the ground saw no shadow.
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From winding streets far and beyond came the screeching of rubber, and the cackling of crows; I made no attempt to intervene — it was fate, and one way or another, fate shall have its winnings. It would prove pointless to negotiate stakes.
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The screeching drew closer, and so did the pitter-patter- of naked feet against the cracked stone sidewalks.
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8:14 — punctual as ever.
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“Quite the weather we’re having.”
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I turned to face her ever so slowly, a grim simper spread from ear to ear; there was no attempt to stifle the tears — rain alone had sufficed.
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Lemon yellow stained her apron, while cuts and bruises tattooed themselves unto her every finger. A simple server, I assumed, or perhaps a somewhat careless chef. A ribbon of red and white around her head suggested the latter. “Yes, indeed, quite the weather.”
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“Not many people around.”
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“No, not at all.”
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“But you’re here.”
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“It would appear so.”
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“Waiting for someone?”
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“I suppose.”
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“You’re not much of a talker, are you?”
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“Nothing wrong with a little quiet, no?”
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Her feet hit the pavement with a splash; not once did she bother glancing over the shining red that burned through the night sky like a flame in the flood.
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8:15 — just like clockwork.
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I tried to warn her — many times. “The light’s red, darling.”
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And still, she persisted — as many had. “Relax, there’s not a car for miles!”
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Her bare feet slid against the road, twisted, and tripped. In the fleeting moments to come, she found herself lying face-down on the asphalt, dazed.
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As for myself, I was nothing short of aggrieved. Had there been time — had I done more — perhaps there would be a sliver of chance.
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But not today.
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Today, fate hungers.
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Bright, orange headlights set the night ablaze; a nearby icon of road-side safety waved to no avail.
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8:16 — not a second late.
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Pity.
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The screeching of tires and roaring of engine came to an abrupt halt, replaced, almost completely, by a cacophony of shattered parts.
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The girl, stumped as ever to find herself unharmed, rose gingerly to her feet. I was by her side in an instance, offering what little comfort I could. “You alright, miss?”
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She had neither words nor expression — only bewilderment.
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“The car. . .”
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“Yes.”
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“I didn’t. . .”
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“Mhmm. . .”
“It just. . .”
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“I saw.”
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She stared long and hard, the pigmented freckles of her face set alight by the sidewalk lamp. “What''s. . . What''s your name, mister?”
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The words tripped over one another.
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“Death. Gentleman Death, at your service.”