post office

“Darlin’ where yer goin’?”

Arthur’s powering presence rapidly came at your side, casting a shadow over your limping figure as you walk through the camp or rather…dragging your legs to do so. 

Heat evaporates on your skin as the rays of the sun boils your face, elaborating breaths begin to break from your lips. A line forms in between your brows whilst Arthur’s rough hand gently holds your hip. 

“I just wanna,” you gasp, curling your hands into a fist, loathing how your voice has turned out to be weak rather than recollected. A bead of sweat runs past your clammy forehead, your nails sinks into your palm at the familiar cramp that has ignited through your lower body, “I just…wanna walk…tired of…sittin’ aroun’.” 

Arthur winces at your tone, regardless the countless time he’s heard it, he’s  never going to get used to it. He squeezes your hip, holding still by his side while distancing  of the bustling sounds of the camp until is replaced by the  gentle waves of the lake. 

Against your will, you leaned towards him, allowing him to hold more of you when you’re the one who wanted to do it by your own accord. One after the other, sharp pain palpitates from within, the weight of his strong arm adds pressure as it fully encircles around your waist and his fingers rests on the edge of your lower abdomen. 

Grunts begin to surge but you hold it in your throat, your curled hand starts to tremble not knowing whether it’s from rage, the pain or this dammed heat. 

“A woman,” you whisper, running your tongue past your bottom lip, “cannot get…their morning walk…aroun’ here no more?” 

Arthur takes a sharp inhale through the nose and squeezes your waist, “It’s just…I get worried that’s all.”

His green-blue eyes travels around your figure, taking notice of your will to keep walking in spite of everything — moving your crippling body through this heat — the hairs are glued onto your forehead, beads of sweat emerges from your damp shirt, and—

He winces slightly at the sight of your trembling curled hand that is now gripping onto your long skirt. A curtain of your hair fell onto your face, he brushes a strand of your hair behind your ear. The sun soaked you completely, you were biting onto your bottom lip while panting through your teeth with squinted eyes. 

You didn’t stop walking, you continued. 

With no complaints. 

And it hurt him. 

It felt like yesterday when he heard the news months ago about your accident. It was supposed to be a day like any other, a heist, a robbery at some rich folk party. Trelawny and Hosea had convinced you to  infiltrate  in order to obtain information  and potentially rob some jewellery. 

It wasn’t the first time you had done it. 

Nothing ever happened when you did it. 

Until some drunk rich feller invited you to his carriage because he wanted to show you his mansion that was nearby and you accepted it. 

After all he was the main target that Trewlawny and Hosea talked about. 

You were supposed to get some papers, rob some damn jewellery and leave.

Instead a heavy pour of rain fell that unfaithful night when a landslide crashed on the carriage and consequently had fallen on a small cliff; leaving you with a great damage on your body and the driver, the horses and the rich feller: dead. 

Arthur kisses your temple, tasting the saltiness of your sweat on his lips, but it reassures to his heart that you’re still alive, that you’re still with him and not buried ten feet underground. 

Through the blurry woods a log came into view, you scratch on your thigh and hiss at the overwhelming burning sensation that has gotten hotter than ever; part of you wanted to sit down and take a rest, but another part wanted to prove yourself that you can still walk even with this new unwanted body of yours. 

“Fuck!” you shriek, tripping over the ground. 

Arthur quickly hold your body steadily, and looked down to see a small rock peeking outside of your skirt.

You grab onto Arthur’s waist, the base of your knuckles turns ghostly white onto his leather belt. A trail of strained breaths came past your lips, pulsating sensations spikes over your body more stronger than the last. A wash of relieve came over him at the sight of a log nearby, he dips his arms underneath your legs and carries you in a bridal style. 

“I gotchu, sweetheart,” his lips presses against your temple, “I gotchu…”

Tears prickles around the corner of your ears, the pain has consummated from inside out. Elaborated breath takes over your system, you hid into the crook of his neck and grasp tightly onto his wide shoulder to ground you from the only source that centers your pitiful new life — the powerful, the almighty, the dangerous outlaw that is your friend, your confidante, and your lover: Arthur Morgan. 

“Ow...” you couldn’t help but to whimper weakly, “Ow...”

“I’m here sweetheart,” he continues to kiss your temple, striding as light, “I’m here sweetheart, I’m here…”

Tears slide past your cheeks as he sits you on top of the log, despite the swift motion being the gentleness as ever it is still too much for your damned body to handle. You cradle your face into your hands and wept from everything — the pain, your body, the heat, and your pitiful attempt to prove that you’re still useful but it failed as a reminder of your new life. 

Arthur’s soul wrenched while sitting besides you, his arms encapsules over your shaking form wishing that he could shield each one of your pain. Sounds of your hiccup fills in the air, you press your face against his shirt, wetting its material with your tears whilst your nails sinks into his waist whilst he caresses your back gently. 

He took everything in — you soak his shirt while you cry harder, your nails digging further into his flesh — but, he didn’t care as long it made you feel better…even if it’s for a small moment. 

“Why?” you sob, taking a sharp inhale through your stuffed nose, “Why haven’t you left me yet?” 

He raises a brow, “…Darlin’? Why would I-”

Rapidly you lift your chin and his breath hitched. A taint of flush covers your face while a waterfall of tears streams down your cheeks without ceasing as an intense fire ignites in your gaze that he has never seen before.

“Why?!” you thunder, clutching onto the collar of his neck, “Why you ask?! Cus I ain’t the same woman that you courted over! Look at me! Look how I turned! I ain’t the same!” you punch on his chest, again and again as tears flies around, “And you dare to ask why?! Why the fuck you didn’t leave me yet!” Why you want to be with a woman as useless as me!” 

“Why?!” you shook on his shoulders and managed to scratch on his chest. He tries to stop you, but you push him away harder, “Why?! Why?!—”

Forcefully, he cups your face in his hands, “‘Cause I love you!” 

A lump forms on your throat and realized what have you done — his hair is disheveled, his wrinkled shirt damp with your tears, and his broad chest exposed with red scratches that reached to his neck.

“‘Cause I love you,” he coos now softly, wiping your tears away with his thumbs “ ‘n I ain’t goin’ to leave you…”

“What a fool…” you mumble, shutting your glossy eyes, gently shaking your head from side to side, “What a fool…” 

“Darlin’ look at me…” 

Between deep breaths, you slowly open your eyes and melt under his softening expression. 

“I ain’t goin’ to leave you. We’re in this together,” he presses his forehead against yours, “y’hear?” 

You hold onto his wrists, “Oh, Arthur…” 

The first thing you saw when you woke up was Arthur. The person who has been there with you in this process has been Arthur. The person who always seeks out the best treatment and doctors has been Arthur. From the moment you get up to the second you go to bed Arthur has always been there for you. To a such point, that he has gone in arguments with Dutch for not going on many missions just to be there with you. 

“Y’know,” you absentmindedly draw circles around your medical corset, the rough plaster glides smoothly under your finger tips. 

“Mmm,” Arthur replies, laying carefully besides you, wrapping himself under the sheets. 

“There’s the girls that can look after me when yer…gone,” you mutter, remembering the exchange of blows from earlier between him and Dutch about you…again. 

Arthur stares at you intently and seals your lips in a sweet kiss, “Yer always my priority…” 

What an ungrateful fool you are. 

You threw yourself into his arms and wept from the devotion he has demonstrated during this time. 

“Oh, Arthur,” you whimper, “Oh, Arthur. I’m so sorry this has been too much…”  

“S’okay, honey…” he strokes your back and kisses your temple, “We’re in this together…” 

Act one: Who the hell broke the Pandora's box?!

1899 — Grizzlies East

Forgive me father for the sins I am about to commit.

In the darkness, a groan comes out of the carriage’s door as it swings open. A gust of cold wind whistles in as your body moves from side to side on the frozen wooden floor. The icy breeze penetrates from the layers of your fur poncho and coat to your skin, provoking goosebumps to erupt on your flesh. A foul scent mingles in, your brows resist the urge to wince, but your toes curl tightly under your leather boots.

“What’s inside?”

“A woman.”

“Woman?”

Loud footsteps came, crunching hard against the snow.

“…You think she’s dead?”

“I reckon,” a gloved hand grasps one of your clothed breasts, giving a rough shake, causing the strands of your peppered hair to come out of your neatly tied scarf that covered around your head and neck.

The slow, steady pace of your heartbeat begins to accelerate, rising from your chest to your throat where it starts to itch, but you didn’t dare to move.

Across the compartment, dozens of bouquets of dried poppies and mexican butterfly weed are scattered; filling the small space with their worn out, but yet lovely presence. As the frozen air breathed over them, they began to murmur among themselves on who’ll be dropped next.

On your side, your gloved hand rests above your shoulder, laying underneath a bouquet where you lightly scrape its wrapping paper.

“No!”

Two gloved fingers sink into the side of your neck, “She’s alive alrigh’, though not for long if she stays out here.”

Another gloved hand shoves in between your legs, their fingers pressing hard against the entrance of your clothed cunt, “…Wanna waste her?”

“You’ve read my mind.”

Mocks of laughter bleed your ears as they step inside and shut the door. In an instant, four hands roam around your body; a pair pulls your pants down whilst the other, hurriedly, unties your fur poncho off. The cold pierces your bare skin, sending shivers to your spine. Deep inside your guts, your stomach turns over and over, and your toes curl tighter and tighter.

“Wish all women were like this,” he rubs your legs, “they’re much easier to handle.”

“Got that right,” the buttons on your coat jerked open to reveal a shirt underneath. In a click of his tongue, he breaks it open, exposing the bareness of your breasts and gropes them, “Gotta tame them like animals. They oughtta learn their place.”

“It fuckin’ disgusts me they’re tryna vote,” he yanks your underwear down to your ankles, “they’re tryna act like they’re all mighty, but they’re brutes as mules.”

“They ain’t worth for shit except for breedin’”

“ ‘n to be used as rag dolls…”

You bite the inside of your cheek while the cold stabs you harder and harder. In your forty-five years of living, you’ve never experienced this weather, let alone in the Grizzlies. Despite your best efforts, your body couldn’t help but to flinch.

“I swear, if my woman—Hey!”

“Lower your voice down! What’s the fuckin’ matter?!”

“She’s movin’!”

“Calm yer ass down,” he scoffs, brushing your hairs aside from your clammy forehead, “every problem has a solution or else it wouldn’t be a problem.”

A punch strikes you in the eye, its force slams your head against the wooden floor — knocking the wind out of your lungs in ease.

“Goddamn!”

“Now she ain’t gonna bother us no more!”

A ripple of chuckles came, interspersed with the sounds of unbucklings of their belts. As your senses regain their composure, your eye begins to throb, this time you bite your tongue, but your trembling fingers cautiously move upward until it taps the edge of your revolver’s handle.

“No! Stop it!”

The frantic beats of your heart rockens your ribcage, your breathing gets stuck on your throat, your chest starts to heave—

A mighty slap meets your cheek, your head jerks to the opposite direction, a sting cripples through the surface, blood rapidly flows from your mouth.

“Look at this bitch,” he spits to your temple, “squirmin’ like a damn animal that she is!—Why the fuck yer lookin’ at me like that?”

“I dunno man,” blunt fingernails sink into your inner thighs and toss one of your legs to the side, exposing your cunt. A finger traces through your folds, making your brain vomit, “Somethin’ doesn’t feel right…”

“Whaddaya fuckin’ mean?”

“At this point, most women would’ve been hollerin’ for us to stop, but…she’s just doin’ nothin’.”

“Have it your way,” he harshly grabs your cheeks, forcing them open, “‘cause for me I’m gonna take my chance ‘n waste her like the last one. Let’s see if this fuckin’ hag can handle my jumbo.”

“Stop it! Stop it!”

“All righ’,” the other one holds onto your waist, the tip of his cock meets your entrance, “this hole better be good…”

The blood in your veins boils, the men’s laughter fades, your heartbeat begins to pierce your eardrums, your fingers drag around the handle of the revolver and hold them firmly around your trembling palm.

“Calm down, doll. This’ll be over soon.”

In a sharp inhale, your eyes shoot open and draw your weapon; aiming at your side, your hands smack one on top of the other as the silver revolver shakes.

The feller’s eyes widens and drops his cock from his greasy hand. You flinch away in disgust and pull the trigger. The bullet hit his eye and burst it open; spurts of blood splash across his filthy face, half of his eyeball sprang out of his socket as its vessels flew in midair. His body lumps backwards, opening the door forcefully and crashes onto the snow; where droplets of his blood are now scattered across the curtains.

The adrenaline kicks in, the world goes silent, you squint and point at the feller in front of you. He grits his teeth and reaches for his own revolver from his gun belt—

A bullet enters his throat, he slams against the seat; quickly, he grasps onto his neck as blood spills out furiously between his grimy fingers. His face scrunches as air escapes from his throat — not the kind of hole he had in mind.

The world blacks out and the only sound you can hear is your own heavy pants. You slither backwards until your back meets the corner of the compartment. A wave of nausea enters, you cover your mouth with a quivering hand whilst the other holds the revolver tightly — turning your knuckles white.

A dampness slides down your cheeks, you wipe it away and wince: the feller’s spit. You wipe your cheek harder and harder than the last. The scarf around your head loosens and falls on your shoulders, revealing your disheveled peppered hair that was once styled. Then, smear the saliva across the wooden seat.

In brisk movements, you pull up your pants alongside your underwear. Your stomach convulses, you can still feel the feller’s dirty finger in your cunt—

“No! Stop it!”

A heavy throb punctuates your eye, with the heel of your palm you rub the swollen area.

Severe coughs of blood erupt from the feller as he writhes on the dried bouquets. He gasps for air through his flaring nostrils with a gaze full of hatred that can sharpen a sword and cut your head off on the spot.

An overwhelming rage that had been repressed for months surfaced. It clenches your jaw tight, a vein pops out in your neck — even though your intestines are twisting with nerves — you did not break eye contact.

More blood comes out of his mouth, further staining his chin that is covered in crimson red.

“Fuckin’ bitch!” he grits hoarsely, baring his teeth.

Your brows snaps together and aim at him with one hand:

“That’s Madame for you.”

A bullet hits his forehead, it cracks a hole open and spurts of blood taints around the compartment — some even reach to your boots. He crashes onto his side, gushes of blood begin to flow from his skull and form a puddle. Your pupils shake; in the seats behind him, pieces of his brain are dispersed around the bouquets — it tickles the flowers, coating their dry petals with his warm blood, whom they back away in repulsion.

Your eyes darts at the torn knitted black scarf that fell on the puddle of blood, revealing on his neck a scar of an O with a line across:

Ø

O’Driscolls

The same one he had

“Calm down, doll. This’ll be over soon.”

Another wave of nausea hits, but this time it escapes from the pit of your stomach. The silver revolver drops onto the floor, you crawl desperately to the open door, you peek outside and puke your guts out. The old wood of the doorframe suffocates under your tightening grip as more and more liquid burns out of your esophagus—

Until there’s none of it left.

The cold blows vigorously in your sweaty face as you go inside without daring to open your eyes; knowing your vomit is on top of the O’Driscoll’s member and the other is laying on the floor of your carriage.

A thin line presses into your lips as you wrap your coat around your quivering body. The tremor returns to your fingers as you button your lapel — now you don't know if it’s from fear or from this cold.

Fear.

You sigh deeply. It has become the bane of your existence from months to no end. How you longed for it to vanish and be able to return to be yourself once again.

“Oh, Reader,” your voice breaks weakly, “…this is going to be a long ride.”

While the color drains out of you, with your eyes still closed, you grab the O’Driscoll’s ankle and drag him outside, leaving a trail of his blood behind. You take out his legs and drag him downwards; when his shoulders meet your knee, with a loud grunt, you throw him on top of the other.

You turn around and the bouquets scurried away, but you managed to hold one that was about to escape and threw it on top of those damned O’Driscoll’s.

In the pitch-black road, snow falls one after the other at a furious rate. In each steps your beloved horses take, it drags the carriage with more and more strength; digging their hooves deeper and deeper into the thickening snow.

“Wanna waste her?”

“You’ve read my mind.”

Your polished felt hat tilts downwards as your chin buries in the scarf that covers around your face and neck. The tip of your fingernails scratches the inside of your leather gloves as the sting on your inner thighs and your entrance burn.

“All righ’,” the other one grasps onto your inner thigh as the tip of his cock meets your entrance, “this hole better be good.”

A bead of sweat slides beneath your scarf, running past your bruised eye.

He scoffs, brushing your hairs aside from your forehead, “Every problem has a solution or else it wouldn’t be a problem.”

The hairs on the nape of your neck stand, your teeth grind against each other to stop them from shaking.

“Look at this bitch,” he spits to your temple, “squirmin’ like a damn animal that she is—”

Terror glows in your pupils as the snowy road becomes red; crimson red like the blood from the O’Driscoll’s, the ones that you shed with your own hands. The road widens and widens, then abruptly gets smaller and smaller; doing the same process over and over again.

It isn’t real.

Despite your clenched fists, your hands start to quiver once more. Sounds of bullets pierce your eardrums; you need to take cover, you need to stay alert, you need to find shelter. It is late and you know that — another shot is heard from God knows where — but, you are rooted to the spot, your body ceases to respond at your command.

A raven flies by, before you can blink, a flock of ravens appears. A loud cry escapes from you, releasing the reins from your rigid grasp to take cover. One after the other, the ravens hits you; their peaks pinches your fur poncho, your scarf; their cawing sounds drown you even more in fear—

A smell of burnt oak wafts in, your quivering arms fall to your sides and gasp. The forest is covered in flames, hues of redness and orange glows from the burning trees as their branches fall in a swoop onto the redding snow.

“Let’s burn this damned place to the ground!”

“Let’s burn this damned place to the ground!”

“Let’s burn this damned place to the ground!”

It isn’t real.

The carriage lurches, your head snaps backwards; you squint, trying to look closely, but the dense snow prevents you from seeing clearly — only catching a glimpse of a bulky rock on the ground that then vanishes completely.

It isn’t real. It isn’t real. It isn’t real—

You chew on your bottom lip and turn around; the road is back to normal — snow falling more frenetic than ever in the darkness.

It happened again.

Tears prickle around the brim of your eyelashes. A lump forms in your throat, but you swallow it — hard and loud.

Oh, how you detest with every fiber of your being the person that you have become.

At the beginning of this year, you were flourishing alongside your loved ones, with your family—

Until they came and destroyed everything.

Those damned O’Driscoll’s.

You clutch to your heaving chest, your nails seeps through the fur fabric of your poncho; remembering hours earlier when you took a pause from riding to feed your two horses and overheard two men nearby nagging about running errands for Colm; remembering when, despite of wearing black scarfs around their necks, you could see that scar; remembering when in mere seconds you thought of a plan, lure them and killed them.

At the beginning of the year, you weren’t like this: killing strangers in cold blood, feeling this weak, having hallucinations—

You weren’t brought up like this — your fingers reach for the reins — despite the misery the O’Driscolls put you through…are you doing the right thing?

In the midst of the dense air. From afar, a long blue skirt appeared, soon came the figure of a lean woman shuffling in the thickening snow — only a cloth envelopes tightly around the upper part of her body.

A line forms on your forehead. A woman walking in this weather…alone?

Part of you wants to move on; it is your first time in this region and you don’t know what kind of people lurks around.

The stiffness on your shoulders relaxes as you roll them back. You clear your throat while riding the carriage on the side of the road.

But, for heaven's sake, you couldn’t bring yourself to do so; you weren’t brought up like this.

“Need a lift?” you manage to ask loudly in a firm tone.

The woman stops in her tracks and turns around; an empty brown gaze pierced through streaks of blonde hair that came out of her scarf and her mouth curves into a forced smile — it makes you doubt whether it is a person or a ghost.

She nods and you reluctantly help her up.

“Yer a life saver,” she yells, taking a seat beside you, “this cold is tough as nails.”

“Got that right…” you reply in a rather low voice, eyeing her up and down before lifting up the reins for the horses to gallop again.

You flicker between the road and her — in between, you could feel her heavy gaze — an itch came to your waist — a silent reminder of your silver revolver that rested on your gun belt; you were thankful you had placed it in the opposite direction where the woman was sitting.

“I don’t mean to pry, and you can decline from answering…”

“…Yes?”

“What are you doing here alone in this weather?”

“I had a horse,” she answers, averting her gaze from you, “but got scared on my way to visit a family member aroun’ here.”

“That’s so…how far are we?”

“Not too long...”

“Let me know when we’re nearby…”

“Thanks…”

“You’re welcome…” you trail off.

Something doesn’t sit right with you.

The bullet from earlier.

Out of the corner of your eye, you study her face further.

It sounded real.

Your heart starts to pound at a red spot on her cheek.

Is it…blood?

The object you tripped over earlier…wasn’t a rock…

Your breathing swirls in the air as she wipes a gloved hand on her cheek — smearing redness across her freckled skin that reaches to her ears.

It was a body.

The blood in your veins turns cold, your trembling fingers drags towards your revolver.

“This goddamn weather!” she holds onto her scarf as the wind blows by.

She wets her lips as her eyes travel around you — fur poncho, leather gloves, polished hat — you weren’t around here that’s for sure.

You are driving calmly, and in slow and steady movements, she turns around—

In the small half-open window of the carriage, her pupils dilate at the puddle of blood on the compartment—

And…the dried bouquets.

She accommodates herself in her original position, and rapidly reaches for her gun that’s rested on her waist—

A click of a gun whistles in her ear instead.

“Sweet Jesus, Mary, and the fuckin’ Joseph,” she hisses lowly, raising her hands in the air.

The heel of your boots stomps on the floor to shake nerves from emerging further, “I’ve decided to give a moment of my time to help another woman in need, and you were about to whack me?! Where are your manners, young lady?!”

She runs her tongue over her front teeth.

“Now, tell me why you’re really here!” you order, digging the muzzle of your revolver deeper into her temple, “Because I didn’t believe a word that came out of your mouth! Or you might've prayed to never be picked up by me! Don’t make me do it! It’d hurt to hurt a pretty face like yours!”

“I’m lookin’ for a man,” she claps back.

“Who?”

An ocean of redness arises in her eyes and surrounds her brown pupils, her hands balls into fist, and fumes:

“Colm.”

You gasp rather audibly. It’s been months since you last heard that damned name, but it still hit like a fresh wound.

“What…,” the muzzle of your revolver softens the pressure, but still rests at her temple, “business you have with him?”

Hot tears burn down her cheeks, “He…” she grits, “killed my husband.”

“I see…my condolences.”

“I don’t need your pity!”

With a deep exhale, you lower down your weapon, “I’m..also looking for him.”

“Is that so?” she replies, her tone filled with sarcasm.

“Yes,” you scold, noticing her antics, “he killed my father.”

“He’s a bigger sonuvabitch than I had imagined,” she gestures at your face with her forehead, “did you kill those O’Driscolls down the road? The ones with some flowers.”

Silence rushes in, “…Yes.”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” she whistles, “I must say ya got ‘em good.”

“Thank you.”

Never in your life would’ve thought you’d receive a compliment from doing an horrendous act much less say “thank you” from doing so, but…here we are.

You half-smiled, “I-um—Where are my manners…”

She blinks.

You tell her your name, “and you are?

“…Sadie.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance.”

“…Likewise.”

Still pointing at her temple, you lean forward and take her revolver from her gun belt, “For safety.”

She shrugs with her hands still in the air. A mighty wind pushes in between that almost swoops you and Sadie off the seat.

You slip Sadie’s revolver in the insides of your boot and snatch yours onto your gun belt, “We’ll need to seek shelter if we want to live and to find that bastard!”

She drags her bottom lip with her teeth, “You got that fuckin’ right…”

“There!” Sadie yells, pointing ahead.

In the thickening air, your eyelids knitted almost together at the end of the road: amongst the trees stood a solitary cabin. You gallop the horses more and more as they haul the carriage towards it.

Near the cabin there is a frozen lake — a snow falls from your eyelids when you blink — on the shore, where water is supposed to be, instead there is a bulk object — it looks similar — your stiffening feet turn cold — to the one you’ve stumbled upon earlier.

Another body.

You stare at Sadie, whom she glares back.

Son of a duckin’ gun.

Upon arriving, the cabin had an enormous open shed attached to its side; wide enough that the carriage entered smoothly.

Throwing your reins aside, the pit of your stomach drops to the ground as you hop off. The heel of your leather boots strides around the back of the carriage.

“Get out,” you order, drawing out your silver revolver.

A sour expression is written in Sadie’s expression as she gets off.

“With your hands raised!”

“You don’t have to fuckin’ holler at me when I am infront of you.”

You shake your head, what a foul mouth for such a young lady.

The silver revolver gestures ahead, “Come.”

Sadie laughs mockingly and strolls in front of you with no rush, as if she got all the time in the world. Then glides around your horses and stands near a closed door.

The tip of the revolver hits her back, “Open it.”

Sadie twirls the door knob and the door opens, “Well you look at that…”

A gloved hand shoves in your pockets and your fingers start to fidget — strange… — the shed and the door…were open instead of being closed. At this distance, you can barely see the man sprawled motionless on the ground amidst the piles of snow.

Something doesn’t feel right.

Uneasiness crumbles inside and your forehead puckers, “Get in.”

“It’s dark inside!—”

“I said get it!” you shoved her inside.

“Fuckin’ bitch.”

“I heard you! If you disrespect me one more time I’ll not hesitate to hurt you!”

Sadie spits to the ground, “You wouldn’t fuckin’ dare.”

She’s right you wouldn’t dare, but—

The end handle of the revolver struck against her neck. She stumbles, almost tripping herself to the floor.

Someone has to teach her some manners.

“What the ‘ell!” she holds the nape of her neck, "What's wrong with you!”

“No, what’s the matter with you?! This generation is unnecessarily impolite and uneducated in every sense of the word! Tell me what it’s the necessity to speak in such a foul manner and behave like one of those old drunken men in the saloons?”

Sadie grins, “Yer just behind the curve that’s all.”

You rub your temple, “Lord give me strength.”

“Listen here,” she mutters in a threatening tone, “You better give me my gun or!—”

The tip of your leather boot collides with her back knee and she falls on the wooden floor of the cabin.

Her head snaps at you, “Yer gonna pay for this!”

“Is that so? Like those two men you killed?!”

One of her brows raises, “What the fuck yer talkin’ about?!”

“The two fellers…” you trail off, pointing outside, “the one who was on the road and the lake…”

“That’s what it was? I thought it was a deer,” she chuckles, “I only killed the feller on the road you’ve picked me.”

The moonlight peeks out from behind and illuminates the dark interior of the cabin. It only brightens the silhouette of the furniture, a piano, and a skull of a goat hanging on the wall…next to you.

You peer in the opposite direction and your face goes blank. In the far corner, there is a half-open door with…snow footprints leading out.

A cold metal presses against the back of your scarfed head, “Don’t move.”

It’s a hoarse and deep voice, but it exuded command in his tone — you couldn’t avoid raising your hands.

“Fuckin’ great,” Sadie curses, still on the floor.

“Shut yer trap!” he easily takes your revolver from your hands. It is just a graze, and deep down you know he can manhandle you as if you were nothing.

“Go against the wall!”

Sadie gets up in annoyance and does as told. Heartbeat pulsates in your ears, your legs drags until it meets with the wooden wall — the goat skull grins widely above your heads.

He shuffles closer, your nose wrinkles at the reek of alcohol. His broad hands palms around you; underneath your armpits, on your waist, on your legs. In each one of his movements, your heart pounds strongly. He pauses and takes out Sadie’s revolver from your boots. All though, you aren’t facing him, you could feel his glare cutting through you.

A bead of sweat slides in the cupid bow of your lips and you lick it. A part of you wanted to peek at the intruder, but you couldn’t move.

Oh, how you want this day to be over with.

He does the same process to Sadie and leans back, “Now go back to where you came from.”

“Back?!,” Sadie boomed, “In this goddamn weather?!—”

“I wasn’t askin’.”

“You listen to me you drunk headed bastard! We mean—“ she clicks her tongue at you, “I mean no harm, we're just seekin’ refuge!”

Your eyes roll back. Why aren't you surprised that Sadie threw you in the middle.

“Mean no harm, eh? ‘Cause what I’ve seen so far it is the other way aroun’.”

“We just happened to meet on the road that’s all…”

“Happened to meet on the road…” he repeats mockingly, taking a long pause before continuing, “you picked her up?”

It took your brain several seconds to realize he is asking you.

You swallow the little saliva you have, “…Yes.”

“That shot I heard earlier …must’ve been you.”

Sadie’s shoulder is lightly pushed forward.

“And judging by the trail, and the carriage…those two fellers with a bouquet must’ve been your doin’…”

The muzzle of his gun bumps your shoulder.

“Yes or no?” he dictates.

“Fuck yeah it is.”

“Yes…”

“‘N we mean no harm...”

“Look who the fuck is talkin’!” Sadie slams the wall, “That feller in the river you must’ve whacked him!”

“It is none of yer goddamn business.”

“‘N neither of you pokin’ aroun’ in our business!”

“Now we're speakin’ the same language. Now scram!”

“I hope that bastard of Colm is alive—“ she curses under her breath.

“Whaddya say?” he asks dangerously low.

“…Colm.”

“What business you have…him,” he pronounced with so much hatred that sent shivers to your spine.

“He killed my husband.”

“And you?”

“He killed…,” your voice cracks under the weight of silence, “ my father...”

He storms across the cabin, his heavy footstep shook your whole body. A crash came on the wall next to Sadie who yelped, almost hitting you — a wooden chair dropped to the ground…broken in half.

“Looks like someone is on the same page with us,” Sadie comments low enough for you to hear, “that man on the river must’ve been an O’Driscoll…”

“You—” he says between deep pants, “you two can turn aroun’”

In careful movements, you and Sadie turn around with hands still in the air.

Under the moonlight stood a tall man. His stained blue coat heaves up and down from his built body as his nostrils flares. His torn hat cast a shadow over his face except for his vacant hazel gaze that chills you more than the cold itself.

“Listen here,” he points at Sadie and you with his gun, “We may be lookin’ for the same man, but sure as hell we ain’t the same page. I'm gonna lock the two of you upstairs—”

“Lock us up! What about our damned guns?!”

“I’ll give it to you tomorrow!”

“Yer gonna lock us up ‘n have our guns?! So what’s next?! We’re gonna be finished like that damned O’Driscoll you killed in the river?!”

“If you two interfere with my plans!” his voice raises on top of Sadie, “I’ll not hesitate to shoot!”

“You’re one mean bastard!—”

“I understood,” you took a step, and stared at Sadie with hesitation, “we..um..understood.”

An icy wind blows in, and your body couldn’t resist trembling — son of a duckin’ gun, how much you hate this cold.

He studies you and drags a gloved hand over his overgrown beard, “I mean what I said…”

“And there’s no doubt about that,” your face hardens, grounding your feet, “Whatever business you have with him you may do it, but I’m not going to back down on my own.”

After a long silence, he spoke: “What’s your name?”

Though you consider that asking someone’s name without telling yours first is impolite. Nevertheless, you present yourself.

He faces Sadie, “ ‘n you?”

Sadie groans and tells her name as if some force had to pull the word out of her throat.

He switches between you and Sadie, and tucks his gun in his armpit and pulls out a flask from his front pocket. He opens the tap, takes a sip, put it back in its place, and wipes his mouth with the back of his worn out gloved hand:

“Name’s Tacitus Kilgore.”

He tilts his torn hat, making the moonlight reveal his face; he had a tanned skin as if he had been sunkissed with such tenderness that suited him divinely along with his overgrown beard and chestnut hair that reached to his wide shoulders.

Despite his unkempt appearance, his stained clothes, in a way...he is handsome.

Your brows knits together—

You’ve seen him somewhere.

A lamp stood on a table nearby, Tacitus takes out a match, lights it, and brights. “All righ’” he grabs the handle, lighting towards the staircase while pointing his gun back at you and Sadie, “I don’t have all nigh’.”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell!”

“Get goin’!”

Sadie stomps ahead, Tacitus turns to you and tilts his head gently to the side. You nod and walk past.

You don’t know anything about Tacitus Kilgore, but one thing is for sure is that he isn’t Tacitus Kilgore.

The door locks shut. Tears that have been holding in spills out. With blurred vision you scanned the pitched-black room: a bed, a nightstand, and a large window with drawn curtains.

Above the headrest, a cross lit up and the room glowed.

“No! you cry out as you hit him. He snatches your wrists and slams it against the floor, you kick him, “No! Stop it!”

Swollenness enlarges your eyelids as tears fill your vision. He hovers above you, his knee abruptly pushes your inner thighs aside and unbuckles his belt with one hand whilst the other restrains your wrists.

“No!” you shriek, shaking your head side to side as your body convulses to be away from him, but he pulls you back with more force.

Again and again, you try kicking him, scratching his hand, spit on his face, to writhe on the floor as an attempt to run away—But he, again and again; he pushes down his weight on you, tightening his grip on your wrists, he smacks your face, and laughs at your futile attempts.

A trail of sobs erupts as you gasp for air as you beg him to stop again and again. More and more tears run down and burn your reddening cheeks, painfully stinging at his handprints across your skin.

“No! Stop it!” you whimper pitifully. He had you immobilized with no way to escape, and you did something you tend to do when you’re calm: you prayed.

You pray that this is a horrible nightmare, that you’re not living it, that you’re—

In the gap of his arms, at the end of your dark living room, below the velvet curtains, your father lies on the carpet with his head blown off. In the crimson red puddle, a mix of his brain pieces, lumps of skin and hair are scattered across his blood that trickle towards the bloody hammer.

“No! Stop it!” you whimper again and again as your nose and throat swells more, making it more difficult to breathe.

“Come on, doll,” he whispers into your ear, tearing off your bloomers and plants a slobbering wet kiss against your earlobe with his slashed lips,  “This'll be over soon.”

He plunges in, the tip of his cock pushes past the rear of your cunt with such force that a cry of agony came out of your soul. His hips snap at a brutal pace, your wrists redden at his animalistic grip as he breaks you apart — his cock widens your walls excruciatingly more and more.

“No!” you wiggle on the floor, but he does not stop. Instead he quickens up his pace, “No! Stop it!—”

“You got ‘em jewels?” one asks from behind.

“‘Course you dimwit!”

A ripple of chuckles drowns you more along with your tears.

A red and orange glow ignites, and brightens the scar of his neck; engraving it in your brain:

Ø

One of the men whistles, “Let’s burn this damned place to the ground!”

Tears slid past your eyelids, the insides of your cheeks sinked as your nails dug deeply into your skin as the light of the cross dims.

A knock came from the door, before you could comprehend what was happening; it unlocks, opens mid-way, something is dropped, the door closes and locks again.

You reach into your pockets for your matchbox and light it on; a bucket full of snow with a cloth on top and next to it a folded quilt. When Tacitus stared at you, not only he noticed your black eye, but your quivering as well. The corners of your mouth twitches up, in spite of his rough demeanor, he helped a stranger.

A muffle of cries came from outside. You place an ear on the wooden door; there is one that is close…that must be Sadie, and the other is distant, followed after with clinks of glass…that must be Tacitus...

“Name’s Tacitus Kilgore.”

You could’ve sworn you've seen him, but where?

The quilt encircles around your shoulders as you take the bucket and walk towards the bed. The worn out mattress sinks under your weight, you take your hat and place it on top of the nightstand.

“This damned cold,” your voice shakes, tightening your scarf around your head. You take the cloth, put snow into it and tie it then lay down on the bed. 

The cloth accommodate  on your black eye and you hiss at the cold contact. The muffled cries grew louder as you took out a silver cigarrette case from the pocket of your fur poncho, and open it. Inside it has an engraving:

And you’re here,

despite it all.

Your eyes glisten and tuck a cigarette between your pouty lips, and lit it with a match. A cloud of white smoke comes out from your nostrils. For the first time today, a wave of relief washed over you, but you didn’t allow yourself the luxury of succumbing to it — there’s more days to come.

The vengeance has just begun and you want for it to end.

ngl i was on the verge to delete this series As for the next chapter, is on the works and I'll try to get it done by next sunday if not, by the end of this month fingers crossed

Chapter I: A

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V