Saturday, November 24th, 1934. The air was exceptionally crisp in the early morning of another winter without snow. On this day, the illusion of change in seasons had manifested ironically, to which I wasn't sure whether to embrace or begrudge.
On top of the steps at the church on Main Street, I stood still and admired the tall, solemn set of wooden doors. Gradually looking back to level, I lowered my eyes and pushed open the doors. That Saturday was affiliated with nothing divine and everything sinful. I walked down the aisle in the green dress I wore when I married in 1925. I didn't have a chance to make my passage back then. At the end of that aisle, in front of the altar, was the same man in his best suit, with his dark blonde hair carefully combed and hands behind his back. The sound of my heels hitting the floor drew his attention. A smile blossomed on his finely aged face, and he extended his hand to me.
In a sorrowful blankness, I took his hand and stood opposite him. Without asking, he gently held my other hand in his.
"I knew I'd find you here," I said as I stared into the void of his eyes. "Sundays are for the faithful ones, and Sat…."
"Saturdays are for the wicked," he finished my sentence. "You still remember."
"It's hard to forget when I was told enough times," I let a faint smirk linger on the corners of my mouth.
Neil Ferguson laughed. He never laughed. Not even out of taunt. It was always a smile, a sneer, or a scorn. But never a laugh. Laughing was an emotion that reached beyond his comprehension. He was soft-spoken, and a soft-spoken academic like him could only smile.
"Didn't I tell you?" I mocked. "You can't leave the county. You're trapped."
"You aren't the same as I remembered," he ignored my banter and squeezed my hands. Squinting, he said contemptuously: "Have I told you so already? Murphy drained the life out of you and stuffed your soul with hay. Pity, you used to be a chirpy, sympathetic, and sensitive darling with all the emotions."
"Whatever you're trying to accomplish here isn't going to happen," I refused to react how he wanted me to. "Like what I've also told you the last time, you can't manipulate me anymore, Neil."
"How harsh," he pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. "For old times' sake, Annie, will you be nice?"
"You can't be serious," I snickered. "What's next? Are you going to ask me to let you walk free?"
He tilted his head, untroubled: "Now, dear, you're here to kill me, aren't you? If I were to guess, De Rossi and his men are outside the door, ready to come in as witnesses. Kindly ask them to come in, please."
For a few seconds, I was silent, wondering what his plan was. He sounded confident, too confident. Any confidence from him could mean imminent danger, or he was putting on an act to deter the fading commitment left in me. Regardless, I wasn't with many choices. Clearing my throat, I called in the guns-drawn Italians inside. De Rossi walked ahead and pushed up his spectacles in amusement. To him, I was part of a show where one of the two old star-crossed lovers was doomed to die, and the other was condemned to eternal hell. Sitting down in the first row and disregarding the concerns from his men, De Rossi took off his fedora and crossed his legs.
"Will you beg for mercy?" My hands were still in his. His palms were warm, and my fingertips were icy. It was a re-enactment of that day in 1925.
"Do you dare to pull the trigger?" He said with a tantalizing smile. The same smile he had whenever he felt he had control over any decisions I was to make.
I hated that fucking smile.
Shaking my head with a scoff, I slipped my hands out of his loosened grip and stepped back. Taking out the pistol secured in the holster tied around my thigh, I cocked my faithful companion and pointed at the center between his eyebrows.
"What makes you think I don't?" I said quietly. My hand and arm were steady.