Emmet's Leave

“What am I worth to you, Mitzi?” Emmet said with the worst tone in his voice, that of pain, misery, hate and anger mixed into a vocalized cocktail. I stood there with the weight of my body’s spiteful air against him, wanting to say something that just wouldn’t spill out of my mouth. These lips of mine have been able to articulate such intricate and amazing lies before, but why couldn’t they serve their purpose now?

            “Your mouth is good for nothing other than for getting fucked.” Emmet barked.

            “Why are you doing this?” I replied to him. I had no better retort.

            “It’s because I know that you don’t love me anymore.”

            “Don’t say that; I do. I really, honestly do.”

            “Then why don’t you say it more often? Or even show it?” His voice always managed to stay below a certain threshold of volume. It always sounded calm and collected, never really showing any emotions at all, only letting through small bits and pieces of those claimed emotions. His words almost always sounded scripted, as if he somehow managed to plan out conversations far in advance. This was one of his talents. Among cheating, lying, stealing, killing, bribing, and shooting, eloquent speech was one of his talents. I guess it helps to have that when you run a mafia…

            “You know I won’t shoot you.” He murmured.

            “Both of us know that’s a lie.” I replied.

            “Well, you’re right with that.” He pulled his gun out of the holster beneath his suit jacket and aimed the barrel at me.

            My pulse quickened, my brow started to collect cold sweat…I didn’t think he would actually do this. I thought that I was lying; I meant to sound that way. But he didn’t pick up on that. In all of the experience that he’s had in reading minds, he couldn’t figure out that I didn’t mean those words.

            So we stood there in our apartment, a gun aimed at my head. He saw the shock in my eyes and laughed. He always did this, he told me. When he was assigned the hunt people down for bounties, he would wound them badly enough to the point where they could no longer escape from him. They would still be alive, but not able to move. And Emmet would go over to the person, look into their eyes, and laugh. He would laugh at the turmoil that they’d gone through to achieve nothing; he would laugh at the pity that they were, lying on the ground in a pool of their own blood; he would laugh at them because suffering gave him pleasure. And then he would shoot them in the head.

            That’s what looked like was going to happen to me.

            “You can’t pull that trigger on me.” I said to him.

            “You’re right…I can’t.” Emmet replied, but he did not put down the gun.

            “So put it down.”

            “No.”

            “I want you to put it down.”

            “Do you want this in your a*s next? I’m pretty sure it would be like getting fucked by a steel cucumber, except it’s a gun and I’d then have the intention of shooting you. Who knows, someone might notice that your a*****e looked like the shape of a gun barrel and then they might ask about it. If I just fired a bullet into your rectum, it would rip through your intestines, through your stomach, possibly through your heart--I didn’t pay attention in anatomy class--and eventually, the bullet might pass into your brain. But I would fire around five to ten shots into you just to be sure that you’ll die, either from the bleeding or the fatal brain damage. So which will it be? Are you going to be a good little girl of act like the b***h that I know that you are?”

            I had no choice. “The b***h.” I said.

            As I knew he would be, he was confused.

            I knew some things about the art of confusion. You would give answers to questions that were extraordinarily unexpected, speak in extended metaphors or coded language, and you would recite poetry. The first was to catch someone off guard; Emmet was expecting me to be submissive, as I knew he would expect such. His ego was far too big for him, nearly too big. It was almost a risk to his health. The second was to confuse. The method worked very well on people who couldn’t understand abstract thoughts all that well and who couldn’t decipher codes in words. The last was to further confuse to the point where the adversary willingly gives up with the thought, “This person is insane…I’ve got nothing to win here.” It was a perfect weapon.

            “You mean…you want me to shoot you?” Emmet said.

            “I’m a b***h, aren’t I?” I replied.

            “Well, yes…but you’re not begging for your life.”

            I didn’t even have to go into metaphors for him to say that.

            “Yes, I’m not begging for my life.” I replied. (And I also forgot to mention that reverse psychology works very well.)

            “Yeah…you aren’t, and you should be.” Emmet said.

            “But I’m not.”

            “But…but do it.”

            “Why?”

            “Um…just kneel down on the floor.”

            “I would rather that you sit.”

            “What?”

            “Aren’t your legs getting tired?”

            “Well…I guess so…” He sat down on the floor. I seriously couldn’t believe how well this was working! Ha!

            “Now, plead for your life.” Emmet barked. I knew I was winning; he broke his emotional poker face.

            “Can’t you plead for my life for me?” I asked.

            “Uh…what?”

            “Well, that would save me the trouble of pleading for my life. That takes a lot of work, you know. And with a man as strong as you, I think you can do it.”

            “Um…oh, oh, don’t kill me, Emmet…I’m a filthy little w***e.”

            I seriously couldn’t believe he said that. I wanted to laugh, but I had to stay composed.

            “Now, don’t you think that you’ll get killed one day?” I asked him. “I mean, it happens a lot to killers. So, what makes sense is giving up the gun so that, maybe, when you stop killing people with guns, other people might not want to kill you with guns either. Doesn’t that make sense?”

            “Um…sure.” Emmet replied.

            “So wouldn’t it be a good thing if you throw your gun under the refrigerator? I mean, it’s a safe place for a gun. All dark and dreary down there…no one would ever think to look for a gun there.”

            “Uh…sure…” He slid his gun over towards the refrigerator and it skidded to a halt just before it went under the steel. It was in the perfect place for me to pick it up and threaten him with it. But I didn’t intend to sustain his life…

            “Oh my, am I parched!” I exclaimed. “I think I’m going to have some iced tea. Would you like some iced tea?”

            “Yeah, I think so.” Emmet replied. As I opened up the refrigerator, I lunged for the gun and pointed it at Emmet. He still sat in his place, now shocked. I admit, he could kill anyone with ease, but he was stupid as hell.

            “Please, please…don’t kill me!” He pleaded. I smiled.

            “The meek one looks up to the guiding heavens, only to find veins of steel.” I began my verses of code. “Their blood can cook bread, unleavened, but also make the fires of Hell seem real.”

            “What the hell does that mean?” He said as he looked up…he was exactly where I wanted him to be.

            “Your last words should be: Et tu, Brute?” I pointed the gun upwards to the ceiling and at the pipes that hung exposed above our heads. I fired a shot and I knew that steam would rush into Emmet’s face, and his screams of agony affirmed my plan. The steam would, at its worst, give him severe burns, scaring him for life. This is what he deserved for killing all of those people; this is what a killer deserves. To have such agony brought upon him without the prospect of death. So I let him simmer in the steam.

            He eventually tried to run out of the room, scrambling to walk. His eyes had most likely been burned, and in actuality, his eyelids were melted together. He fumbled for the door and I directed him to the window instead. With my hands, I guided him to his death. I opened the window; there was no fire escape on our side of the building. The steel structure had fallen down years ago, and all that was left were hundreds of protruding rusted steel bars from where the ladders had once been. It was perfect. And the drop to the ground was only fifteen feet…he would still survive the fall and be in agony for an amazingly long amount of time.

            And so he fell. He fell to his death with the scars of steam and iron. This was a death worth seeing, at least for me.

            And I watched him. I watched him as he moaned and cried. He was dying and I was enjoying watching him suffer. Eventually, paramedics and police had arrived on the scene. I had told the police the scenario, how he had told me he was a killer and that he threatened me with his gun. I didn’t tell them that I took pleasure in watching his slow death. That I chose not to reveal.

            But once all of the turmoil died down, I went over to my calendar with a pen in hand and wrote in the day’s bracket: “Emmet’s Leave.”

Reviews

[Thomas Fitzgerald]

Ah how Emmet would fit nicely in my my character of Adrain, cold bitter and ruthless, well done

[Rene Velez]

Emmet is a cold character, but your colder, nice write....

[Coyote Poetry]

You can write a excellent story. The conversation and the emotion in the story made it strong and a pleasure to read. I like the detail conversation and the ending. Thank you for the outstanding story.
Coyote