Criminal
I randomly mused on a few of my characters again...this was a great little way to chill out after a long day, even if it is crap.
His fingers shook on the keys. This wasn’t right, it never would be right, not with him attempting this at least. He had tried to assure himself that what he was about to do wasn’t impossible, wasn’t blasphemy, wasn’t heresy, and certainly wasn’t-…what was that? He leaned back in the desk chair, looking down the hallway out of the computer room, knowing damn well that no one was there, but fuck did that scare him. There was enough alcohol in his system to keep him just fuzzy enough to not let the fear cut deeper than the skin, but it wasn’t enough to silence his paranoia. If they found him down here, they’d probably have him punished somehow, and not the usual “oh you silly little boy, worrying about her again, tsk-tsk” punishment, no, definitely not that. There would be yelling, accusations, reminders of his “place,” most likely with words and weapons, yet all he was doing was what anyone else here could do on a whim, something he had seen done so many times. He had to try, if for no one else than himself…
The bookkeeper sighed, replacing another weathered tome back onto the self, the wood creaking familiarly under the weight of binding and paper, as if greeting a good friend. It just wasn’t worth reading about how the city was laid out in the olden days when the steward of this hall of knowledge was barely keeping himself upright. He wasn’t a heavy sleeper by any means, but it had been a long past few days, what with all the shifting of entire sections of the Eastern Wing. Always a hassle, the Eastern Wing, always getting shoved around as new material came in. A bloody mess, that was what it was: a mess. He’d probably go lock up the archive, grab something to eat and retire to his quarters. Even old men like himself needed rest every once and a while.
He had forced himself to take off his gloves as he typed, exposing shaking, pale hands. Dammit man, focus…FOCUS! He swore that he heard footsteps again, but everything was drowned out by the euphoric , bittersweet cocktail of fear, alcohol, and utter and complete excitement filling his veins. This was so dangerous, so damning, so wrong. He had been told so many times never to even think about doing this and yet now he flew, flew higher than he ever had before. It felt like he was on some massive, never-ending roller coaster, twisting, turning, thrilling, a ride that could only end with-
A creak and a yawn filled the room as the door to the archive was swung open, the bookkeeper shaking his head, trying to drown out the ringing that had been his ears them all day, his breath sounding metallic through its nonsensical drone: he’d even sworn he’d heard keyboard strokes not too long ag-
He straightened up. The scent was everywhere. Dammit! How had he missed him?! And what was he…
The words stared back from the monitor, a simple sentence, rushed, but not without focused, deliberate purpose, pointed, appropriately, like a swordsman’s blade:
“My name is Azarael Hame, and I will never forget.”
A few drags of a mouse and a click and a blank expanse of luminous white stared back at the bookkeeper, his hand shaking slightly, as if shuddering from the weight of the words it had just done away with. Staring into the nothingness, his gaunt, scarred face lit as if by moonlight in the flickering profile of the screen, the ancient scholar couldn’t help but let a few tears escape. So, the boy fancies himself a composer, a creator, a god, hmmm? He stood and locked the door behind him. This arrogance was going to be the death of them all. Was it not obvious by now? Not everyone can handle that burden, that weight of ownership of anything and everything one would ever say, ever record, and if he needed a perfect example…
The bookkeeper looked out the window of his bedroom, skyscrapers as hollow as jars long empty of sweet jam and childhood frolicking, streets as broken and worn as the soles of the shoes he had fought in when he was but a teacher in a world turning to war, the sky as pallid and overcast as his own soul, old and riddled with gunk and long-festering lesions, felt nowadays. Taking a deep swig of his tea, ignoring the strawberry pastries he’d brought out for himself, he couldn’t help but frown as his shaking hands sent a small slosh of hot liquid onto his fingers.
…if he needed a perfectly example, he need only look around.