This story, amongst other things, is about a girl, some (unfortunate) dogs and you.
Brown. That’s the colour of the sky today. Murky, bog-brown. A vicious spell of rain possesses this place during November. It is a deplorable visage to fare upon, and I hadn’t the best visitations.
There are not many humans about, which is a shame cause I could use the distraction. A girl walks along with a boy on the pavement. Hurried conversations follow them in suit. Their muttering irks me. They stop before I can pry.
They were at play. Rough, tumbling wheatish blobs of flesh juxtaposed on the grainy road, their nimble legs suspended mid-air. A bone cracks. the shrieking commences, but Time is unkind. Under the second wheel, another snaps. The rumbling of the coward’s motor car drowns out its anguish. It can not cry.
You’d stop, wouldn’t you? If you heard your foot squash a bug, you’d try to get it off yourself with a twinge of disgust. At the very least, you’d stop.
Quiet. The small crowd that gathered was momentarily paralysed with fear, and then there was movement. Not of the creature. The girl and the boy lurch forward. A call is made, but the world moves on. No one comes, not for a while. They, however, remain planted.
The sky is tarnished. As is their sheltered innocence. The heavy breathing and whimpering subdues. So it knows. There’s no point fighting – the blood finds solace in its lungs till it is bereft of air. And in the blink of an eye, I catch its soul. A prayer is muttered under bated breath. The silence that follows is deafening.
I linger. Only for a moment, but that is more than I can afford. They walk again, away from the lamppost, now tainted with the hound’s bloody, earthly vessel. Their hushed whispers resume; I take this as my cue to leave.
Three Days Later
The sky blushes this evening, tinted with lavender and remnants of afternoon blue. It’s surprising – the same street is bustling with life when it was abandoned three days ago. Insipid conversations are of utmost importance as the air punctures their lungs. Their existence is futile.
Weak. Hunger entraps it on that road. It incessantly gnaws at the remains of some fruit stamped onto the cold, black ground. Its bones rattle against the drone of its surroundings. No one considers the living carcass.
She is back. Another girl is in tow until she catches a glimpse of the whelp. Caution overwhelms them. They stop their flimsy contraptions, their limbs barely escaping injury. She shouldn’t have. Mercy at the hands of beings far greater are merely perceived as attacks. These aimless children were no different in the eyes of those foolish, fragile creatures. Fear urged it forward. It leapt, and so its soul was reaped by my scythe.
The girl stands frozen. A cool breeze envelops her, aching to carry her words into my palms. I hear nothing, but her face says it all. What was she to do?
She has blood on her hands. The same deep-red liquid is spewed on the wheels of the merciless motor car and the asphalt. A few moments is all it takes for the crowd to dissolve. She makes a call, her hands fumbling amidst the resumed chaos. She should have known better. They won’t come.
Your kind is selfish and impertinent. I have reaped countless souls over the years I’ve come to exist ever since your Maker played with his clay, all at the hands of these, mankind’s, most grave vices. Misery made your actions her very business, and I collected the remnants.
Dust. That is what you are. Insignificant specks in this cosmos, and yet so ubiquitous. There is some power to your existence. You do not use it well. You turn on each other by virtue of petty misgiving. You care for none but yourselves and, if your constitution allows it, your “loved ones”.
If only you knew. Had you the conscience to heed your doing, your callousness would not consume. There is more pain than joy, more poverty than riches in this world. Your Maker guaranteed you a reward for your kindness. Yet, this is all you can muster. How despicable.
You. You “choose” the way of the hound or the human at your peril, says your kind. There is no choice in your birth or death, for that is by Fate’s design. There is only a choice in living. You may now dread the evil that walks amongst you, but you must learn to fear the indifferent, the ignorant. They destroy, they plunder, they ravage.
Insolence, ignorance, indifference. What do you make of this world you live in? When the less fortunate rot in their shallow graves, do you lift a finger, or do you leave them be? No one comes for the dead, no one but me.