Cross and Conflicts

CHAPTER XXVIII: Affinity to Murder

Tremulous, her hands froze and hung above her beating chest. The gun raised over to her face seemed—to her—like something she shouldn’t even touch, for if she did, she might contract a disease that she’ll never be able to recover from. Noumenon thought that if she accepted Cross’ challenge, she might really become a sick version of herself who would succumb to losing her sanity.

Suddenly, he let loose of the weapon. She, on the other end, was supposed to catch it, but she only watched the gun drop to the floor.

Klak! Went the sound of its impact to the surface.

With pococurante eyes, Cross continued to stare down at her while she looked irresolute about what she should do next.

“Pick it up,” he said, but these words sounded closer to a threat. He was beginning to get disappointed.

Noumenon, though hesitant, looked up to meet his austere gaze. The moment she did, she felt a pang of frustration since the expression on his face appeared to ask her where that conviction of hers when she pleaded for help from him gone to. She then decided to divert her attention below her. Slowly and carefully as if she was going to deal with something that might cost her life, she squatted down to collect the gun. She hadn’t meant to, yet she clutched the weapon firmly like she devoted all of her strength that morning just to do so. She felt the coldness of the weapon, and for a moment there, she wondered how many has the gun in her hand killed.

Now irked, Cross abruptly grabbed the neckline of her dress at her nape and pulled her up. With obvious tenacity, he shoved her towards the bleeding man inside the room.

The novice tumbled, and she almost mowed her face to the befouled floor. Before her, then, was a man whose eyes were already mere circles of painful red. These organs of his were immensely battered that it was impossible for him to even lift an eyelid. Blood coated his temples and had flowed down to his shoulders dirtying his white polo. The chains that were used to tie him down to the chair looked to have sunk closer to the bones on his wrist since he struggled violently to break free from the torture.

“Hmm,” he moaned; the weakness in his tone told her that he probably won’t be alive for long.

She deplored what the man had been made to suffer. She has no idea why he has to end up this way, but his severed fingers made her feel that she shouldn’t add more to his torment. More than this, however, she feared for the fate that awaited her if she refused to do what Cross asked of her. His gaze was still very intent on her—observing if she could really have an affinity to murder or if her resolve to kill her father was but a fleeting moment of abrupt madness.

She forced herself to be on her feet, yet she couldn’t help but shudder—shudder at the thought that she would have to soil her hands with the blood of a stranger she has no absolute reason to kill. Even so, with both hands trembling, she pointed the gun at him. Her index finger found the trigger while she looked at him with indignation. She definitely wasn’t angry towards him, but to herself who will shoulder the burden of taking away his life.

Her defiance was apparent as tears started to well in her eyes. She bit her lower lip hard until her teeth sunk to the thin flesh and made it bleed.

“Ngh!” she cried.

Cross held on with a stoic anticipation, yet inwardly, he delighted in her struggle. To him, this display was far more entertaining than any show he has seen. He was really looking forward to the moment that she will carry this out. As soon as she will commit the sin of killing that man, she will have to endure the guilt of doing so until her last breath, and there will be one less innocent person in this world.

To the vigilante who has robbed the lives of several, a person like Noumenon shouldn’t be allowed to exist. He actually hates this woman. He deemed her a pure soul who didn’t need to walk the path of a recidivist. He couldn’t accept that she has to be someone whose hands are clean from the influence of criminality while he has to constantly exhibit his monstrosity.

He could consider it fated when their second meeting transpired. He was only there to ensure the doom of the vice mayor of Intramuros; he hadn’t really expected that the novice would brave the idea of asking him for help to kill her father. Initially, this slightly stunned him, for how could a woman, so meek, think of such a grave deed? It appeared, whatsoever, that this qualified for his preference. Till that point, he didn’t see her potential to subjugate to her madness, but surprisingly then, he longed to see it happen.

Noumenon still couldn’t relax her aim. In each passing second, the gun on her hand felt heavier, and she felt that she was losing a part of herself—her rationality that dictated her not to ever be the same as the man who ended the life of her mother thirteen years ago. But alas, she’s here, turning out to be like the person she loathes.

She focused on the wounded man in front of her. Vigor had long left him, and the feeble movement of his head caused her to detest the quagmire she has tossed herself in. Yet then, she realized that something like this isn’t exactly unfamiliar to her; astonishingly, this has stimulated a memory of long ago which reminded her that the man Cross told her to finish off isn’t the first one she has pointed a gun at.

It was unforeseen, but she recalled that during that rainy night before the cluster of acacia trees, she collected the gun next to the man who lied unconscious on the muddy ground after getting hit by a branch on the head. In her juvenile rage, she approached him, sat down and connected the weapon’s muzzle to his crown.

Bang!

It then became clear that all along, she may just be the same as her father. She wasn’t mistaken; she did shoot him in the head, and she saw the grotesque hole on it.

Klak! The vigilante watched her drop the firearm down the floor.

Fearful, Noumenon looked intently at her trembling hands and receded away until she slumped next to a wall. She agonizingly thought that she had already murdered someone, and it was none other than her father. But why? She wondered. Why is he alive when she had clearly killed him?

Blawp! She vomited the contents of her stomach. She felt queasy as she became disgusted of herself. She wiped her lips. Who was she to even judge murderers when she is technically one of them?

In her confusion, Cross, on the other hand, wasn’t glad. He stormed to her and roughly pulled her chin up. “So,” he said with condescension, “What’s it gonna be, woman? You can’t do it?”

She stared at his eyes with utter horror. “I’m sorry; please, I beg you. Give me time to think about this.”

Amused, he grinned. “Alright.”

She wasn’t expecting that he would acquiesce, yet—she told herself—she shouldn’t really expect much about it.

“However, you have to kill him before the sun sets because, you see,” he rudely squeezed the sides of her mouth, “If you still won’t be able to do so, I’ll be the one to kill you."