Date: Thu, 25 Mar 2010 08:29:30 -0600
From: Katya_Dee <concertoind@gmail.com>
Subject: Specter's Gamble - chapter 11

This is a work of fiction; all the resemblances are completely accidental. I
am the one who owns all the ideas and characters in the story. Contains
violence and descriptive sexual scenes between two males. If you are not
supposed to read it, don't do so. Feel free to e-mail me with praises or
insults (former preferred).



- XI -



            It was almost eleven in the morning when he woke up. At first,
he couldn't figure out where he was, and then he remembered last night. The
cook, he thought and started to shake. The cook and his monocle... Desmond
gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. "Stop this," he ordered himself
silently. "Stop this right now!" To his enormous surprise, it worked and he
opened his eyes. He saw another white door in the corner and remembered what
Jason told him last night. There is a bathroom in here as well. Suddenly,
Desmond craved a hot shower so much that he became slightly dizzy. He bit
his lip and sat on the bed for several minutes, thinking. Finally, he got
up, grabbed another chair, and went into the bathroom. To his relief, the
bathroom door had a lock on it as well. He repeated the whole ordeal with
the lock and the chair before stripping his clothes off and turning the
water on.

   The hot shower felt beyond amazing. Usually, Desmond would wash himself
off in the little lake in the park where he slept; the water in that lake
was surprisingly crisp and clean, although it was quite cold. Therefore,
this shower felt heavenly. He stood there, his eyes closed, face lifted up,
enjoying the hot water running down his body, feeling like he was being
reborn. He stood like that for almost an hour before finally deciding to get
out.

   He grabbed a towel that was sitting atop the toilet and dried himself
off, his body almost singing from the glory of the shower. There was indeed
a new toothbrush in one of the drawers, and Desmond brushed his teeth
furiously, trying to get rid of the shadowy taste of bile in his mouth. He
knew that it was only in his head; there was no way he could taste the bile
by now, but he worked that toothbrush for almost ten minutes before feeling
satisfied finally.

   He put both chairs where they belonged and walked out of the room,
glancing around carefully. When he came into the kitchen, he was surprised
to find it empty; he thought Jason would be here. Desmond walked closer to
the counter and grabbed one of the bigger knives off the rack. He wrapped
his fingers around the handle and brought the knife down in a short,
stabbing motion several times, testing its weight. Then he imagined stabbing
that cook with it, and suddenly, something clicked in his head. That's it,
he thought in astonishment. That's it! He is going to kill that son of a
bitch! The thought almost made him laugh and he brought the knife down
again.

   "You are holding it wrong," the voice behind him said, and Desmond was so
startled that he almost dropped the knife. He whirled around and stared at
Jason. "You are holding it wrong," Jason said again, and Desmond blinked and
looked at his hand.

   Jason walked closer to him, ignoring Desmond's involuntarily flinch.

   "Here," he said. "Give it to me."

   Desmond silently handed him the knife.

   "Like this," Jason said and demonstrated the hold. "This way you are not
limited to just stabbing, and it also gives you much more flexibility in the
wrist. Wanna try it?" he handed the knife back to Desmond who just stared at
him in bewilderment.

   Finally, he took the knife and imitated Jason's hold.

   "Yeah," Jason nodded with approval. "Like that, good. I am going to make
coffee, move over, will you?"

   Desmond stepped away from the counter, his fingers still clutching the
handle of the knife.

   "So who is it that you want to kill?" Jason said indifferently while
working the coffeemaker. Desmond froze.

   "What...?" he squeezed finally. "Why would you... How did you..."

   Jason shrugged without turning around.

   "I know the look when I see one," he said.

   Desmond remained silent for a while.

   "I don't know his name," he said finally in a low voice. "He is... He is
a cook at Pig Under Umbrella..."

   That made Jason turn towards him finally.

   "Tomah?" he said with surprise in his voice.

   Desmond shrugged.

   "I don't know his name," he said again. Jason squinted his eyes slightly.

   "Tall bald guy?" he said and Desmond's shoulders tensed up immediately.
"Wears a monocle?"

   "Yeah..." Desmond whispered, his throat tight. "That's him, all right..."

   He expected Jason to ask why the hell would he want to do that, but he
never did.

   "He is a good cook," he said instead.

   "Yeah," Desmond whispered again. "Bloody brilliant..."

   Jason turned towards the cupboard and opened it.

   "He used to be a part of militia force around here for quite a while
before he was discharged," he said after pulling two cups out. "He is
well-trained. You won't stand a chance against him. You will end up getting
hurt... Or killed," he added and filled one cup with coffee. He handed it to
Desmond who sat the knife on the counter carefully and took the cup.
"However, there is more than just one way to kill someone," he said, and
Desmond almost spilled his coffee.

   Is he mocking him? He has to be! People don't just mention nonchalantly
that there is more than one way of killing someone after finding out that
some kid wants to waste local cook. Desmond felt anger pushing the back of
his head with short stabbing kicks.

   "Don't mock me," he said slowly.

   "I am not mocking you," Jason said seriously. "Tomah..." he sighed. "He
is a great cook, but he is also a class-A bastard. Everyone knows that. The
reason he was discharged from the force a couple of years ago is that
brutality of his... Long story," he shook his head and looked at wide-eyed
Desmond. "I am not going to ask about your reason, but I am pretty sure it's
a good one."

   Desmond had no idea what to say to that.

   "You could play it safe," Jason continued. "And kill him from the
distance..."

   Desmond immediately shook his head, the weirdness of this entire
conversation slipping away faster than sand through someone's fingers.

   "No," he said in the same low voice. "No. I want to see his eyes while he
is dying... I want him to look at me... I want him to know who killed
him..."

   Jason looked at him silently for a long while. Finally, he said:

   "I could help you with that... I could teach you if you'd like."

   Desmond couldn't speak for several minutes.

   "Teach me," he said at last.

****



   It was a couple of months later, and Desmond was standing next to the
man, who was spread out on the ground, his eyes hazy with drugs that Jason
slipped in his drink an hour earlier, his fingers twitching involuntarily.
The man looked up and his mouth stretched in a loopy smile when he saw
Desmond.

   "Hey, precious," he said slowly, his speech slightly slurred. "Came back
for more?"

   Desmond was surprised that he didn't feel anything right now; no anger,
no fear – nothing. He felt frozen again, the same way he felt after he left
his Grandmother's house. He pulled the knife from underneath his jacket, and
the cook's eyes widened slightly.

   "Wanna play it rough, huh?" he said in the same slow slurry voice.

   Desmond went down on one knee.

   "Look at me, Tomah," he said, and it felt like he wasn't the one saying
the words. It felt like someone else was doing it for him. "Look at me...
Because I want to be the last thing you see before you die."

   The cook's eyes went even wider, his drugged-up mind getting the idea of
what was going to happen.

   "Precious," he said, trying to move, trying to get up, but his efforts
were futile. Jason knew his drugs, Desmond thought indifferently. "Precious,
what are you doing?"

   "I am doing the world a favor," Desmond said and brought the knife down.

   He looked at the blood that gushed out of the slit throat, and then he
locked his gaze with the dying man's eyes. He watched them turn glassy, life
slowly slipping out of them, as the cook was trying to say something in a
desperate futile effort. Finally, the man convulsed, one last breath escaped
from his slashed throat, and his eyes were death-still, locked on Desmond's
face. Desmond reached out with his left hand and carefully pulled the
monocle off the dead man's face. He looked at it thoughtfully for several
minutes, then dropped it on the ground, swung his right arm, and brought the
knife down one more time. The tip of the knife smashed precisely into the
middle of the dully-shining monocle, and the glass shattered almost
immediately.

   Desmond got up slowly, fingers curved around the knife handle. He looked
at whatever was left of the monocle for several long seconds, and then
smashed the heel of his boot onto it, grinding the remains of the glass into
a fine dust. Finally, he stopped moving, and simply stood there, frozen
expression on his face.

   "Did it make everything better?" Jason asked him, leaning on the wall, a
cigarette clenched between his teeth.

   "No," Desmond said unemotionally. "But I feel satisfied."

   "That's good," Jason nodded. "I could teach you a hell of a lot more if
you'd like."

   Desmond turned his head and looked at him.

   "Teach me," he said calmly.

   "All right," Jason nodded again. "On one condition though..."

   Desmond kept looking at him, saying nothing.

   "You have to promise me that you will not kill for your own revenge or
pleasure ever again," Jason said seriously.

   "I promise," Desmond said in the same unemotional voice. "Teach me."



****



   Ever since that night, the nightmare that has been torturing him for the
last several months, simply stopped. Desmond never dreamt about it again.