I opened the book to a random spot, my mother’s spidery script scrawling over the page.
And the devil would lay his hand upon his shoulder and take him to Hell, for the fires that awaited his return... and then, my son, my only, would be at home. For his eyes had always burned, and his skin had smelled of ashes, and in his reflection, the end of all days was shown. This is the prophecy the angels showed to me, my boy, my only, and it opened my eyes. For I lay with the beast, and his son I did birth. You will be all and nothing, the beginning and the end of this world. I’m sorry to the world for producing such a sin. I am damned for all time, as the mother of the Devil.
The writing was jumbled and nonsensical. It ran on and was hard to make out in places, and yet the gist remained the same.
My mother, my poor, hardworking, beaten-down, angelic mother, had lost her mind before her death and been sent away.
I traced my fingers over the words scribbled on the page, my mind drifting over my conversation with Katarina Dmitrova. I was clearly the subject written about on these pages. My mother’s devilish son. The boy with the soulless eyes and the hellfire smell.
If my mother thought it, wasn’t it true? She’d called me a devil first, and now that little stray, Katarina Dmitrova, with her angelic sweetness and all-seeing gaze, saw it too.
I was a devil.
My reputation had only gotten worse once my mother died and I’d abandoned all hope. If I couldn’t beat back the darkness of the world, I’d join it.
No. I’d rule it... and Katarina saw me.
Mother, there’s someone else like you.
Fuck, what was I thinking? This fucked-up place was getting inside my head. I didn’t have time to get distracted. I had a job to do, and another lined up right after, and another after that. L’Ombra didn’t take vacations, and if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be here. I’d built a fearsome reputation with my skills and was paid well for my work. I killed. I hunted. I earned my money, and I paved my path to hell. One day I’d get there. Probably in the not-too-distant future.
Fine by me. I wasn’t entirely convinced I wasn’t there already.
I had one thing to do before I went, and I was getting closer and closer to that goal every day. Then, I’d take my long-awaited vengeance: for me, and for my mother and the life that had been stolen from us... and bathe in the blood of those who had crossed us. The people who’d taken her from me. They would wish for the sweet release of hell by the time I was done with them. Slowly, I inched closer to them, my anticipation growing day by day.
How nice to have something to look forward to.
That night,I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, smoking silently, dragging the poison into my veins as deeply as I could. My mindkept returning to Katarina, and then my mother after her. They had Katarina on a powerful mix of drugs that, as far as I knew, should only be used for the treatment of Parkinson’s disease. My mother had briefly been on the same ones before she’d been sent away.
Don’t get involved.
A quick search revealed that that exact combination administered incorrectly could produce all sorts of psychosis symptoms, including auditory hallucinations. How long had Katarina Dmitrova been taking those drugs? As long as she’d been hearing her voices? Who’d been slipping them to her before she’d even arrived here?
Don’t get involved.
I couldn’t save Katarina even if she wanted me to. I couldn’t save anyone, not even myself. I destroyed everything I touched.
I stubbed out my cigarette and turned on my side. A roughly hewn cross was nailed to the wall. It looked just like the one that my first boss had hung over the old TV in his café, the one the whole neighborhood would gather around to watch football on. His altar of choice.
Old Ricardo had been the last well-meaning adult to give my teenage self a lifeline... one that I’d promptly dropped. A man like him hadn’t deserved to be associated with someone like me.
Midnight,and I finally finished at the bar where I worked after school every day, or sometimes during if they needed cover.
“Here, take this home with you.” Old Ricardo, the owner, pressed a box full of leftover pastries and paninis into my hands.
“No need,” I muttered, and pushed it away.
Ricardo sighed. “Well, then, it goes to the cats,” he grumbled, opening the box and laying it on the wall outside the bar.
“They need it more.”
I watched as the usual little gaggle of strays made their way eagerly toward the box. Ricardo was softhearted with the animals around this part of town. The weekend would see him setting down bowls of leftover pasta for whichever animals were brave enough to try his wife’s cooking.
“No they don’t, and we both know it.” Ricardo salvaged a panino and wrapped it in a napkin, then tucked it into my pocket—and I let him, because he was right. It just stung to have to take food out of needy animals’ mouths. In the end, I was a stray, just like them.
I shook a cigarette out and lit up, taking a long inhale.
Ricardo locked up the bar and leaned against the wall next to me.