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IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER, IN THE NAME OF THE SONHis black watery eyes stared at the fire raging in the fireplace with barely leashed control. He did not see the thick, red flames that licked at the ancient stones. He did not feel the heat that struck at his skin with wilting intensity. He was too consumed with his thoughts to see what was before him.
Years of fury and pain filled his chest to the boiling point. But he was without the strength to be angry. Vengeful, yes, but angry no. Fat tears leaked from his cold eyes. He wanted to die; he was even ready to die, but not yet. No, not quite yet. He still had things to do. Wrongs to right. The anger within him had consumed his whole life, and he had nothing to show for it.
A chill broke out along his pale skin. He had nothing but anger in his life. Beautiful, titillating, hot rage. He did not even have his children. They had deserted him. The flaming anger brewing in his heart had frozen his soul. He was unable to love. No, he had been unwilling to love. He could only hate. It was all that he had wanted. Soon they had come to realize he was not like other fathers. They had known something was wrong with their father even though they couldn't quite name it, and so they had left. They had left him with nothing but his all consuming rage.
Watching the blackened shadows drift across the darkness in which he shrouded himself was the only thing he had energy for. Yes, he was depleted, but he was not quite done.
Years of painful diligence had taught him that his death would not be without reason. In death he would be avenged. When his curtain fell the real show would begin. He only wished he could see herface when the final act closed.
Visions of her beautiful face contorted with rage filled his blackened soul with glee. A sharp bark of grim laughter cut through the darkness.
I shouldn't have done that, he thought, as a dry whimpering cough broke through the silence of the night.
His heart skipped and stumbled. He took a deep breath and found himself lacking air.
The dark man had come for him.
He took another deep breath, but all he heard was a wet wheezing sound leak through his clenched lips.
The man in black had come for him. He could feel his long fingers reaching out to grasp him.
Large fleshy hands reached out and behind to connect with his spine. Three heavy whacks dislodged the congestion that had clogged his chest.
He had no time for anything else. He could not fathom waiting to take a decongestion to relieve the ache in his chest. The best he could do was try to ease his pain, the pain of death. He had no time.
He only had a month to live.
One month. He had known he wasn't feeling up to par, but death had not seemed around the corner.
Just goes to show you old man, he thought as he lifted the legal pad from the desk drawer, you know nothing. The cherry desk groaned as he slammed it shut. The force of his action vibrated throughout the heavy wood desk. Apparently he still had some strength in him. Maybe he could fight off the imminent.
Maybe you could get two months instead of one.
He laughed at himself. He always was a greedy bastard. He couldn't ask for six weeks. No, he had to request double what was expected.
He knew his request had been denied. He had never been a choirboy. He doubted God had even opened his ears to his pitiful, selfish plea. With his past transgressions, he would probably have better luck if he prayed to the devil. Now there's the being who owned him.
No time for foolish thoughts he thought. He could feel old man Reaper coming to visit. He had precious few moments. Moments he shouldn't be wasting making stupid jokes and foolish wishes.
He picked up the ink pen that sat upon the cherry finished desk top without realizing it. He looked down at the item that had caught his attention and felt his fingers clench in anger. Maxwell Phillips it read. That was his name. That was who he had once been, but Maxwell Phillips was a man dying slowly, crawling to the edge of his grave.
One month.
He had little time to ponder his life. He had to write. Many letters had to go out tomorrow. The sooner, the better. He wasn't even sure if he would have the full month. God had a habit of working on his own time.
One Month.
He had so many things to do. He had to make sure that his son never forgot the man his father was. He had to make sure that he would always be remembered. He had to make that bitch, his wife, regret the day she had married him.
He had to take away the one thing she loved.
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