The Amen – Travesty – Chapter 3

“You’re doing it all wrong.” a voice within the darkness. So clear and precise that Amen could swear on his life, if he opened his eyes she would still be standing there. His eyes opened, he let the room come into focus, the sunlight peeking in through the thin horizontal blinds that looked over the bed. The covers were tucked in, the second pillow completely untouched. He was naked in bed, sleeping for once, yet the voice still rang a familiar innocence between his ears.

 

“Its too late to have these things again.” Amen mummbled, shuffling upright on the bed, edging towards the end of his bed. His eyes were fixed on the floor. The empty space filled all sides of the room, egg white shade that fit uniform to the remainder of the safe houses walls.

 

“..Was in the middle of remolding. Doing it for her..for my sister.” Amen could hear himself talking aloud, about the past.

 

“You are doing it all wrong , brother.” the ghost almost whispered, a disconnected exhale of words spoken so precise, they only became words. Amen shut his eyes, ignoring the ghost at the far corner of the room. Her pale arms crossed. Her lips thinning in anger. He could feel her glare at the center of his spine, rising up and down his back. Studying him, almost inciting the shudder that went up his back.

 

“What am I doing wrong?” He asked the ghost, whose stare he could feel rising from the center of his spine up to the base of his neck. It was a target, that is where she would speak to him.

 

“You followed a lead. Why did you kill him?”

 

“It was necessary.”

 

“No. It wasn’t.” Her voice remained free of the social taint of sarcasm, tactlessness and venomous anger. She spoke to convey information; she talked to gain wisdom, understanding and then-

 

“He knew you; he knew who you were and why you went to Travesty in the first place. That man had something to do with your murder.”

 

“How many people were at Travesty?” She asked, veering a hard left from the original direction of their conversation. “What?” Amen asked, turning in the bed to finally give her the attention of his eyes she deserved.

 

“You don’t know how many people were there. How many people saw you. What was his shift? His hours? Family? Girlfriend? Who would want him killed?” She stopped. In her state of mind, her, wording, Cyanide did not trail off of words or hiss, she spoke directly, though her voice as soft as a feather, above a whisper. Amens eyes rose up her figure, and then fell.

 

The kill was too fresh in his mind. The exit stragety was staggered and rushed, he shifted his way out of the club, the heavy bass, and the flickering lights were horrendous for that particular state of mind.

 

Amen didn’t look back, he couldn’t look back.

 

He rolled over to his side pressing his feet to the floor. Cold, under the bare skin he stood up taking in the sunrise that bled over his body. When you’re an insomniac, you’re never fully awake or fully asleep. He watched the light fade in past the darkness like a stop-motion film; it crept in through the blinds, over the furniture and soon filled the bedroom with its presence.

 

Hours to other people, to Amen, it lasted only minutes.

 

He didn’t dare use the spare bathroom in the hall, instead, took himself to the kitchen. Surprisingly, the utilities worked throughout the building, the gas cut on the heat, the water ran hot. With a gentle command, a stream ran from the kitchen faucet and into his cupped hands before he splashed his face gently.

 

Normal people sleep for eight or nine hours at a time. Amen simply stayed awake.

 

He cupped his hands beneath the stream, ran the water over his face, then down his neck.

 

“Devon County.” That name didn’t ring a bell, it reeked of a trap, but, Amen needed answers.

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