He called me a poet once. Few in words, he said. Absinthe didn't have friends. Only the love of the void. He loved the contrast though too. Color and shining, fireflies and the bright dull of dying leaves. When he asked me to end the Asylum, to effect his escape, it was rust on the barbed wire that made him fascinated. He loved the color of decay in the metal. We strung it everywhere.
It wasn't escape for him, it was all journey.
He was friend. I killed him in a forest of pines, dropped him forty feet from a fucking tree. He thanked me. I always did what he asked. Not out of some sense of being led. But that it always seemed right. He had that sense, of what would seem right to me. Maybe
I was led, but blood without end, well, it resonated.
He had set himself up, as a demon of the forest, taking children at night, leaving small tokens of their flesh. Solitary in the pines between sojourns. He knew it was final. That it had devolved. No longer demon of the battlefield, of the cities.
They went after the demon of the forest, the villagers, and they died. Armed as best the could with their wives plaintive cries behind them, they died. Some of the stupid fuckers even carried pitchforks.
Then they hired me.
I brought six men, quiet and deadly as arctic ice. The quiet was our failing, had we come up through the woods like we belonged there, he probably would have put it down to the bears that ran through there, noisy animals they are. Stealth alerted him. The silence and the void were his heart. He made it his time. He killed my best man with a blade in close combat, cut his throat right to bone.
The second was luckier, in some small sense. He smashed my friend's hand with a club against a tree. Absinthe rewarded him by tearing out his throat with his teeth.
And then he ran.
the sky is boiling
and there's something wrong with jane