On his Death

Trigger warning: depictions of suicide

Gavel stood next to a crumpled corpse. Its head laying against a pool of blood, hair matted with its own gore. Its face a kaleidoscope of colors, white, red, blue, purple and yellow. Eyes gray like steel staring blankly at the starless sky. The dead lay on the dirt unworried, undisturbed, peaceful. It was a shame that he had to die like this, so easily. Gavel thought. Half of his body tilted on the other side. He looked like crumpled steel. Gavel gaze at the growling sky above him. The wind rustled on the trees like ghosts murmuring behind the darkness. He stared at the sky in disbelief. It was always like this. Every time he kills someone, it feels like the sky snarls in response. "Well, this is the last one, this sack of shit has already paid his debt." He muttered. He clutched his hand tightly around the shovel. Gavel felt his anger boiling in his chest. Damn, I wish this prick is still breathing, so I can hit his face even more. He thought. Gavel knew it was useless. He would just be creating more mess, that it would be more difficult for him to bury the body on the earth while raining. He dug the shovel more forcefully, summoning all the strength left in his body. Heavy rain sprayed on the earth mixing the blood in the slush of mud. Gavel cursed under his breath. He was too exhausted to deal with this nature shit. So, he tossed the shovel on the mud and decided to leave the body in the midst of the dark forest.

Gavel stumbled on a rounded table spattering his drink to a woman with painted face. Around him, heavy metal music blasted on the air rattling his ears and chest barely hearing the woman's frantic curses. Rainbows of lights flickered hastily on the bar causing Gavel's eyes to twitch. He staggered between a mass of crowds, pushing his way towards the exit. As he pulled open the door, a wave of nausea surged over him. He ducked on the ground leaning his hands on a tall railing while vomiting a sour bile. Above him, the sky was a color of coal. The stars gleamed brightly like flashes of fire, indifferent to his crimes. Gavel cackled while wiping his mouth with the hem of his coat. If it was his old self who committed a crime even an accidental one, he would have jumped on a hundred feet building without any hesitation or he would've gladly flown to amazon and feed his flesh to thousands of piranhas. But of course, he wouldn't do it now. Those fragments of his old self, his innocence, his kindness. It had all vanished, burnt within the very core of the earth. What he was now, is a different man. A man filled with emptiness, a man who nestled on the abyss of darkness. He leaned on the railing allowing his dizziness to ebb. For a second, he thought he saw a flicker of movement at the far end of the street. He scanned the street once more and saw a man in a leather coat standing behind a flickering lamp post, grinning widely in his direction. Gavel stood flabbergasted. His palms moist with cold sweat, his heart pulsing at a faster rate. No, it can't be. He-he's dead. He thought.

Gavel curled on the couch, yawning. Bottles of beers and sachets of chips scattered on the floor, while cockroaches feasted on the microscopic crumbs. Thin rays of light from the dusted window stretched across the barren floor of his room. As Gavel hoisted his back from the couch, a sour taste emerged in his mouth. He swallowed his own vomit as he brushed his palm to his forehead feeling the remnants of dizziness from the previous night. His shirt smelled like vinegar. He leaned his head on the couch. He could not remember how he got home. Gavel was far too drunk to recollect what happened. Was he arrested by the police for drunk driving? Certainly not because if he was, he would have wakened behind the bars. What if he accidentally admitted his crimes in front of the whole crowd on the bar last night? Gavel shook his head dismissively. It is one of his main problems when his drunk, he becomes unaware of his actions. As he emerged from his couch, he headed directly towards the bathroom, straightening his back as he staggered on the floor. He took a cold shower with his dirty clothes on. He was far too exhausted to strip. His limbs felt numb as if he has been carrying a pile of bricks. After a few minutes of bathing, he stood in front of a clouded mirror wiping his foamed chin with his old rusted shave. Gavel was once an attractive man. During his younger years, ladies would often swoon over his presence and flatter him with compliments of his chiseled jawline and intense blue eyes. Looking at himself now, Gavel couldn't help but feel a slight pang of disappointment. He was staring at a stranger, a ghostly bastard with a balding head and deep sunken eyes. The alluring intensity of his eyes was long gone, nor the fine structure of his jaw. He peered at his own reflection with disdain. Animosity has destroyed his life, even his features. He gripped the razor grudgingly ignoring the sharp pain in his palm. Blood trickled from his fingers red, vibrant like the color of a freshly bloomed rose. Gavel smiled. It was strange how anger gives us tolerance to pain, how anger causes us hunger for the sight of blood. Gavel thought. He licked his bloodied fingers tasting its salty metallic taste. It was the same scent and taste from the blood of those people whom he killed. Nothing remarkable was evident. After all, he was no different from those people, for he himself is a criminal.

The afternoon proceeded with a loud crashing sound from the matted sky. Alone in his cabin, Gavel sat beside his table staring at the faded images of a brown-haired boy on the wall. His thoughts wandering over the horrendous memories that remained tattooed on the labyrinth of his mind. He gazed at the pile of newspapers on the table. Its edges dented and crumpled from constant use. On the headline it said, MORGAN SMITH AGE 19, FOUND DEAD, read continuation at p.4. Gavel lifted the second newspaper. Headline reads... TIMOTHY SHELTON AND FRED LAUREL, PLEAD NOT GUILTY. The third newspaper said, ACCUSED OF MURDER OF MORGAN SMITH CHARGED WITH INVOLUNTARY MANSLAUGHTER SENTENCED TO PRISON FOR 7 YEARS. Gavel crumpled the last newspaper with his hand. Images of his son laying on the dirt, soaked in the blood remained painted in his head. The seven years of his waiting is done, the two all lay dead, rotting in the midst of the forest. Yet, Gavel could still feel his rage flowing in his veins. For the past two years, Gavel searched desperately for guilt hidden at the very core of his heart. But found none. The intense malice has blinded him with rage that even gallons of blood wouldn't be enough to satisfy his thirst for vengeance. His first kill had been the hardest, for a couple of hours he curled behind the trees clutching his hair while bellowing in rage. Blood painted on his sweat-stained skin. Gavel felt like a different form of specie; an alien who landed mistakably on the earth. An animal veiled in human flesh. Years of pain has altered him to the kind of person he deeply hates. He was no different from those savages who tore his son's flesh. He became a murderer, yet his only motive was justice.

On September third, Gavel commemorated the day of his son's death. He stood in the midst of the forest burning the rotten flesh of Timothy Shelton. It has been two days since Gavel killed him, and the stench of his crumpled flesh was already causing Gavel a wave of nausea. He tossed the body on the hearth and poured a half-gallon of gasoline causing the flames to grow. Worms scattered crawling on the earth, while some die almost immediately from the heat. Seeing a dead body coiled in the fire like a snake was never a pleasurable scene for Gavel, yet he felt a slight satisfaction lurking in his chest. The air smelled like wood and burnt old meat. Smoke filled the air like a thin morning fog, making Gavel's vision blurry. Timothy's bones made a soft crackling noise on the fire. His eyes burst on the flames sending a spray of slime in Gavel's face. Gavel shuddered in disgust. He cursed under his breath. "When will this shit stop to bother me." He muttered in contempt. He wiped the slime with his palm and washed his hand with a disinfectant. Gavel opened the bag beside him and pulled a dirty trouser, and a blood-stained shirt. It was the clothes he wore when he murdered Shelton. He tossed it to the fire and poured the remaining gasoline. He watched until the last peek of Timothy's flesh turned to ashes. It was a gruesome sight. A sight that will probably bring nightmares for the rest of Gavel's life. But he was not afraid of nightmares, for he had seen worst.

It was mid-afternoon when the fire began to cease. Gavel buried the burnt remains of Shelton at the steeper side of the forest. It was the safest place. Gavel reckoned. As he strolled towards the clearing, Gavel heard a soft rustle of leaves. He halted. Gavel could feel the rhythm of his chest. He heard it again. Gavel scanned his surroundings and thought that he saw a flicker of movements behind the bushes. He was being followed. Gavel searched for the source. But found none. It might just be his imagination. As he walked towards his house, he gave a last gaze to the forest. It was dark and cryptic, yet it has been Gavel's home for the last couple of years. It had provided him comfort, security, and even vengeance. He savored the fresh smell of the trees, and of the earth. Tomorrow, he won't be going back. Tomorrow he would become a changed man. He would live a new life. Away from all the murders, away from all those atrocious memories. He had attained the justice he once had so desperately desired. For the first time, Gavel felt his chest lighten. The deep wounds of his heart became scars. A remnant of his past. He smiled at the forest, for it had been his only friend.

Gavel woke up from a loud sirens sound outside his cabin. Despite the soft spray of rain, it was still terribly hot. Sweat trickled in his chest, his back and underneath his armpit. He squeezed his eyes a few times to clear his vision. A sudden thud emerges from his door. Gavel jumped. He leaned towards his window and saw three police cars parked behind his lawn. Gavel felt his heart hammered. He swallowed a lump in his throat and stumbled hastily towards the door of his bedroom. His neck ached from his sudden movement. A loud crashing sound emerged from his front door followed by a muffled sound by a, was that a woman? Floors creaked as they lurched towards the living room. No time, no time... Gavel gasped loudly. He peered at the window beside the stairs and saw that it was occupied by cops. He gulped. He needs to think, he cannot give up so easily. He was a man of justice; he killed those people for justice. He felt his hands trembled at the thought. He ran towards his room and immediately grabbed the 45-caliber pistol he used to crush Shelton and Laurel’s skull. A woman in blue uniform emerged from the door pointing a gun towards his direction. “Don’t move!” Gavel flinched, his sweat dripping like rain from his bare chest. “I said don’t fucking move!” “Drop your gun!” She commanded. Gavel stood stiffly, his feet planted on the floor. As he was about to give up, he thought he saw the image of Shelton slashing his son’s flesh to death. He stared at him with a sly smile, his eyes fixed on Gavel as gray as steel. Gavel felt his anger burned inside him like raging fires. Before he knew it, he sprang towards the woman and fired his 45-caliber pistol in the midst of her chest. She stumbled and fell directly to the floor. The sound of footsteps loudens behind the door. In the state of panic, Gavel jumped towards the window landing face-first on the mud. He spits the dirt from his mouth and struggled on his knees. Blood trickled in his nose as he tottered towards the woods. He jumped behind the fence and felt a sudden sharp pain in his shoulder. He tilted his head and saw a fountain of blood flowing down his fingers. He was shot, cops were now running towards him. He staggered between the woods, wincing with pain. For the first time, Gavel felt his tears streaked down his cheeks. A loud shot echoed from behind and Gavel plummeted to the earth. Gun rested under his bleeding hand while he crawled on the dirt gasping for breath. Someone yanked him in his back. Gavel curled from pain. He felt his lungs tightened. He tilted his head towards the darkest part of the forest. He saw his son looming behind the shadows of the tree, staring at him smiling. It was time. Gavel thought. With the last strength of his hand, Gavel pointed the gun in his head and pulled the trigger.