Second Draft

All that follows is the second draft of a 'short story', though it is obviously merely a preview of a longer work, posted for your amusement.  I assert no rights nor privileges except to appeal to the honor of those who would repeat it to do so fairly and without deceit. 

Pain.

On a balmy Tuesday morning, Jonah woke in pain. Agony was the better word for it. He was sweating and cramping, certain he was dying, twisting his threadbare sheets around him as he writhed on the battered and stained mattress he'd salvaged from the side of the road last spring.

At last he forced himself up, forced himself to cross the tiny apartment to the bathroom, ignoring the morning ritual fight between his neighbors as he staggered to the bathroom, praying to the porcelain god as his stomach heaved fruitlessly.

He couldn't help noticing that his shaking hands were covered in blood tinted sweat, that the drops falling from his forehead onto the stained ceramic were a rich red.

“Am I gonna die?” He moaned to himself as a spasm, far worse than any of the others, gripped him. The sound of his moan barely drowned the shouts and yells through the thin walls. Soon would come the meaty sounds of flesh hitting flesh, the screams of terror and pain, then the sobbing and heartfelt apologies, of makeup sex.

Then he forgot about the daily drama as something deep within him tried to force its way out. He retched and cried bloody tears, gripping the toilet for all it was worth as he heaved and heaved, his mouth stretching painfully wide, his neck bulging as it seemed all his internal organs climbed from him. At last there was a gush, a torrent. At last his efforts were no longer in vain. The feeling of relief was so great that he barely minded that the vomit was dull red and stank of hot copper and rust. Before he could think about it another heave gripped him, the hot blood still pouring from him, though this time something else came with it. His eyes clenched shut in pain, his body arcing over the bowl, lifted up by the furious strain he was under, he couldn't see what nightmare wrenched itself from him, could only wonder at the heavy impact of something solid striking the bowl as he, at last, blacked out.

The neighbors were still at the shouting, was his first thought. He looked up at the cracked and peeling paint, stained with old leaks from the apartment above and thought how wonderful it felt to be alive just then.

He was cold and clammy, his body ached, his throat burned, but it was old pain, healing pain. He had passed through the shadow of the valley of death and come out the other side.

He forced his face into a weakly triumphant grin, taunting the specter of Death, and levered himself slowly to his feet. The sight of the blood painted bathroom brought back the fear, something was deeply wrong with him, but it was the object sticking proudly out of the toilet bowl that arrested his attention the most.

It was a sword. He had vomited up a sword. It wasn't terribly long, as swords go, the wickedly sharp blade shaped almost like the leaf of an iris, ending in a round disk graven with little figures, the handle appeared to be bone, wrapped in some exotic leather. The mirror bright finish of the metal seemed warmer and softer than that of steel. This was something ancient, old when the world of men was young. Even through the film of blood and bodily fluid that coated it he knew it was powerful, comfortable. His.

Though the world had changed in ways he could not explain, there were certain practical matters that needed to be attended to. For one, he was covered in drying, bloody sweat.

As he showered the neighbors yells turned angry.

The hot water felt great while it lasted. Too soon it turned to ice and he bit back the usual snarl of outrage, reaching blindly for a towel that wasn't there.

“You're skinnier than the last one.” a rough, feminine voice remarked. “You planning to leave it in the toilet?”

The world may have changed in ways he could not explain, but some things were constant. A strange woman in your bathroom as you showered was still cause for some shock. There was nowhere to go and nothing to cover himself with, so after a moment of entirely natural panic he simply gave up. She had his towel, using it like the old rag it resembled to polish a sword of her own. At least he thought it was a sword, in truth it seemed like it couldn't decide if it was a sword or an ax, though it looked vaguely Egyptian.

She wasn't much to look at, with long matted hair that half obscured a young face that was nevertheless etched deep with lines of pain and anger. He thought she might be very short, but it was hard to tell as she was perched on his sink like a bird, her filthy, bare feet gripping the edge with ragged nails.

“Who are you?!” He demanded, “And give me back my towel!”

She cocked her head at him before throwing him the threadbare scrap.

The neighbors anger had turned to violence.

For once he was beyond caring. For once he didn't wince in sympathy as the first blow was struck, as screams of anger turned to screams of pain.

“You can call me Alecto.” She answered him. “Your sister.”

“My sister isn't a filthy little ragamuffin, and she'd rather die than be caught perched on the sink, much less in another man's bathroom.” He retorted as he wrapped the towel around his hips. There was nothing for it but to stalk past her with as much dignity as he could muster. He had just made it out the door when he felt the cold touch of metal against his neck, the dull inside curve of her blade wrapping around so the sharp back hook touched his adam's apple.

“I would not harm you, but you should not abandon your sword.” she hissed from behind him.

“You want it? You take it.” He replied coldly. Though he couldn't see her, from the way the blade jumped, from the sound she made, he thought he had somehow shocked her. Free of the hook he continued into the small apartment, looking for something reasonably clean to wear.

The woman, Alecto, followed him out after a moment, giving him no privacy to dress. She started to say something but had to pause as a particularly loud and violent exchange passed through the wall. She frowned at the interruption, glancing sharply at the wall itself, as if it had offended her.

“I thought you would have questions. Better I found you then the Varangian.” she said when there was enough quiet to be heard.

Jonah sighed heavily, holding up two fingers.

“Lady, I care about two things.” He ticked them off as he spoke, “First, that I'm not about to keel over dead of some exotic disease, and second that I'm not late for work.” he paused to let another violent exchange pass through the room. “I don't care for swords, and I don't care for crazy homeless people. If you need food, I suggest you try the soup kitchen. Now, I'm going to call Father Michael and let him know that I'm going to be late, and when I'm done I hope you'll be gone.”

She broke into a twisted grin.

“You work at a church? Funny, you don't seem the... charitable sort.” She mocked, then shot another angry look at the wall.

“Well, we all got our character flaws.” He muttered, but with all the noise he doubted she heard him.

The hitting had turned to sobbing, like clockwork.

If anything this seemed to irritate his unwanted guest more than the violence had. As he picked up the phone she stalked from his apartment, leaving him at peace at last.

“Father Michael? Its me, Jonah. I said 'Jonah'.”

“I'm sorry... I heard you the first time. I don't recall any Jonah...” The young priest on the other end replied.

Jonah winced as his neighbor screamed, as a meaty thump of something hard hitting flesh sounded. Damnit, they were back to fighting...

“I'm your handyman.” He reminded the priest. “I'm running a bit late...” something was wrong with the hitting and the screaming next door. It didn't sound right, but then they'd never gone back to fighting after the sobbing started...

“Oh... I... well, I'm sorry.” The priest sounded upset. “I seem to have forgotten all about you. How embarassing. Yes, the handyman, now I remember. You said you'd be late? Well...” Father Michael gave a nervous laugh, covering for his lapse, “I suppose the church won't be falling down in the next few hours.”

As Jonah hung up on the strangely awkward conversation Alecto walked back in his front door, still holding her sword, now dripping fresh blood.

The neighbors were, at last, silent.

“What did you do?!” He wanted to shout, but it came out as a strangled whisper.

“They were a stone in my shoe.” She replied easily. “They offended me, so I cast them out.” She smiled beatifically. “Will you listen to me now... boy?”

Some rational part of his brain screamed that he should be terrified of her, that rational part reached slowly for the kitchen knife on the counter. The primitive lizard brain was, for once, unconcerned. She noticed what he was doing and smirked.

“Should have brought the sword with you, don't you think? Why don't you go grab it.” She pointed to the bathroom door with the bloody blade in her hand and a smirk on her face. “Oh... and welcome to the Eumenides.”

That old, comfortable, familiar rage stirred in him. He had no real love for his neighbors, how could someone love such horrible people after all? But she had simply murdered them!

Alecto's eyes went wide as he leapt over the counter that separated them, less at his sudden athletics and more because of the gleaming blade that was suddenly in his hand, so different than the dull kitchen knife he'd been holding.

“How...” She managed before their ancient blades met, before her own bloodlust rose to meet his. The apartment was silent but for the shuffling of their bare feet against the wore and tired carpet, the dull ringing of bronze against bronze, the grunts of effort and pain as they traded lethal blows in silence. She was faster, but her sword was heavy and slow, demanding harsh chops and sweeping slices, while his reach was fast darting jabs of the wicked point of his own.

It ended as fast as it began, the harsh bend in her sword hung up on the gentle swell of his, catching for a just a moment, long enough for him to grab the blade from her, cutting his hand on its razored edge, and fling it aside. He pinned her back to the wall, the point of his sword hovering mere inches from her eye as she slumped in defeat. He wanted her death so bad he could taste it like bile in his throat, so bad his hand shook at the effort it took to hold back.

“I'm not like you...” He growled, desperate for it to be true, “I'm not a killer.” He forced himself to step back, to let her go. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, looking towards the open door, the one that led to the hall, already filling with onlookers and gawkers, with the first responders coming to check on the dead bodies. No one looked in, no one saw the man and woman fighting their urgent, desperate duel.

“What are you then? One of them? They won't have you, can barely see you, remember you.” She laughed bitterly, mocking him, “Go on. Go tell them you've caught me if you want. Maybe if you try really, really hard they might even listen to you... for a minute or two.”

Jonah looked at the growing crowd, not ten feet away, and realized it was true.

The world had changed in ways he could not explain, and he realized nothing would ever be the same.