Ascending Shadow

over to Jeff. He straightened his posture. I swung hard at his left hand, the one holding the remains of his drink. The baton cracked hard against the glass and his hand, shattering both. The blow sent the glass cascading across the room. Jeff yelped in pain as he clutched his hand and drew it to his chest. He hunched over, and I swung again and struck his shoulder blade, causing him to fall from his chair and onto the white rug on the floor. He curled up in a fetal position, covering his head. I had no intention of making any cranial blows; it was too dangerous to risk causing a fatal injury. At least I wouldn’t use the baton for such things. I swung down and hit his legs multiple times. The action invoked thuds and cracks, as well as painful screams from Jeff. It reminded me of William, except William had more than deserved what he got. I struck him on his back four times, breaking various bones. I knew I was taking the beating too far, but I wanted to cover all of my bases.

He cried and moaned as quietly as he could. There is something so disgusting yet satisfying about making a man feel so much pain that he cries like a child. It’s not common, but after seeing it once, it is like realizing that they are, in fact, not superior. I kicked Jeff several times in his stomach and groin. What can I say, I lost a little self-control and smacked him once, not too hard, in the face with the baton. This busted his nose open, and he began to bleed on his beautiful rug. What a shame.

Jeff took a beating quite well. Not once did he ask me to stop. Not once did he plea for mercy. I could tell he really did feel like he deserved what was happening to him. I felt my phone buzz. I walked over to Jeff’s end table with his bottle of whiskey and took a drink straight from it. As I did, I pulled out my phone and read the text. It was from Franklin: That’s enough.

I glanced around, thinking Franklin must be watching from afar. I swallowed the whiskey in my mouth, shoved my phone back into my pocket, then knelt down next to Jeff.

“That is very good whiskey you have,” I poked him in the chest with the baton to ensure he was alive. He grunted and groaned in compliance.

“That’s a five thousand dollar bottle of Scotch,” he replied in one breath, expelling small droplets of blood from his nose.

“Oh, it’s not whiskey?” I replied, confused.

Jeff half laughed as he tried to glance up at me with one eye from the floor, “Scotch is a type of whiskey.”

“Ah,” I said, rising to my feet again, “Learn something new every day. I’m sorry for dragging this out, but I’m almost done.”

I kicked Jeff twice in the stomach, causing him to curl up again. I struck him twice more on his back, four more times on his legs, and just once more, a kick to his face. I could not imagine the amount of pain Jeff was in, but at the time I also didn’t care. I was enjoying the process of beating someone with time allotted to be meticulous. No cops, no interruptions. However, if I stayed any longer, I would likely accidently leave Jeff there dead, which was something Franklin specifically told me not to do.

I glanced down at Jeff, as he seemed to know his beating was over. I placed his cell phone next to him.

“Wait ten minutes before calling for assistance,” I told him. He nodded his head.

I quietly exited his apartment, took the elevator down, and walked out the front door of the building. I took in the cold night air, thoroughly satisfied with myself. A smirk rose on my face. I had an epiphany in that moment.

It took a Mortal Night for me to realize. My shadow wasn’t a demon or affliction to me. It didn’t have a mind of its own. It was part of me. That darkness came from within. I could not blame anything on it without blaming myself. I enjoyed the terrible things it did, the terrible things I did. There was no denying that after tonight.

As I tried to process this theory in my mind, a familiar sound crept up in the distance. Sirens. Already? It had been a mere two minutes. Stupid Jeff. I darted down an alleyway to the checkpoint for the drop off with Caro. I was instructed to meet her behind Roots and give her the drive. I raced through alley after alley. Stopping to catch my breath, I heard my phone buzz. It was Caro: Hurry.

As if I wasn’t already in a hurry, I continued two more blocks to our meeting location. She was already there. I rushed up to her.

“Do you have it?” she asked, with her hand out.

“Yeah, here,” I shoved the drive into her hand as I hunched over catching my breath.

“You took longer than you were supposed to.”

“Yeah? Well, now I have the damn cops after me.”

“They’ll find you soon enough,” Caro said, pulling out her gun.

“Yeah, I picked a good time for a vacation.”

“Yeah, you did,” Caro said.

Caro whipped around and pointed the gun at my chest.

“Don’t play, Caro, it’s a Mortal Night.” I said, rolling my eyes.

“I know. I’m sorry,” she said. As the words escaped her lips, I knew her intentions. I reached over with my right hand, and smashed down on the front of the gun, just as she pulled the trigger.

I felt warmth in my abdomen, where the bullet entered. I looked up with betrayal at Caro. She quickly pulled the barrel up to my head to fire another shot.

I closed my eyes. I heard a hollow whoosh, then a crack that sounded like metal against metal. I heard a hard thud as the gun hit the ground. I