My story begins with my death. It begins with my rebirth.
And it begins with the death of the woman I love.
There is something wrong when I open my eyes. I am laying on the floor, on my side, staring at the stumpy legs of my black leather sofa. I am surrounded by the sounds of pain, and my brain pierces my immediate confusion and recognizes the source: my wife, Andrea.
I try and lift my head but the world tilts and I am so weak that the muscles in my neck seem to fail me.
"Please, help me!"
I hear the pain in her voice. She is somewhere near the kitchen of our apartment, which seems fitting as I can also hear what seems to be someone slurping at their food, the noise like someone slurping soup off of a spoon, interrupted here and there with a low growl. The growl triggers a response from Andrea, her cries heightened by the noise. I want desperately to help her but I am overcome with paralysis. The last sound I hear as the darkness at the edges of my vision closes in is the desperate plea of the woman I love more than life itself.
"Please, not like this. Not like this."
And then darkness embraces me and I never hear her voice , other than in my dreams again.
I open my eyes again and I am sitting on my sofa, my legs outstretched, my hands resting on my thighs, my chin resting on my chest. I am still too week to lift my head, but I watch my fingers twitch on my left hand, and I can feel a cool wetness over the left side of my chest. I move my eyes and see dark blood against my grey shirt. My blood.
I am aware suddenly of the shifting of a pair of feet in front of me. Someone is sitting on the chair across from me, their shoes glistening in the lamplight, polished to perfection. Black socks cover thin ankles and disappear under black trousers.They cross slowly as I lift my eyes, moving up the thin body, over a blood stained white shirt.
I recognize him instantly, and yet there is something wrong with his face, some disfigurement that seems to accentuate, brutally, his cheekbones, giving him an almost feline look. His nose too, seems blunter somehow, turned upwards in a way that reminds me oddly of a bat. His eyes, through my blurring vision, seem to glow in the lamp light, like those of an animal caught in headlights.But then, my vision must be clearing because the face seems to reform and suddenly I'm looking at the young man I know and hate.
David Saul is smiling, and there is blood around his mouth.
"Michael," he whispers, his smile widening. It is as if he savours my name on his tongue.
I am conscious of the silence in the room. I can't hear my wife any more. I open my mouth to call out, but all I hear is a low groan. This makes David chuckle. It stops abruptly and his face smooths. He tilts his head and studies me for a moment.
"I'm enjoying this," he says. "It's been a long time coming."
He stands, and walks towards the window. I still can't lift my head, nor follow him as he moves to the left of me, to look down over the city.
"For three generations our families have been at war, with neither side getting a clear advantage. Until now, that is, and let's face it, we have been royally kicking your arses recently. You've lost Karl Thomas, Nick Foster, Big Geoff Masters and your older brother, Danny, all in very mysterious circumstances. Your old man has been working overtime to find out what's happened to them, but he'll never find them, and others will follow. When I heard he'd asked for your help and that you agreed, I was very pleased. You see, you really are the best of them all, and finally
And it begins with the death of the woman I love.
There is something wrong when I open my eyes. I am laying on the floor, on my side, staring at the stumpy legs of my black leather sofa. I am surrounded by the sounds of pain, and my brain pierces my immediate confusion and recognizes the source: my wife, Andrea.
I try and lift my head but the world tilts and I am so weak that the muscles in my neck seem to fail me.
"Please, help me!"
I hear the pain in her voice. She is somewhere near the kitchen of our apartment, which seems fitting as I can also hear what seems to be someone slurping at their food, the noise like someone slurping soup off of a spoon, interrupted here and there with a low growl. The growl triggers a response from Andrea, her cries heightened by the noise. I want desperately to help her but I am overcome with paralysis. The last sound I hear as the darkness at the edges of my vision closes in is the desperate plea of the woman I love more than life itself.
"Please, not like this. Not like this."
And then darkness embraces me and I never hear her voice , other than in my dreams again.
I open my eyes again and I am sitting on my sofa, my legs outstretched, my hands resting on my thighs, my chin resting on my chest. I am still too week to lift my head, but I watch my fingers twitch on my left hand, and I can feel a cool wetness over the left side of my chest. I move my eyes and see dark blood against my grey shirt. My blood.
I am aware suddenly of the shifting of a pair of feet in front of me. Someone is sitting on the chair across from me, their shoes glistening in the lamplight, polished to perfection. Black socks cover thin ankles and disappear under black trousers.They cross slowly as I lift my eyes, moving up the thin body, over a blood stained white shirt.
I recognize him instantly, and yet there is something wrong with his face, some disfigurement that seems to accentuate, brutally, his cheekbones, giving him an almost feline look. His nose too, seems blunter somehow, turned upwards in a way that reminds me oddly of a bat. His eyes, through my blurring vision, seem to glow in the lamp light, like those of an animal caught in headlights.But then, my vision must be clearing because the face seems to reform and suddenly I'm looking at the young man I know and hate.
David Saul is smiling, and there is blood around his mouth.
"Michael," he whispers, his smile widening. It is as if he savours my name on his tongue.
I am conscious of the silence in the room. I can't hear my wife any more. I open my mouth to call out, but all I hear is a low groan. This makes David chuckle. It stops abruptly and his face smooths. He tilts his head and studies me for a moment.
"I'm enjoying this," he says. "It's been a long time coming."
He stands, and walks towards the window. I still can't lift my head, nor follow him as he moves to the left of me, to look down over the city.
"For three generations our families have been at war, with neither side getting a clear advantage. Until now, that is, and let's face it, we have been royally kicking your arses recently. You've lost Karl Thomas, Nick Foster, Big Geoff Masters and your older brother, Danny, all in very mysterious circumstances. Your old man has been working overtime to find out what's happened to them, but he'll never find them, and others will follow. When I heard he'd asked for your help and that you agreed, I was very pleased. You see, you really are the best of them all, and finally
