XLVII
Little did he know, but Bean was high, though he had not ingested any pill, and his veins were untapped, unbruised, and unspoiled. He rolled out from beneath the carriage with a jagged weapon in his teeth and a pinching look of threat in his eyes. He had never felt this certain before.
It was a certainty that was absolute, but aware and accepting of the premise of chance and possibility. It was a certainty that was unlikely to fail. This was so different to the certainty that he had always known; that which was unaware of failure, and thus, unaware of its own true potential. It was a certainty that turned his knuckles to stone, and his heart like a great ball of wrecking fire. It was a certainty that had the Light within him surge like an electrical storm. It was a certainty that would not stop until this girl was dead.
And it felt inspiring and empowering. It felt charged and immalleable. It felt searing, blistering, and capable of catastrophe; and it felt in complete and absolute control, even when it wasn’t - especially as he himself was hostage to this drunken state of heroism.
He first peered through the window and saw the girl sleeping on her side. Her legs were different. They were deranged and satirical. They looked more like spiralling pasta than they did common limbs. Her face, though, like the sound of her voice as she told her stories, was unmistakable. She had a face that was not conditioned for telling a lie. It bore all the marks of the honesty that she struggled to keep secret.
Bean had never actually killed another being before. Up until now he hadn’t needed to. As a Bookkeeper, he ordered it. He delegated the vice of violence and brutality to the Soldiers of Light. His word alone was like a whistle that would drive any soul out of their bunker, running headfirst into whatever maelstrom awaited with devastating intent. His eyes were like two shiny cannons, and his breath, a Panzer’s exhaust. He was, in every right, the epitome of war. He had ordered soldiers to march towards their own demise, and to martyr themselves for the good of Heaven. He commanded armies with a click of his fingers, yet he himself had never fought a battle with his own hands. He had ordered death, but he had not once taken its bags.
He felt so goddamn sure, though, staring at the girl as she slept. He felt excited and enraged. And the more he thought about enacting the violence, the more he imagined his glowing reception when he returned to Heaven.
Soon enough that was all he could imagine. Though he stared idly at the girl, he was now swept up by his imagination, picturing himself being showered with adulation, being hailed a hero, a saviour, and a messiah.
His tongue salivated, and his heart beat so rampant that is was hard to keep his blood from either rushing to his head and entirely losing his cool, or gushing to his feet, and leaving him upright, still and stupid, like a fence post or a totem pole.
Bean licked the end of his jagged weapon. Its point could cut through stone, so sharp was it. He moved slowly around the carriage, feeling, with every step, his body becoming momentously heavier, and the sound of his breath and his beating heart, excruciatingly loud. He could feel, though he assumed he was alone, a hundred thousand sets of eyes, all looking down on him, from every height and distance. His chest felt like it was about to explode; as if his heart were a ticking bomb.
He paused for a moment, at the edge of the carriage, and he prayed.
“Lord of Light and Light of Love, tis I, the Angel of Death. Make sharp my sword and right my aim; keep steady of my breath. Lord of Light and Light of Love, I beseech you for what more, make death the outcome of my will - prepare my heart for war.”