Chapter 21
John observes me, pondering my meaning.
“You’re talking by figures of speech”, he says after a pause
“No, I am truthfully describing the facts. When I saw Nick Lavigne gripping onto the light poles as if that was his last hope in life, screaming out his tears in the deserted street, I took his hands off the pole and said, ‘hey, its alright’, and then I hugged him”, I remember
“You really did that?”, John wants to know
“Yes I did”
“And you weren’t scared that the man was a psycho?”, John asks, astonished
“I was sure he was a psycho as much as I was sure that he wouldn’t hurt me”, I reply calmly
“How did Nick Lavigne react?”, John wants to know
“He pushed me back so violently that I almost fell to the ground. He yelled, LEAVE!, told me I knew nothing about him, and that he was worth nothing. Then he started sobbing so hard he could barely stand, and came towards me, teetering. He collapsed on me, holding onto my body as he had done with the pole. Help me, please help me, he begged, his voice hoarse and broken by the tears. Time stretched as I let him pour his pain on me, my body shaking against the convulsions of his”, I remember
John drinks in my words. He has gotten closer, as if his thirst for my words could be quenched by physical proximity.
I take a sip from my glass, and continue my account a split second before John asks.
“When I felt Nick could manage to walk I took him by the hand and walked him to my flat. He let me guide him, without asking where we were heading. He was a broken man with no will. When we reached the rental place where I was staying I removed his shoes and guided him to the couch, brought him a glass of water”, I say
And here I stopped.
“Don’t stop now”, John urges me
“I won’t”, I reply calmly
“What happened?”, John insists
“What happened?, I asked Nick after letting him settle for a moment. I am a professional killer and I’ve killed the man I loved, he said. Tell me about him, I said, and he did. He told me the whole story, the names and all, without omitting any detail”
John looks at me intensely, as to penetrate the deepest meaning of my words.
“This cannot be true”, he says at last, bugging his eyes
“Nick told me the whole story without pausing, his eyes dry now, the pain turned into numbness. When he finished the story he collapsed his head backwards, eyes closed. You don’t believe me, do you?, he asked me, eyes still unopened. I said I did”
John wavers between faith and disbelief.
“Then he opened his eyes and pulled out a gun”, I say
John’s body oscillates slightly, before leaning an inch closer to me
“Thank you for being my confessor in this last hour, he said, placing the gun in his mouth. I was sitting very close to him. It is strange how I felt no fear, just a sense of waste as I pictured the remnants of this man scattered on my walls, on my couch, on me. I asked Nick if he was sure this is the last thing he wanted to do. He took the gun out of his mouth, slowly, and looked at me”
“He looked at you, waiting for your words”, John smiles
“No, for his own intentions mirrored on me. I was the one waiting for his words”, I reply
John smile fades on his lips
“What did he tell you?”, he wants to know
“Rick Hanson will die”