The war reigns on across the room as the two combatants fire blows to the thumping pulse in my head and in my chest. I watch Albion struggle with my father’s murderer just steps out of focus. Their twisted faces — impossible to tell apart — disturb me in equal measure.
The blurred lines endeavour to form the undead but shake and wriggle like a collacine of maggots.
I felt Father stop breathing about fifteen minutes ago when his back stopped pushing against mine. If it was going to happen like this, it should have happened whilst he was asleep in his bed but I couldn’t ignore the intruder’s announcement of revenge. When I dashed to his aid, it only pushed McCoy further into madness.
My mind recounts my series of mistakes but as each memory comes forth, the room spins in a manner so vicious that I cannot remain still. The bookcase walls shudder and defy gravity in front of me before dropping, and returning to their upright positions along with myself. It takes a while for my eyes to clear up but soon, the names of the leather bound novels become legible once more as revenge is concocted behind feeding monstrosities.
Father wasn’t a careful man, even the forewarned by advisors. He made enemies at the snap of a finger because money was just drawn to him. It didn’t matter the avenue he took, he could always squeeze a penny out of the situation. He wasn’t able to hold his tongue and, certainly, he did not understand the dangers a man in his position could find themselves wrapped up in.
The point I am trying to make is simple: Father never owned a gun, leaving me very few options in terms of helping Albion come out on top. With the concept of haste foreign to my shivering fingers, I searched Father’s bloodied pockets. The delicate silk of his stained smoking jacket slides beneath my fingerprints as I delve into each empty pocked until my hands trace the handle of something warmed only by his recently dispersing body heat.
From the enriched depths of this hidden pocket, I draw a pair of unique items: one hand-wrapped journal and its bookmark, a jewelled letter opener slid partway through the pages. Unbound, the paper slips and slide, allowing chapters to break free and disappear before my eyes in a snowstorm of yellowed papers.
It’s Father’s personal journal, a collection of his innermost thoughts from before my very own birth to his more recent studious period. The letter opener slips out as if automated by my desires, sitting uncomfortably in the unsoiled bends and grooves of my grip, ever obvious.
I pull free from Father, place the remaining pages of his diary beneath my arm, and lunge forth on the attacker.
In the midst of the battle, I find the assailant and Albion still locked in identical death-grips with the latter unable to ward away even the lightest of blows. McCoy forces the boy to kneel as I force myself into the action; arms outstretched, vision dead set on the back of his skull.
I stab with all my might and penetrated his thinned cranium with enough force to knock him to the ground.
Albion removes what is left of him from the face of the Earth.