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Darkness . . .
Dripping blood. Echoes of screams.
Kevin stood alone. Disorientated. The blackness around him was all-consuming, leaving only a few of his senses to discern order in the chaos. He could hear little, except for the dripping of blood, and he could smell the iron so strong that he could all but taste its presence. Every other breath, something would touch him . . . cold, hard . . . quick like life, but immovable like stone. The smells, the touches . . . they would come from all directions.
His heart quickened. He rarely felt fear, but this was it: fear. It built within him, so that his heart raced and pounded and threatened to burst, and a cold rush of adrenaline flooded every vein, until he was light-headed and weak. Just as it could not get any worse, he felt a pressure upon his boots, like wading through water . . . like wading through blood . . .
‘Hello? Someone? Anyone?’
The pressure grew upward, ever upward, until it spilled over the edge of his boots. It fell inside the leather, it dripped down to his feet, and it was warm. It was fucking warm! He gasped. He tried to spin around, but this liquid – this blood – was rising higher and higher from all directions, while these spectres continued to torment him. Pulls at his hair. Tugs at his armour. A slap on his face. A pinch of his arm. He panted until he hyperventilated.
‘H-Hello? I – I need help! I’m lost!’
The blood was increasing in amount, faster and faster. It clung to his hands as he waded and splashed, desperate for an exit in the darkness, and yet never left his flesh. A permanent mark. A permanent stain. It was branding him . . . marking him as a monster, like a tattoo on his soul, and – as he thought that thought – his back burned. White-hot. Monstrous. He tried to hold in his scream, even as the ghosts laughed and mocked and swarmed all around him. A cacophony that disorientated and alarmed. They poked and slapped and pulled all the more.
Tormented even in death! He continued to hold back the scream, even as the blood rose and rose, ever higher and higher, until it was at his chin . . . his lips . . . metallic, bitter, retch-worthy . . . no, it had to stop. It had to stop. The laughter continued, as the pain intensified, and finally the agonising scorches broke through his pain barrier. Tears brimmed. He opened his mouth to scream. He expelled all air from his lungs. No sound came out . . .
The blood flooded his mouth.
* * *
“Kevin? Kevin!”
Kevin bolted upright with a heaving gasp. He drew in air like a drowning man, desperate for every last intake of oxygen, and – sweat pouring down his cold skin – every single breath counted in his need for survival. The blood was gone. The darkness was replaced by a light, to which it took time to adjust. He blinked and squinted, as his blown pupils rapidly shrank, and soon he recognised it as the overhead light in their bedroom.
The bedsheets were down by his waist, exposing pale flesh and trembling hands. He slowed down his breaths and focused on the here and now, and quickly pushed back his pink fringe and long blond locks away from his face, while the adrenaline dropped. A soft thud penetrated the otherwise silence, as he collapsed back against the headboard and looked up at the ceiling with an embarrassed smile. Still need to paint over those cracks, he thought. The mattress dipped a little beside him, as his husband finally scooted a little closer.
“Am I okay to touch you now?” Warsman asked.
Kevin nodded, as he licked at his lips. The world came back into view, as colour lighted his life, and all around them were mementos of a life well-spent . . . trophies, medals, photographs . . . it was a record of a lifetime, with the last few years shared together. Warsman was a familiar sight, but one of which he could never tire. The older man sat naked beside him in bed, with his dark brown skin looking somewhat paler in the harsh artificial lights, and his cybernetic face ever unreadable, even as his tone was soft and patient.
The question went answered by a touch. Kevin reached across the bed, so as to take his hand and offer it a small squeeze, and together they simply lay side by side, with their hands clasped together in a simple yet significant act of intimacy. A thin beam of light shone through a gap in the curtains, where the neon and artificial lights of Tokyo provided an eternal reassurance of the world beyond their four walls. It caught at the white eyes of Warsman, adding to their life and soul, and Kevin – still pale and clammy – winced and asked softly:
“Do you think me a bad person?”
A silence fell between them, albeit not at all uncomfortable. Warsman hummed. It was a sound of consideration, while his hand turned so that palms touched, and his thumb brushed light circles upon the back of Kevin’s hand. Outside, a siren sounded. The world beyond was busy and filled with life, yet here – in the comfort of their apartment bedroom – their only world was each other. Kevin smiled despite himself, unable to feel anything other than safety and comfort in the company of his husband. Warsman looked at him. Warsman asked:
“Do you think me one?”
“You’re evading the question,” teased Kevin Mask.
“No, I am truly not.” Warsman smiled with his eyes. “I think I did many an awful thing, some of which I regret and some of which I do not. I tell myself that it is okay not to regret all my ill deeds, because the ends will oft justify the means, and yet there is many a person that would disagree with that sentiment. Who am I to speculate on the nature of ‘badness’?”
“Yes, but . . . you admit that you’ve done bad, right? You murdered. You harmed. I’m not so much asking as whether you were justified or not, but more . . . well . . . is there a way back from all that bloodshed? Is there such a thing as redemption or am I . . .?”
He let the word ‘damned’ be consigned to silence.
It was a strange question. Kevin confided in Warsman always, with little left out of his life history or past deeds, and yet – somehow – the question of faith, of ethics, of morality had never once reared its head. Perhaps, both souls knew better than to pull at loose threads. Warsman luckily needed no prompts. He pieced two and two together, as he angled himself fully towards Kevin, and brought the hand to the place where his lips ought to be, so as to present it with a chaste kiss and an obvious display of affection. He asked softly:
“What has brought on this sudden moral dilemma, my love?”
“I keep having these dreams,” said Kevin. “I – I wake up in this totally dark place, with the smell of blood everywhere, and these ghosts . . .” He winces. “They torment me. They pull my hair, slap my face . . . once they stripped me and humiliated me . . . but always – always – there is blood. It rises higher and higher, until I drown in it! I sometimes think . . .”
“Go on,” prompts Warsman.
“I sometimes think it’s hell. Tch! Seriously, how stupid is that?”
“Not at all. Although, I personally do not believe in the concept of hell. I am a firm believer in both redemption and proportionate punishment, and I could not believe in a god – or gods – that would allow for the soul to be damned for eternity, with no hope of betterment.” He scoffed. “Now that is the true evil. Not that of a man so torn by guilt that it manifests in his dreams. Guilt means regret. Regret means empathy. That is not the heart of a bad man.”
“Yes, but if I were a good man, I wouldn’t have done those things.” He pauses. He looks out to the window, where the world beyond lies ignorant to his plight. “Would I? I mean, just look at those like Terryman or Mantaro . . . always quick to do what is right.”
“Right and wrong are not absolutes.” Warsman stroked at his hair. “Did Terryman not strike at his child? Did Mantaro not lust after women? We may have been made in God’s image, but we are but replicas and can never hope to embody such perfection; we can only strive to emulate it to the best of our abilities. If he is an absolute, we must strive to be as absolute, but we also must be realistic and realise it is like chasing rainbows or grasping the moon.”
“You’re not making much sense now.”
Warsman shifted his position. He scooted closer, so that their bare knees touched beneath the sheets, with only the soft feeling of black satin to protect their modesty, and that same satin – clinging to legs and hips – somehow made Kevin feel more exposed that outright nudity. The topic at hand did not help. He felt a quickening in his heart . . . vulnerable, raw, bared . . . a stab of fear struck that he might be judged, but it quickly died as Warsman pulled him into a cosy and comfortable cuddle. Kevin rested his head against that beating heart.
“I mean to say that good and bad exist in every man,” says Warsman. “Take your father. He did me a great disservice, but he equally showed me great kindness. He was at times devoted as a husband or friend, but at other times fell quite short, and yet he strives always to be better, even when he fails or makes mistakes. He knows he can never be perfect, yet he will always aim for perfection. That is why I admire him. He will stop for nothing less than ‘perfect’.”
“But if he can never be perfect, what’s the point in even trying?”
“Because it is what separates us from evil. There is no one – no one – on this planet that can call themselves ‘good’, but there are those that put out more good than bad, and that strive to leave the world a better place than when they left it. I do not know when the scales of my past deeds will finally tip into the favour of ‘good’, but if I do not try then they never will.”
Kevin nodded. It was a difficult gesture when pressed together, but the brush of skin on skin reminded him of life and intimacies, and he relished in that basic human connection. The beating of the heart was steady and calm, while the hand not entwined with his was strong and warm. The two of them were there on a summer night, in all the chaos of the sprawling metropolitan, and yet this was their heaven. They were together. Kevin smiled. The small blessing no longer felt so small, but instead was the greatest gift he ever received.
“That’s almost inspiring,” teases Kevin.
“I pray that it will be.” Warsman chuckles. “I only know ‘forgiveness’ is a nebulous construct, especially when true forgiveness can only be achieved when we forgive ourselves. If you go seeking for external validation, you will never find yourself redeemed, as the world will have a thousand different ideas about ‘justice’. The fact is that sometimes it is enough to simply be sorry, and – if it is not – you can always do good until you feel it is enough.”
“And if what I do is never enough?”
“Then it is enough to try.”
“I wish I could believe that. I feel like I’ve taken too many lives, done too much harm, and yet I look to you and I would never think you were beyond redemption. I know Mantaro says that I’m too self-loathing, too much a lone wolf, but the fact is that I just don’t feel worthy. I feel like . . . I feel like I don’t deserve to be forgiven. Like maybe all I’m good for is evil.”
“That is sadly a feeling that traps many a criminal. A self-fulfilling prophecy. Yet, even they are capable of change and growth and betterment. Who is to say who is worthy? Judith was lauded for the act of murder. Abraham commended for the act of sacrifice. David forgiven the act of adultery. The fact is that you have done many a great deed, saving many a number of people, and that is not because you were ‘evil’ or ‘good’, but because you were you.”
Tears pricked at his eyes. Tears that would have otherwise been hidden by a mask, one both literal and figurative, and tears that cleansed him as he shed them, finally feeling a small weight lifted from his shoulders at long last. He still saw them in his mind . . . ghosts of past victims, spirits of lost friends . . . but their presence feel less aggressive, perhaps a little more understanding, and he wondered how long until he would no longer feel them at all. Whether in his mind or in reality, perhaps one day he would be free from them. Kevin whispered:
“Who knew you were so religious?”
“I am Russian. Orthodox is my middle name.”
“Yet here you are sleeping with a man.”
“Let us not start that debate at this time of night.”
A soft laugh escaped Kevin. He wiped at his eyes with one hand, before he took Warsman’s face in a gentle touch and stroked at the entwined metal and flesh. The moment lingered between them, passing from seconds into what felt like minutes, and neither man could look away from one another, both overwhelmed by love and mutual comprehension. There were very few who had stared into the abyss of hell and pulled themselves out, fewer still that would strive for redemption, but here they were . . . together.
“Thank you,” said Kevin.
“You are haunted by your ghosts and god,” says Warsman. “Together, we will lay both to rest and allow you to find the peace you so deserve. You are not a ‘good’ man, but merely a man. If you allow your imperfections to consume you, they will devour you whole.”
A stray breeze blew in from the open window. It caught the curtains and made them dance in the wind, shifting shadows on the walls and momentarily exposing the vast expanse of millions of twinkling lights and millions of people. The barrier was gone. He felt like it was a sign, like finally he was among the people he swore to protect, and – for one moment – he felt like things were truly perfect. The breeze died down. He kissed Warsman. The lips lingered and his hands held for dear life onto that of his husband, but he needed this. He needed to love and be loved.
“I love you,” whispered Kevin.
“I love you too, моя любовь.”