"I don't believe there is anything more painful than this: that my life, my existence, doesn't matter to anyone in the whole world."
Naruto
TW: Description of Death
1 | A N D R E W
Someone is going to die today...
The faint veils of twilight are reflected in Andrew's bug-black eyes, bothered by the cigarette smoke, but he doesn't pay too much attention to it.
March has reached the critical freezing point; the frost embraces the drowsy petunias stretching in front of the terrace, and the sun, hiding behind a tall concrete building, scatters its light.
Andrew's sigh rises like steam, merging with the rosy-colored clouds. He casually flicks the cigarette from his fingers, and it falls to the ground, leaving a trail of ashes.
The house is dilapidated and dull, at least according to him.
The walls are crumbling, glass shards are scattered beneath the windows, and mold has taken over inside, but one can still stand on the veranda in one piece.
This is the perfect place for a murder, a location for a cheesy horror film, or for making illegal deals.
Finally, the guy appears.
Not too tall, his left hand resting in his pocket while he adjusts his slicked-back black hair with the other, wearing a leather jacket, a white T-shirt, black jeans, and designer sneakers. You'd never think he's a dealer.
How many people walked past Jeffrey Dahmer, thinking he was just an ordinary guy?
Beetle is practically a kid, given a cheap label instead of the iconic nicknames in Glass Tiger. His father kicked him out of the house, and his mother buys drugs from him, so he has quite a pathetic history.
"Willkommen, Bruder," Andrew greets him in German. It's a tried-and-true method, just like Jeffrey Dahmer's use of benzodiazepines. "The usual?"
"The usual," Andrew nods as he hands over the money. "How much is available today?"
"Twenty? Who the hell counts. It's pointless to count junkies; they're not chickens headed to the slaughterhouse... The latter is important, and junkies are no one's concern. If they were, they wouldn't be addicts."
Andrew has always liked Beetle's straightforward and raw style, but that's precisely what keeps him alive, saving him from madness. For now.
"Here you go, I don't have a scale, but I swear it's all there, may my mother drop dead!" He grins, his front tooth half broken, and the dark streak under his eye just proves he hasn't had a moment's rest.
"Alright, I believe you."
"Same time tomorrow at three?"
"Same time tomorrow at three," Andrew agrees as he stashes the contents of the bag.
"It's a deal, Vincent."
A sudden, brisk wind picks up, sweeping through the two figures, playing with Andrew's windbreaker and Beetle's hair, shaking the natural world.
The cawing of crows sitting on the power line startles them because of the sound of the gunshot, and they fly away, cawing.
The wind subsides.
Beetle's body trembles; Andrew looks into his eyes, coughing up blood, staining his white shirt with his own blood. Motionless, silently, he falls to the ground, like a dried autumn leaf.
Andrew' exhale in the quiet, deserted place seems to echo as he gazes at Beetle's lifeless body, a kind of tranquility washing over him.
There's no more gunfire, just silence, stillness, and death.
"Next time, write on time. I canceled the date with my girl," Ruslan grumbles as he casually descends from the dense canopy of the maple tree.
"You didn't die, I think."
"Sorry, I had a cramp."
With his red-dyed semi-long hair and his muscular, chiseled body, Ruslan looks like an Italian sports car, but if you look into his eyes, you realize he's just a beat-up bicycle that's won many races in life.
Two years ago, he was fired from his job due to his alcoholism, and today, he's quit his addiction and found a new hobby, murder. He works as a contract killer, although the funny thing is that he's a believer.
If you ask him why he chose this profession, considering he has to pay for it, he always whispers the same answer, word for word: "I only kill bad people; I save the world, just like Superman and these guys."
"Okay, why did I have to kill him?" Ruslan asks as he takes out a cheap notepad. He always writes down the names of the people he's killed and why he had to kill them. Andrew is sure he does it to seek forgiveness from God.
"Treason," Andrew replies succinctly, staring at the lifeless body. Beetle's eyes are open, his lips part, and his body is sprawled out like Jesus on the cross. Goosebumps run down his body as he contemplates how similar these two images are.
"You?"
"Me."
Ruslan's loud surprise prompts Andrew to look at the man.
"Vincent, you're like the John Wick, but you got betrayed?"
"Fortune favors the brave."
"Yet we know that God does not hear sinners; but if anyone is a worshiper of God and does His will, He hears him." With the quote's completion, he jots something down in his notebook. "Well, I guess he deserved to die." He nods in agreement, then slips the leather-bound journal back into his pocket.
Ruslan is about to head to his favorite coffee shop, where he would wait for further calls while sitting beside his favorite espresso, but Andrew opens his mouth to speak.
"Why do you believe in God so much?"
Ruslan's footsteps grow faint, then disappear. There is a long silence between the two, followed by loud laughter.
"I'm scared. I'm afraid that at the end of my life, there won't be anyone I can trust. He may not answer my prayers, but I know He listens. It may sound like nonsense, but it's true. I feel safe with this knowledge... I have someone to live and die for. I think that's it."
"I understand," Andrew says after a while.
"He was still quite young," Ruslan looks down at Beetle. "Oh, and his bracelet is an inverted cross..."
"It's a nice piece."
"Yeah, too bad the meaning hit me like two crates of energy drinks..."
Andrew smiles and watches Ruslan walk away, leaving him alone with Bütyök.
Just him and a corpse.
A corpse with an inverted cross necklace.
Somehow, it's all so idyllic.
He feels no guilt. He hopes it doesn't exclude him from having a rightful place in Heaven.
---
On the way home, only one sentence keeps repeating in his mind...
Beetle betrayed him.
That's why he had to pay.
He believes in God, but does God believe in him just as much?
Or perhaps He is a traitor too?
Suddenly, he stops.
He clings to a wire-fenced fence, the darkness spreads out before his eyes, and the early morning sunlight, the sidewalk lined with flowers, and the street's early morning noise disappear.
Yeah, probably God is a traitor...
Andrew slowly opens his eyes, as his field of vision clears, his heart pounds loudly.
What happened?
Why is he here now?
The street noise harshly penetrates his ears, the pale March light seeps into his retinas, his nerves in the stomach do the tango, which were sitting so quietly until now... He lets out a deep sigh, trying to collect his thoughts, but he only manages to remember that he was sitting in the kitchen.
In the kitchen... In that damn kitchen, but now he's standing outside not far from his house, and he feels like shit.
Remember... Remember!
But nothing.
Not a single stray thought sparks his mental warehouse of possibilities; nothing lights up the darkness to clarify what happened.
*
The phrase 'home sweet home' fits Andrew's vocabulary the least.
The walls are crumbling.
The red color has faded.
The couch is old and dirty.
And the lamp doesn't light up and never will. Let the debts burn!
Yet, this is the only place that feels familiar in the unknown to Andrew.
The creaking of the door is only heard when he steps over the threshold. Then there is silence. He can only hear the blood rushing in his ears. His hand trembles on the doorknob, a lump has settled in his throat, and his head is filled with questions.
Has he arrived yet?
Is he late?
The key is on the table, so he must have just arrived... or maybe he didn't even leave?
Why is it so annoyingly quiet?
He slowly closes the door, but it still squeaks. What if he's sleeping? Damn it, it will be the door's fault if he wakes him up.
"Andy!"
Damn it...
He slowly turns his head, not wanting to look into the eyes that resemble his mother's too much.
Sam stands between the bathroom and the kitchen, leaning against the wall. His black tank top bears the emblem of a band, his disheveled black hair falls over his shoulders, and his arms are covered in bruises from yesterday's brawl. He came out as the winner. Obviously.
He's trembling, beads of sweat run down his forehead. Every breath he takes is laborious. The sun barely penetrates the blinds but casts its light, allowing Andrew to focus on Igor's brown eyes in the darkness. The gleam in Sam's eyes looks like the barrel of a gun in the dark. Sharp. Intimidating. Every time they stand facing each other like this, he realizes that his brother will never be healed.
Because...
Addicts are the greatest lovers.
"Did you bring it?"
Brought what?
"I..."
"I asked you if you brought it," he raises his voice suddenly, moving towards Andrew, who is pushed against the wall. Although he tries to blend into the wall, this plan fails as strong fingers grip his throat, his back sliding against the wall as Igor lifts him. He can see the muscles on his brother's shoulders, the faint scars on his protruding collarbones, and the blue-green bruises on his elbows from constant needle pricks.
"Sam, please..."
"Shut up!" His whole body trembles from the yelling. This entire scene is etched in his mind, every word and every movement. It is always the most painful and memorable blow that comes from the one you'd expect love from.
The grip gets stronger, Andrew tries to gasp for air, but not a single breath reaches him. The world dances before his eyes, every frame distorts into pixels.
Suddenly, the trembling, the weak attempts cease. He only hears the soft heartbeat constantly.
Is he going to die now?
The grip loosens, he falls off the wall, gasping for air, trying to alleviate the squeezing feeling in his chest with coughing.
He can only hear Igor rummaging... He took something out of his pocket.
So he went for the drugs.
But damn, why doesn't he remember? Did he even bring what he asked for?
"Listen up!" Igor grabs his hair, forcing him to look into his eyes. He's afraid of his eyes. "If you don't show up at the bar at six today, I'll beat you until you can't move, got it?" His voice keeps rising in pitch as he speaks, gradually quieting down by the end of the sentence. "I asked if it's clear?" He gives Andrew a strong shake, and he nods, biting his lower lip, blood trickling from it.
"Agreed."
Sam steps away, and there's the scent of strong deodorant. Then, all he hears is the creaking of the door and the sound of the lock clicking.
Silence.
Once again, there is silence.