Aftermath..

​Max Frankel

​“Aftermath”

Maxfrankel

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BANG. The hot steel of the gun is still smoking as Hugh’s hand shakes. He was a good kid, never hurt anyone, at least that’s what his mom said growing up. The peeling wall of the run-down motel has a thin scatter of blood on it. The bed is aged, wood full of dings; this is a well-used but poorly maintained room. Hugh looks down at his large black cargo boots, a size too big to offset any footprint, and it's hard to catch the guy with different-sized boots. Although black, he can see the darkened spots from his target. He didn’t want this, not at all, not in the slightest. His Blue jeans are tainted, never to get the blood out, so he says it’s from work, that he's a painter. That’s the advice he was told: ignore it, pretend it’s normal. There is no normal anymore; there was yesterday, but there can’t be tomorrow. Hard to get around it, He killed another, he’s a killer. His shirt, once white, is now mostly red. He can taste the blood above his lip, smell it like nothing he’s smelled before. His hand is still shaking as he tosses the gun on the bed.

“They are going to get me.”

Hugh's Remarks. He’s nervous; he won’t survive jail. He’s basically a kid, a kid who’s gotten involved with the wrong crowd. All he can think about is the evidence around him- how he can get rid of it, quick.

“I’m a deadman, I'm fucked!"

Hugh's eyes begin to swell; his life is about to change in a million ways if it hasn't already. He looks up at Marty, pleading for answers.

Marty chuckles. Unlike Hugh, he can prepare black everything. His growing beard has a splash of blood he seemingly ignores. He is wearing all black, boots, pants, sunglasses, all combat-ready. He has a small handgun holstered at his waist, just out of reach. He stares intensely, like a parent watching their kid on a playground. Regardless of whether he wanted this, this is his life; he is a killer, always has been, always will be. He was in trouble growing up, that’s what everyone says, at least. He doesn’t want to be, but the money is good, and business is booming.

“Why are you laughing? My life is over!”

Hugh seethes at Marty. He finds his lack of concern irritating to say the slightest, I mean, this is all his fault in the end! Hugh didn’t want this. Hugh only went alone to be a lookout; he would have used the money well and gotten out quickly. But no, Marty was the one who made him pull the trigger; Marty is the one who insisted it was the only way. It should have been that psychopath, Marty should have been the one to have to shoot him. A dude, they didn’t tell either of them what the dude did, what his name is or why he had to kill him, so they called him the dude. Hugh didn’t sense evil in the dude. He did, however, sense great evil in Marty; to a degree, he feels it in himself. Hugh never felt it before, that evil, it was an ugly feeling, Murky. He didn’t like to feel murky, not at all.

“You’re what, 20? You killed one dude, you’ll recover.”

Marty chimes back. He thinks Hugh is being dramatic, then again, he can’t fully remember his first kill, many years ago, many bodies ago. He remembers it was cold out, and the snow fell like tears from an angel. The moonlight lit up the courtyard as he stalked his prey. The gun was cold; it took force to pull the trigger. He remembers using bags of rock and dismantling the body. He remembers his old man of a mentor teaching him the best places to chop a man up. He doesn’t remember reacting like such a baby; he wasn’t claiming his life was over. No, it was just starting.

“What did I do?”

Hugh is almost crying, his shaking has climbed up his body, and he looks like a frightened boy. He looks over at Marty, pleading for the answers, but Marty avoids eye contact.

“Marty, help!”

Hugh’s voice shakes. Without saying anything, Marty walks into the bathroom, he grabs an old, red towel and soaks it in the sink. As the water washes over the towel, Hugh rocks himself sitting on the bed slightly. Marty sighs as he takes a gun out of his holster and loads it. Hugh looks at himself in the dirty mirror, but he tries to form a smile to no avail. Maybe he doesn’t realize it, but he doesn’t have pride in what he does, significantly less than he did at the very least.

“Hey Kid, what would you have done if you didn’t choose this life?”

Hugh pauses, confused. Marty isn’t the type to ask about non-work things. No, Marty is a clock-in and clock-out warrior, don’t talk to him, don’t follow him, don’t see if he has a family. One can assume it’s logical, such a dangerous career, you should protect yourself, to Marty, that is telling nobody anything. Hugh takes a breath, and Marty listens attentively as he washes the rag.

“I guess I wanted to paint, I always loved the art, the way the paint moves to create something wonderful. I always thought that was cool. When I was a kid, my parents would take me to the art gallery; they once had a Picasso. It wasn’t perfect, but that was the point; I always liked that.”

Marty smiles and nods. He walks out of the kitchen, wet towel in hand, loaded gun in the bathroom. Hugh smiles slightly as Marty starts wiping the bloody wall, left to right. He seems unfazed by the gore and the smell as he eyes the dead body.

“You should put the dude in the tub; dead bodies make a mess.”

Hugh nods and drags the dude across the floor, leaving a trail of blood. Marty sighs as he wipes the wall. He’ll clean it as soon as he’s done the walls. For all of Marty’s flaws, he is very clean, which is what makes him such a pro. No nonsense, no bullshit, a clean, quick job. Marty struggles to understand why others don’t think the same way. Despite his appearance and demeanour, Marty does, in fact, care about things. People specifically, His wife, two boys. One’s eleven, One’s fourteen. Both are impressive. Trevor, the fourteen-year-old, is a fantastic hockey player. Team Captain, Goal leader, ready to fight for his team. Marty has yet to realize how much he admires his older son. His younger son leads a much less physical life; he is a smart boy. Wise among his years, he reads at a level years ahead. He writes well, better than Marty ever could. He was blessed with such a glorious family, a lovely life. His wife, the light of his world, my oh my, does he love her, unlike the kids, who know what he does for work. Marty was never proud of it, but now it’s too late; he’s a slave till the day he dies, or they’ll go after his boys. His wife, Samantha, was the one who told him to stay. She still thinks her husband only kills bad people. I suppose we all think a truth that keeps us happy or at least moral. As he wipes the blood, thinking of his family, Heath looks up at the loaded gun in the bathroom. Hugh doesn’t notice the gun; he’s still sitting in the sins he has committed as he dumps the body in the tub.

“Why do you ask what I wanted to do?”

Hugh ponders as he visibly reacts to the foul stench of rotting flesh. Marty sighs as he focuses on an especially tough blood stain.

“Usually those who react have aspirations or at least once did.”

Marty remarks back, he smiles a smidge as he destroys the clumpy blood stain. He then gets on all 4 and begins to wipe the floor.fp\\\f Hugh lifts the last leg into the sink, and he quickly stands up and rinses his hands in the sink. His eyes sparkle at the look of the gun; he gently grabs it and puts it on the floor.

“Why does your gun look so much better than mine? It’s got a glisten to it.”

Marty walks into the bathroom and grabs the gun from Hugh’s vision line. He frowns as he holds it tight. Hugh doesn’t know why he is jealous of the gun, I mean he hates weapons, he hates killing.

“What’s next for you?”

Hugh nods slowly. He raises his voice to say something, but stops himself. Marty nods.

“You’re leaving.”

Hugh pauses. He looks concerned as Marty smiles softly at his young companion. Marty doesn’t want this life for Hugh. He reminds him of one of his sons; he would never in a million years wish this upon a child of his. He sighs deeply and longly.

“I’ll help you, but it comes with a cost. Do you have a wife, kid?”

Hugh shakes his head slowly. He’s surprised as a young man that Marty would ask that. Marty walks over to Hugh, and he puts his hand on his shoulder, comforting him.

“I guess- I guess I’m close with my mom?”

Marty nods, and a small frown crosses his face. He knows what he has to do, but doesn’t want to. He can’t see this kid becoming one of their goons, killing people for the rest of his life.

“I’m sorry to say you will never see her again. Not if you want to escape this life of crime.”

Hugh’s eyes tear up; he looks down, shamefully. That’s a child’s one job: to be there for their parents, and Hugh has failed. Worst of all, she will never meet her future grandkids. She will always wonder what happened to that solo son of hers. Maybe she will blame herself for not stopping him from the wrong crowds, maybe not, hopefully not. Hugh takes a second before nodding. He can’t do this again. Take a man’s life. It weighs too heavily on his soul.

“Any last words before I help?”

Hugh is confused by this statement, its calm, cold nature. Something is wrong with it. Marty takes no pleasure in the question, for it’s a question tied to death. Not of an innocent, for after today, Hugh’s soul is just as soured as Marty's. It’s not about how many, it’s about the reason why. Hugh knows he can become a rich man, a very rich man in fact. He thought that’s what he wanted. An easy way to make some money. But everything changed when the bullet exploded from the chamber. In a second, he was a changed man, less hopeful, less idealistic.

Hugh doesn’t notice the slight twitch in Marty's arm as he slowly raises the polished steel mouth of the gun. Marty’s eyes grow regretful for an action he has yet to commit. His smile, once inviting to a club that only a few are members of, is now twisted into a darker smile. A Sorrowful one. The room goes black as the only light is reflected off the metal. Marty’s finger applies a light amount of pressure to activate the small explosion, sending the bullet out of the chamber and right into Hugh’s stomach.

BANG

“Sorry, Kid.”

Marty stands emotionless over the bleeding body; the walls he wiped are messy again. He rubs his temple as he looks at the scene. He did what the kid wanted: a way out. It’s either death or a slave till death. One is better than the other, but he can’t help but feel bad. He was a good kid. He just got unlucky; maybe he made the wrong choices. Marty doesn’t care; he’s dead now anyway.

“I work best alone.”

Marty bends over and closes Hughs' eyelids gently.

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