A car drives down a street as the morning light starts to creep into the city skyline. It makes its winding way through the city towards a supper club. An unusual hour for such a car to be seen at a supper club, but this place sees its fair share of late night activities. The people who would notice such things are curiously looking in the wrong direction whenever it happens. As the car gently rolls up to the side of the curb and parks, its lone occupant gets out.

“Can you keep moving forward after each job?” a woman’s voice whispers to him.

He stands there, breath seeming to chill the air in front of his face. Cold skeletal hands seem to reach out to grasp at his back. It feels as though Death itself is inviting him back to the prior scene of this evening. Tickling the nape of his neck as if asking him to look back. The supper club door looms before him. The edges of its frame seem to exaggerate and twist out as if asking for an embrace. He smells something frying and a slight sulphuric odor.

“You’ll never know if you don’t look,” her voice teases him. Tantalizing his heightened thoughts and senses to gaze back, to look upon her.

He doesn’t look back. He moves forward.

His vision returns to normal as the scene fades and he enters the establishment. The sight before him is just as he remembers it from earlier yesterday. Nothing overly luxurious, but everything in its place and placed there to emphasize the beauty in not overindulging. He makes his way to the only occupied center table at this time. A lone figure resides there smoking a cigar.

He strides over to the seated man. Papers are strewn over the table. A fresh plate of fried ham is sitting next to them. The man gestures for him to take a seat and he does.

“Good evening, Trey,” the cigar smoking man says.

“Evening, Mr. Morrigan.” Trey replies.

“Is it done?”

“Yes sir.”

“Excellent.” says Mr. Morrigan and he reaches for an envelope next to the papers. The envelope drops in front of Trey with the weight of a gavel pounding off the block.

“Is its weight heavy enough to offset your actions?” her soft voice whispers to him again.

The steak bleeds dark blood that envelops and spills over the sides of the plate. It rushes over towards the envelope. The envelope seems to droop off the edge of the table as though an anvil presses down on it from above. Blood mixes with bright green bills as both spill onto the ground. Blood coats the mountain of wealth that accumulates on the ground drowning the money in a seemingly endless cascade of crimson.

“Or will they drown your soul in its depths?”

The smoke from the cigar seems to fill the air and settle on the head of Mr. Morrigan in two simple sharp points. His glasses glow red as he takes a pull from the cigar in his hand. The papers in front of him seem to read a name. They spell it over and over. They all say the same name. The name of the person he left splayed out on the floor earlier this evening.

“Can you deal with the hell that follows?”

Mr. Morrigan begins to cut into his steak as he tells Trey, “We’ll contact you when we have another job for you.”

“Thank you sir.”

“Clean yourself up too. I can still smell the smoke and powder.”

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Yes sir,” Trey says as he stands back up and heads toward the door, envelope in hand.

He makes his way outside, coat feeling as though it is being clutched at by hands unseen. He gets into his car. Hands that seem to weigh twice as heavy clutch the wheel with the strength of a drowning man. He drives away from the supper club, towards his house.

“Can you live with yourself?” 

“No,” his voice, quietly, reaches out to her for the first time in his life. For the first time since he heard her after that first day. That very first day, where his actions led him down into the darkness. Into making money hand over fist. Into debts bigger than he could ever pay off. Tears streak down his face as his vision blurs. As another grave is dug for another forgotten person.

“Then why do you continue?”

“It’s all I know anymore,” he croaks, guts coiling up protectively inside. Chest constricting his breath as if every one could be his last.

“What if there was a way out?”

“You can’t get out this deep.”

“There’s always a way out,” she says in his ear, so close yet infinitely far away. “You just have to want it.”

He pulls into his driveway and parks. “I deserve this.”

“Only if you give up on saving yourself. Look at me.”

He stiffens instinctively. Every instinct screaming at him to not look. To bury the voice, keep it quiet, ignore it. Let it fade away again as it always ends up doing. She always tries to do this to him. The salvation can not be worth the pain. Doing the right thing only gets you killed, beaten, or pushed down into the mud to squabble for scraps with everyone else.

“You could find a way to live with yourself. On the inside. Let me help you.”

He slowly turns his head towards his passenger seat. A face looks back at him. It radiates with a soft gentle light. Her eyes gazed into him, stripped his soul bare and forced him to see all the rot and decay upon it. The sorrow that filled her eyes in that moment made more tears stream down his face. He looks out of that rot filled corpse of a soul feeling like a caged animal being appraised by a butcher.

Her gaze bores a hole in the ground underneath his feet and he feels himself sinking down into the depths. Faces line the wall. He recognizes them all. They look upon him with silent accusation. Blood appears to well up from the grave he finds himself in. It surges up eagerly as if to swallow him whole. He feels hands begin to hold him down. To drag him further and prevent him from ever escaping this fate. This fate that he damned himself to with greed. He does not fight it. He accepts this because it is the only way it could ever have ended. Blood begets blood after all.

“I forgive you,” she compassionately states.

Her words shock him out of his sorrow and pity. The hands and river freeze, as though stunned by her words. Who could forgive someone so clearly deserving of this fate. The wicked must be punished since there is no good that can come from a lost soul.

“Why? I have nothing but more sorrow to sow,” Trey asks confused.

“Anyone can be redeemed,” and she reached out to him. “Sometimes they just need a helping hand.”

Hope begins to blossom in his soul. The rot seems to burn away from it as though her very offer is enough to stem its advance. As he gazes with wonder upon her face flowers bloom from the edges of the hole. The sun seems to sparkle behind her, giving warmth to the gesture. A feeling of selflessness exudes from her eyes. A warm gentle feeling of comfort rests behind her smile.

Uplifted by hope, he reaches out and grasps her hand. She pulls him free from the muck and grime of despair into a world full of color and vibrancy. A path lies before him. Its cobblestones glitter gold from the rays of light that she produces from her figure.

“You can see the path to redemption now.”

“Thank you!” he gasps as if just coming up for air. He sprints down the path and up the steps into his house. Running to find his pen and paper he begins to write furiously. The details of his former life filling the page. Everything he can remember from all the jobs he did. His confession gives further life to his once dying soul. Each word burns another piece of rot from his soul. Each paragraph lifts another weight off of once heavy shoulders.

“It’s time to do the right thing,” she tells him as his coat leaps back onto his back and seems to propel him out the door as if carried on wings. He heads to his car, gets in and drives toward the nearest station.

“Can you live with yourself?” she asks again.

“Yes,” he replies smiling.