Germany • Rothenburg • City Edge

Dion stood in front of the quaint, little house on the outskirts of the city where the evergreen forest began its wide stride out. The branches were heavy with snow, the pines rustled, and slumped and shoveled snow down to Dion’s left foot. It stung. He wasn’t annoyed though, not really. His face was dull and his eyes kept forward as Apollo followed him.

“We’ll be there soon.” Apollo said. “It doesn’t look too bad, right? I just wish it wasn’t in the middle of fucking nowhere.”

He heard Apollo step down hard. Half his leg sunk into the floor.

“Fuckin’ Rothenburg.” He looked down at his foot, there was a squish. It sounded wet and as he drew out his foot, Dion could see the dirty water drip off his boots, somewhat frozen and black.

Down, past the light snow, was the broken glass of water surface.

“Hitler’s revenge.” Apollo frowned at his foot. It must have stung, Dion guessed.

Dion checked under his own feet, onto the floor and scraped off the snow off a tree. He had no expression of anything, unlike Apollo who cursed and smacked his foot across the trap land. On him was that simple morbid dullness, a bitter aura that sprawled out of him like sewer murk, a low moving, far-reaching disdain for everything about this city and everything about this place.

“You look like you’re about to kill someone,” Apollo walked forward. “Relax. We’re almost there. It’s right up this incline.”

There were stones on the side, establishing the road (if there ever was one) and the stones ended suddenly, at the feet of a climb. Dion started up with his body hunched and his knees bent at a harsh angle.

The house came into view, the pale timber framing of an orange colored house. The flowers or vines, dead and frozen in their boxes at the feet of window panes, a high hanging lantern-light above the door. It was small, smaller than a house ought to be. Dion came to the door, he didn’t knock so much as stood there.

“What are you expecting?” Apollo said. “Banners and fireworks?”

Apollo banged on the door. Nothing for a moment. He slapped the door now.

“Tas-toi!” He heard from behind. Apollo kicked the door once in retaliation.

The machinery began to work, the metal locks on the door twisted and turned and screeched. The door cracked open, from the slit, a little eye. Aged, the skin around the eye was spotted and cracked. Discolored.

A wrinkled eye who, at the sight of the two, opened a final chained lock and revealed herself. She wore all white, a black garment wrapped around her head. She was less than half their size and raised her head to the two.

“Are you the two troublemakers?” She asked.

The voice was grating against Dion’s ears. He flinched and braced his shoulders as if in pain.

“Are you French?” Apollo asked.

“Oui.”

“A French nun in Germany?” Apollo asked. “You chose a shit place to retire in.”

“Retire? You don’t retire from the Lord, you never do. In life or death.”

“Then what are you doing here? The Leper didn’t tell us much.”

“I’m keeping watching.” She said humbly.

“What are our jobs? We don’t have any weapons, he said they were confiscated for now. We’re in the dark. I need some answers-”

“Be quiet,” she said. Apollo listened, perhaps out of respect for the age. Dion was surprised. “There is no job for now. You’re here to hide, for a bit. We’ll see how long that lasts.”

“That’s why we’re here?”

“You two barely escaped punishment, the Lord almost took your head,” She smiled. “Now is the time to rehabilitate you two. For we all fall down from the path of righteousness. The trick is standing back up.”

“Right,” Apollo said in a long-drawn breath.

“Are you the only nun here?” He asked.

“Yes, monsieur.” The rosary around her neck rattled a bit. Her wrinkles tightened as she kept her smile.

“Well, fuck me.” Apollo bent his neck as he lowered himself under the door frame.

“Don’t curse,” she said. Quickly. With a bit of a shout, it sounded like something was just about to break inside her, perhaps a pressure valve twisted the wrong way.

“Well, shit - “

“What’d I say?” She shouted again. Still smiling. “The Lord hears everything, we ought to speak our best for him..”

“I didn’t know he was listening,” Apollo giggled. “Can you tell him to get me a couple bottles of tequila? That whole water to wine shit, you know.”

“You - “ The nun began, wagging her finger. A vein appeared under her jaw. “You - !”

Dion broke between them, the bag on his back rustling and brushing them apart.

“Where’s the room?” He asked. The first words he had spoken all day. Empty words too. Even hearing them back from the small, acoustic-dense room, he could notice the lack of a ring and timbre to his voice, the sleepy quality as if coming out of a deep-rooted slumber. Or returning back to one.

“What’s your problem, child?” The woman asked. Apollo grabbed her shoulder.

“He’s had a long flight. Cut him some slack. We almost got our heads cut off a week ago.”

The woman grumbled. Her small hands interlocked and fidgeting like a wind-caught lattice.

“Up the steps, down the hall, first room to your right.” She said. “Imbécile.”

“You cursed.” Apollo smiled. “I thought you were a nun?”

“I’m nearly retired.” She said.

“I thought you couldn’t retire from the Lord?”

“Be quiet.” She said. “Connard.”

Dion lowered his head, walked up the steps. Nimble. His body reared around the corner and disappeared. He was neither hostile nor excited, his body and emotions encompassing that space in between: apathetic. And the door closing was neither loud nor gentle, just noisy enough to remind them there was someone else, like a ghost or stalking butler.

He disappeared, into his room. And Apollo was left there, rubbing his neck and looking down at the small nun mumbling profanities to her side.

•

Dion put his head down to the bible sprawled open on the small dark lacquered table in front of him. The candles were low, the glow was rounded and short distanced. It as a little warm, but each gust of wind threatened to blow it out. Outside, he could see the dying sky. It bled red in few streaks of across the horizon, a maroon that disappeared into the white-topped pine trees. He looked down at his book.

EXODUS 20:13 YOU SHALL NOT MURDER

His mouth felt dry. He did not know why he read it, perhaps out of habit. As all life is just habit after habit, as was his. A habit of reading, a habit of not listening. He looked at each letter individually. It felt like a nail had been penetrated through his skull. He continued, turning pages, nodding his head.

ROMANS 12:19 DO NOT TAKE REVENGE, MY DEAR FRIENDS, BUT LEAVE ROOM FOR GOD’S WRATH, FOR IT IS WRITTEN: “IT IS MINE TO AVENGE; I WILL REPAY,” SAYS THE LORD

He felt his breath escape. Once again he spun his pages, stopping every so often to gleam and to reel away and to rotate his head like a newborn infant.

He turned. The doors open. A loud creak. He dropped his chair, both his heavy eyes set on the noise.

Apollo walked through, a cup of chocolate in his hands and a strudel in the other. He approached, slowly, cautiously.

“Well, fuck man,” Apollo said. “Did I startle you?”

He set the food and drink on Dion’s table. Dion had both hands to his sides, his eyes set on the book. The book, to which, Apollo lifted and searched through. He went through each little tab written and rotated it to see the notes scrolled down the sides. He looked disgusted.

“Jesus, you’ve got graffiti all over this..” The pages swished from one end of the cover to the other.“What’s the matter?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Dion said.

“Try me.”

“I won’t. It’s a waste of time.” He snatched the book and put it back on the table. It was heavy, the post-it notes stuck out from the ridges of the book.

“What wouldn’t I understand? We both went through the same thing. Havenbrook, Astyanax, Purgatory.” Apollo waved away his swinging, braided bang. In a gesture almost pompous, familiar. “I’m sorry if I’m still so crude. I’m trying to be more... sympathetic. It’s new to me.”

He found a cushion on the bed and sat. The bed bounced up and down. The wood frame creaked.

“You remind me of what I used to be,” Apollo said. “That same antagonizing glare, that tired look. It’s the sign of someone obsessing. The question is, about what?”

“What are you trying to fix?I thought you’d appreciate me like this.” Dion licked his fingertips and ran through fifty pages. All red. “All broken and messed up.”

“Consider me a changed man, I suppose,” Apollo said. “Quite literally.”

Dion didn’t press on the statement. He grumbled.

“Maybe a bit of Astyanax lives through me, I don’t know. That’s what The Leper thinks at least.”

“Well, you better kill it.” Dion slapped his hands on the table and stared at Apollo. “If he really is in you, make sure you kill it. Suffocate it. Or I’ll do it for you.”

Apollo frowned.

“Now why in the hell are you so angry, fucker? I’m trying to be friendly.” Apollo said. “You just want to start a fight, don’t you?”

Dion went back to his bible. His head falling back to an incline, his eyes looking down at the pages.

“Back to reading, why not just talk?” Apollo asked. “What’s got you all worked up.”

He breathed deeply, to condense all his thoughts, all the thoughts he felt on the plane and on the car and on the walk up here, to simple words seemed an impossibility, like looking for a pearl in a wide dark sea.

“Have you ever been disappointed and betrayed all at the same time? To hate yourself for believing in someone or something you never should have in the first place?” Dion asked.

Apollo was quiet. They could all hear the tense breathing of each other.

“I thought I was safe. I thought I would win,” Dion said, low. “I thought God was guiding my gun. And then I got a spear through my stomach.”

“And it’s a good thing you did, let me tell you.” Apollo turned in his bed. “You learned a good lesson on what God cares about and what he doesn’t. Let me tell you, it’s a small list and you and I ain’t on it.”

“What if it’s worse than him not listening, not acting, not caring.” Dion rubbed his face. “What if He’s abandoned us?”

He could feel his nose swelling but squelched it, the feeling, the redness, and the rising snot.

“I played myself for a hero and when pressed, I couldn’t even remember the name of the girl I was trying to avenge. I treated vengeance like a commodity and perhaps God punished me for my vanity. Maybe he always has. Maybe he was never even there. What would be the difference between being punished and being forgotten, thrown away? Same thing, isn’t it?”

“You lost because you were tricked,”

“And before? With the murders, with the abhorrent evil all around us? Still, all around us. Just look at what we went through. All because you save me and a kid. Your goodwill is being punished, how ridiculous is that.” Dion said.

His hand shook though he did not care to make it stop.

“You just said it yourself. Everything’s corrupt. The church, the world, man himself. Everything is, everything always was just bleak and dark and with nothing to it.” He stared at the book. “You told me, didn’t you? You and Astyanax, who tried to the little difference between men and demons. And guess what, you were both right.

“And that’s why it’s important for us to make sure our side wins.” Apollo sat on the bed.

“How? Am I even fit to pretend to be good? Me, a murderer? I killed four people. Four manipulated idiots. I let a little girl die, I couldn’t save anyone and God couldn’t save me. You had to do it.” He began to shout. “And now, outside the hospital, I still feel sick. Do you know how terrible that is, to be sick of something you can’t even see or point to? I get scared at every noise. I get nightmares of Astyanax, of torture. I can’t eat. I can’t think. New people make me uncomfortable, anxious. I can’t even walk straight without fidgeting. It’s like living in someone else's head. How can I help anyone? How can anyone help me?”

The nun slammed on the wall. Probably from all the loud noise made. It was good, for Dion realized then, that he was standing, screaming down at Apollo. He dried his wet mouth, the spit was on the floor. His shoulders slumped and he returned back to his chair.

“Jesus, this is too much for me to unpack in one day,” Apollo said. “And even if I gave you a proper answer, would you even want it?”

“No, I don’t want anyone's answer right now,” Dion said. “It’s not like I’d take you seriously anyway, what do you care about? Nothing.”

“I care about more things than I should, believe me,” Apollo said, his fist clenched and his throat dry.

“Right,” Dion scoffed.

You know what? Fuck you, man. Unload your shit on someone else.”

He left out the door. Down the stairs, his thumping loud and apparent. The nun’s voice following afterward, screaming and pressing Apollo like a roaming siren.

They argued, Dion could hear the conversation carried through the thin wood walls, something about ‘voice levels’. Though she never came up to see Dion.

It wasn’t as if he cared anymore anyways. He closed the door and shut the lights and left one single candle wick upon his desk and he scrolled through the bible again, searching for answers, only half-satisfied with the generalities of the holy book, like breadcrumbs tossed at leisure and haphazard to an ever growing maze, a dark maze that he saw no exit from.

Why’d the girl have to die? There was nothing on that, not really. Generalities didn’t satisfy him after all.

Why would any man even do the things Alestor did? Nothing.

Why couldn’t he win? Why did it feel so bad to have gotten help?

He kept reading, hoping, to shine light on those small pebbles of truth, however, each came with its new problems, new questions. As if, by shining a light on the small stones, he had created even longer shadows. Shadows holding stranger secrets she was cut in half. So that he was always in that darkness, never feeling the warmth of any kind of closure. Deeper and deeper, the endless spiral of the universe. Each crevice, each tunnel a steeper fall down. And no light could shine through this impregnable darkness and the thought enticed Dion, and hurt him, and made him lose all sense of time and maybe, even self there’s more suffering in this world than there is joy, than there ever could be joy pleasure, why why why until finally when he heard the cat shaped clock above his desk and head meowing seven in the morning, finally did he awake from that mad-state of obsession; when his eyes shut to the touch of the warm glow of morning light and he looked down, to where the rays of light had hit, to the bible cut in half and he started wondering, now that he could without trailing thoughts, had he even turned the pages once?

ROMANS 12:19 DO NOT TAKE REVENGE, MY DEAR FRIENDS, BUT LEAVE ROOM FOR GOD’S WRATH, FOR IT IS WRITTEN: “IT IS MINE TO AVENGE; I WILL REPAY,” SAYS THE LORD

He read it again.

He had not done anything all night, but think of the girl her name was Sophie, her name was Sophie. Sophie. Sophie Never forget. Think of his murders Alestor did them, he cut them and bled them up like a vampire. And down the list of thoughts, he also made sure to point to his defeat.

He pressed against his belly with a shaky hand, where the wound, to some degree, still was.

He rubbed his eyes. His heavy lids dug deep into his skin.

There was another knock on the wall. A quick successive number of blows.

A nun’s high voice came through, then Apollo’s.

“Ah shit,” He yawned. “She’s telling me to tell you to wake up.”

He still sounded rough and frustrated.

“Don’t curse, Imbécile.” She said.

And the funny thing was, Dion observed as he lifted his tired body up from the chair and twisted it out of the conformity of the rigid right angle wooden seat, was that he hadn’t slept. Hadn’t slept in two days. Not on the plane and not here.

It was a terrible feeling. To be so tired and to know you’re tired, and to think about how tired you are without having any hope for sleep. It felt like quicksand, his body did. He stretched. His body cracked.

He opened his window. The morning light hurt.