Joseph

The fire was burning and the room was hot. The snowfall could be seen from the window, thick flakes covering the already white ground. A man was sitting on the rocking chair in front of the fireplace and holding an old manuscript, reading about the history of the ancients. Behind him, a shadow figure made him aware of his presence.

“It’s cold out there,” said the mysterious man. “May I come in?” His voice was deep and the shadow cast by this person was stretching over to the wall in front of him.

Without turning around, the man in the chair gave no impression of being scared. No reaction. He kept the same posture and never let go of the book he was holding. “I suppose, given the fact you are already in,” said the man in the chair. “Fancy a tea?”

“All this kindness will not make me rethink my choices.”

“This is not about changing your mind, it’s about not changing mine. I spent five years killing and the rest of my life trying to pay for what I have done. Take whatever you want from this house, and I promise I will never tell anyone you have been in here.”

“This is what I am going to do. . .” The deep voice sounded troubled.

“Something tells me you are not here to steal.”

“If I wanted to steal I would’ve waited for you to go to school. Plenty of time.”

“I see you know things. You have done your homework.”

“I did not need much patience to learn about your routine, mister -”

“May I know why?” The man in the chair intervened. “Please, have a seat.” He pointed towards the other rocking chair next to him, closing the book and putting it on the small table next to his chair.

“My wife used to sit there. It’s been twenty years since she left this world, but it feels like a lifetime. We used to sit and read here, together. She was a retired nurse, I met her when I was in the army.”

“Can we please do this fast?” The standing man’s voice was trembling.

“First time killing?”

“Every time feels like the first time. I’m not a psychopath. I do this for a reason.”

“It was a very long time. Your people cannot forget, can they?”

“No one will ever forget, nor forgive what you have done to us, to the world.”

“Come and sit, please. Let me know at least what they told you. I promise I will be completely honest with you.”

During all this time, the man in the chair never moved. His face staring into the flickering flames of his fireplace. A couple of steps could have been heard moving towards him.

“You already know my name. May I know yours?”

“Just call me Joseph.”

“Scared a ghost might give away your identity?”

“No, it is better for both of us this way.”

“I have lived, and I have seen things. I can hear it in your voice that you are scared. You can walk away from this Joseph.”

“Walking away without finishing this is not an option.”

“May I know why? What have they told you about me?”

“You’re a plague, it’s your fault people die. I am doing a favour to the whole world, and honestly, I can live with that.”

“Whatever wrong I have done, it’s in the past. We were at war and I had to protect this country.”

“It’s not about your stupid war and your stupid country.” Joseph’s voice began rising, letting go of the anger he had contained until that point. “People died because of you, and now your time is due.”

“Please make it qui -”

A stab interrupted the man’s talking, who let out a cry, muffled by Joseph’s gloved hand. Both of their eyes let a tear come out. Joseph cleaned his eyes with the sleeve of his black jacket but the man’s one ran free down his cheek.

“You cannot kill anyone anymore now old man,” said Joseph, “Not now, nor ever!” He whispered.

“I . . .” said the man with a fainting voice, “I was young and stupid.” His lips were barely moving. His gasping for air slowed down, breathing less every second. “Ash, I hope I will see you again,” the old man said in between breaths. “Liz. . .” Every word after this was gibberish.

Joseph twisted the knife he had plunged straight into the old man’s heart, who soon enough, left out his last breath. Joseph, on the other side, checked himself to see if there’s any blood on him, letting go of the man's mouth. He looked around, limiting his movements to a minimum, trying to avoid touching anything by mistake.

“This is for all the people you killed,” he whispered. “For my baby sister.”

After a couple of seconds, he pulled the knife out, and went to the toilet to wash the blood down from it, dried it out with the pillowcase that was on the other chair, and pulled out a phone.

Hello, Paris Hotel, may I help you?

“Hello, good evening,” said Joseph, “may I speak with Hank Urban please?”

I am sorry, but mister Urban’s stay with us has just been terminated. He mentioned he will be at the Plaza in ten, said the lady on the phone.

“Understood, thank you!” Joseph put down the call and got ready to leave when he heard a suspicious noise in the front garden. He cautiously approached the front door, and without making any noise, he peeped through the window, just to see the back of a man, who, by the looks of it, was missing a leg and was just mumbling words to himself.

“Let’s take a walk,” he mumbled.

. . .

“I’m just a friend, nothing to worry about.”

. . .

“That, is a very long story, where shall I start? I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

As soon as the weird man outside finished saying those words, he left. Joseph panicked, he had to choose between the potential witness and his getaway. He checked his watch and realized he had eight minutes left to run away, definitely not enough time to chase the man and then disappear. He chose to leave. No one had seen his face and there were no prints around. He was safe.

Leaving through the back door, he noticed the clouded sky, but no snowflake was coming down. It was supposed to snow the whole night . . . damn it! Got to go with the river, he thought. After a brief pause, he looked behind at the trail of footprints he had left, and shortly after, he dived in and so, he was gone, leaving death in his wake.

The sound of the flowing river kept echoing in the dead of night and the weather calmed down as if it was paying its respects to the fallen. The world seemed peaceful, but not for long. Hank Urban’s death meant more than just a simple murder, it meant war, but on a bigger scale.