Christ heal your wounds

Steam had ceased to pour from the great pipe that lorded over the town's landscape. At the shrilling of the whistle which had dismissed the day laborers, the vapor had gradually weakened in its initiative to conquer the sky and had concluded its campaign as a skeleton of its former bulk. The one that the locals knew as "character" had placed his wet focus in the grim vault of the sky as the last whisp of white was assimilated into dark grey, then turned and hobbled down the concrete path into the village, blinking away the moisture that had collected in his ancient eyelashes. "Christ heal your wounds, Character." The youth had smirked as he passed, but he had received no reply from the old man, who only quickened his pace, puffing air from his nostrils and fixing his watery gaze on the ground a few feet ahead of him. This was the worst time of year, when the villagers could never fail to notice him as he made his way back to his den in the evenings. Once he had tried to avoid the main street, only to find himself being pelted with stones by the urchins that roamed the outer village in search of stray dogs. He clutched his motheaten coat to his sides with both arms, giving the appearance that he was hugging himself as he made haste down the brightly lit main street. "And a very merry Christ heal your wounds, Character!" a prostitute screamed after him, cackling at the sight of his back as he broke into a stiff-legged jog. The jeers multiplied as he ran, striking him from all directions as every inhabitant of the street took his turn attacking the bundled figure. Endless cries of "Christ heal your wounds, Character!" and "Thank goodness he's still dead, Character!" mingled in his skull and shredded at his nerves as acid pumped into his legs and forced him to slow to a stiff walk through the gauntlet of diatribes. Only a handful of the village elders had been present at the inn on the night that the Character had fallen from grace, but the story of what had taken place had been related so universally and with such vitriol as to mark him for ridicule for the rest of his life. What had initially been a reaction of shock had metamorphosed into fear and then contempt, as the words sown by the elders had taken root in the fertile soil of the children's minds and grown blossoms of hatred. Over the years it had become impossible to discern these flowers from their seeds, as even the elders could produce no distinction from the creeping fog of their minds. A child now planted himself in the path and entwined himself in the man's decrepit legs, causing him to stumble and fall to pavement. The child disappeared as the Character tried to raise himself to his feet and fell again to the pavement. As he struggled, three gangly adolescents in matching blue coats rose behind him and hoisted him by his arms, supporting him for the last few steps to his door and propping him up in the entryway. The taller of the boys drew a handgun from his coat and levelled it at the man whose eyes now blurred with moisture. The boy waited until the Character's heartbeats doubled their rate, then let the hammer click on the firing pin. "Merry Christmas, Character." The boys smirked and vanished into the twisting streets, leaving the old man to stare into the distance.


Copyright 2007, Gabriel S. New, $ilky $mooth $tories, www.gabrielsnew.tk