The words of Jack sent Micael aquiver as the gun metal thought of his sent a bullet straight to his chest, making it pound as hard as a propulsion of jets, but he never bothered; he trusted Jack more than he trusted himself. The whimper of the cold winds soon followed each of their eyes. The child was just sitting with his eyes focused into the apotheosis of the place of which they were incessantly situated at. Jack did, too but Micael.
He seemed perplexed by the touch of the winds' lips into the edge of his ears, and his eyes quickly scanned the side of the black sky sitting afar from him. He titled his head away from the fire of which they making suit of themselves around, and beyond the reach of his light spewing out elegantly from his eyes couldn't see anything but white; and so he never bothered and continued talking.
"What do you mean?" He asked abruptly, and then he heard the sound of jack's holster once more, but this time it was no swords or blades, but he heard the flick of Jack's hand and something was pointed unto himself, and it was Jack's very gun. "I'm sorry I am very need of doing this to you," Jack said with a melancholic voice behind his mask, of which he touched with his palm and got it rid inside his head. This time, Micael was ghost-quiet and stone-cold. The only thing that was moving all throughout Micael's head and body were blood and his intelligible heartbeat and a good mix of unwanted emotions driven by the stimulation of his eyes. Jack's face was concaved.
Very concaved.
The eyes were much close to non-existent and a line of scar was along his left eye down to his left cheek, which was straight but diagonal towards his mouth, and the other cheek was badly burned and flayed, and it looked like the flesh was carefully driven out of his face, little by little. His eyes still bled purple, but it was slowly turning to red, which signed Micael the he was happy, but for unknown reason. The child then transformed back into a crow, his bones crackled like biscuits and his flesh stretched back like burned rubber, and flew onto Jack's shoulder blade, and he uttered a sweet chirp of a hummingbird, which had sent another series of contraction inside Micael's head.
He wanted to move, but the despicable mouth of Jack's gun never told him to do so, and so he stayed abashed and aquiver. His hands and feet were badly handicapped, like slaves being told to just pick their respective cottons and getting killed beforehand. The crow chirp once more, this time louder. He could see the carcass turning into golden brown, but the situation never really changed. Micael's eyes were ablaze. Jack's gun much more.
"Is this what you've wanted from the very beginning? Use me to suffice your hunger and kill me beforehand?"
"No, Aleck. Killing you beforehand would have only made me much hungrier," spring-heeled Jack replied as his lips separate. His teeth were decaying like abscess and deteriorating like torn cabbages, but he then continued. His face resembled that of the concaved head of whom they both smashed like pumpkin until his soul came barging in to death's very room of purgatory, but then nothing had changed. Nothing did. The gun was still smiling towards his very eyes, and the finger of Jack was under its butt, and one flick would kill Micael, again. The child sounded another confusing chirp from his voice box, which was more far than just a crow. His wings were flapping like a psychedelic man, and with the spectrum swirling around his red-eyed vision.
It was deafening for Jack to hear such flaps closest to his ear, but Micael was more than just deafened. He could feel nothing about his skin and the winds had stopped whispering through his epidermis, which would have given him the sting. But his ears were the only thing that could feel the caress of the winds, the flaps, and Jack's silent think-abouts. The hairs on his body were like porcupines'. They were standing proud of fear and paradoxical curiosity of that fact that Jack, of he said was the chalice and home, had never shrugged his shoulders about pointing a gun unto him, let alone stabbing him to death, and then he replied quite unusual.
"And then what's with killing me, then?" Micael answered with a ferocious while his eyes were still into the gun's mouth.
"I have never killed you, my child. I have only kept you breathing," spring-heeled Jack had uttered, followed by the contraction of his finger, and there followed the wildest scream of his dear gun, a scream of which unfolded before Micael's very eyes, and his ears were never really able to hear the words coming from the gun's smirking mouth, as his had closed long before it even reached the dirtiest chamber of his mind and the quite delusional winds of the quite irrelevant world.
Jack put his gun back on his holster which hugged his waist, and Micael was gone like dust. It was like simply shooting into something much more than just a body and a mere illusion. His body quickly shapeshifted into a breathless, involunta-ry and independent particles of black dust, which first shaped like his body and then quickly disintegrated and dragged down by the invisible gravity after the bullet had reached its whereabouts. "How long?" asked the crow on his guard and then chirped loudly once more. His gun had rested, and soon Jack reached for his mask and placed it back onto his very concaved face, let alone abashed, and he was not shrieking at all. "Aleck will know, eventually," he replied with the most diminishing voice he had ever uttered, put the mask locked in his face with belts behind his skull, and moved on with it.
...