After The End

To Quit A Career

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter. The sound was a rhythmic drumming upon the muddy grey pavement, interceded with loud splashes as my shoes disturbed puddles reflecting the overcast sky. My home was still a while away, I shouldn’t be in the open. Really, though, at this point, why should I care? I’ve seen too much, know too much. Having an assassin stumble upon me wouldn’t be such a bad situation to be in-- I would be too occupied, too busy fighting for my life to feel this melancholy.

Water droplets drum along to the beat of my steps, tapping along my shoulders like hundreds of unwanted fingers demanding my scattered thoughts, my fragmented attention. My suit jacket shrugs off most of the rain, but my clothes are drenched, as if I’ve thrown myself a pity party. Not too far off the mark, to be honest. I find my mind wandering, casting about tendrils into my memories in search of the nearest dry cleaners. I unwittingly snorted at the thought. The last time I was near such an establishment, I was still an i***t. Which would be nice, but sadly I’d rather be smart and wanted than an i***t and desperate.

I turn around the corner, my feet tracing a familiar path. I barely notice as the ground beneath me transitions from wet concrete to scuffed wood, the doorstep worn out from the number of times I’ve ran up it, diving for cover. I walk past walls riddled in bulletholes from gunfights and my plain old frustration, heading into the shelter of the house. I closed the door, shutting out the sound of the growing rainstorm outside.

Home. Two chairs, a table, a couple of dirty dishes and a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting the entire living room in a yellow light. I lean against the door, reach into my pocket and fish out a packet of cigarettes and a silver Zippo lighter.

“I thought you kicked that habit.”

I ignored him, selecting a stick and putting it between my lips.

“Long day?”

I cup the lighter, flick the flame within it to life and bring it to the waiting end of the cigarette.

“You look like a mess.”

I take a deep drag, letting the nicotine-infused fumes curl up within my lungs. I hold it there for a while, then breathe out the tenseness in my muscles with the smoke. I watch the grey trail float away and dissipate into the air before allowing myself to answer. “And I thought I told you to stay away from my house, Corvus.”

“House?” asks Corvus, nudging the rickety old chair with his boot. “A shack, more like it. Where’d all your money go?”

“None of your business,” I say. I pluck the cigarette away from my mouth, drop it and crush it under my heel. “So, you crashing out here again, old man?”

Corvus chuckles as he pulls out one of my chairs and settles into it. “I’m barely older than you. Besides, I’m just here to see an old friend,” he says innocently.

I kick away the ashes. “As if,” I say with a tired grin. “You know what I know, Corvus. Bed’s ready for you in the usual room.”

“Heh, I knew you couldn’t resist my charms.”

“Only because I know you don’t take ‘no’ for an answer.” I collapse into the other chair. “What do you want?”

Corvus tosses a package at me. “Found this at the market. You think you can fix it?”

I set the small, hastily-wrapped packet on the table and carefully untied the brown rasta string. There, nestled among the crinkled brown paper was a mess of miniscule cogs, delicate metal filigrees and scuffed brass pieces. Beside this small pile of metal was a stained piece of paper, folded and refolded so many times that it practically fell apart in my hands as I lift it into the yellow light. I ignore Corvus’ impatient fidgeting and instead pore over the blurred ink lines-- blueprints, actually. I watch the images tracing themselves to life into my head, coming together into a beautiful brass pocket-watch in my mind, the lovingly-sculpted clock hands carving its way through time across the watch’s surface.

“Well?”

“It’s a pocket-watch, Corv,” I say. “One fine piece of hand-made work. Did you rescue it from the scrap-metal heap?”

“I thought I told you not to call me that.” A short pause, then Corvus sighs. “Some guy was selling it. Said it was a family heirloom, and he was desperate. Figured if you could fix it up, I could sell it for more.”

I shake my head sadly. “It’ll take a while. There’s missing pieces, and I need to get replacement for the glass and hinges. You’re not going to be able to sell this for a quick buck.”

“Who said I was?” asks Corvus nonchalantly, tilting the chair so he could rest his feet comfortably on my table. “Just doing some investment, my friend.”

I start sorting through the tiny, fragile pieces. “At this rate, Corvus, I could make a living out of this.”

“Then why don’t you?”

I freeze in the middle of my work.

“So much for being a prodigy,” smirks Corvus. “There’s advantages to being an ‘old man’ after all.”

I resume my task. “I… I honestly never thought about it.”

“We’re both barely adults, shortie. You can’t expect to be doing this for the rest of your life,” points out Corvus serenely. He rises from the chair and tosses me a small wad of bills. “For your trouble,” he says.

I didn’t see him leave, my mind was whirling. It was strange, no, stupid of me to not have thought about my future. I suppose I was more preoccupied with my position of existence than I thought.

*

I was kicking Corvus out of my bed the next morning. “Move, Corv,” I say. “Your spy friend doesn’t exist anymore, and most certainly doesn’t live here.”

Corvus groggily threw an easily-catched pillow at my face in retaliation. “I told you not to call me Corv. You made a decision?” he asks lazily.

“I’ll call you what I like, old man. And yeah. I’m going to be a clockmaker.”

SCREW TENSES. SCREW THEM ALLLLL