Silly Little Bard / Ethel Reda

****

Five years ago.

For a long few seconds the only thing he’s conscious of is the ringing in his ears.

Then the heavy rolling thud of his heart eclipses it. He sucks in a thin breath. His head spins. A single thought repeats in his mind: This was not supposed to happen.

The kitchen at Montecarlo’s Rest stinks like gasoline. The first flames lick along the trail of gas he’d managed to light before he’d been interrupted. Distantly he’s aware of the urgency of his position: Soon the kitchen will be consumed by fire, and he must be gone by then.

But a complication lies at his feet in the form of a dying chef.

His lips firm into a line as he gazes down on the man. Not dead yet, but he will be soon. Janosh lies on his back staring toward the ceiling, his lips parted, breath rattling beneath the low and growing voice of the flames. Every so often a breath hitches on the edge of a whimper, trying to be a word: the eyes focus and then slip back into their moribund abstract. He hadn’t stabbed Janosh so badly that the death is quick, and he shies from the idea of killing him more directly now. When his rage faded so did his incentive for such dirty work.

He clears his throat and shakes his head as the flames gather around him. A cold sense of purpose settles through him, calming the frantic roll of his heart. The second he stabbed Janosh the plan changed. Now he can see his next moves laid out in clear succession, his subconscious working through them with a cool and tactical neutrality.

There must be more fire. He had not had a chance to empty the contents of the gas can before Janosh interrupted him. So now he picks it up and continues, stepping over the chef’s body and sloshing gasoline along the floor toward the doorway to lead the fire out from the kitchen. He returns with sweat beading on his brow to stand over Janosh as the chef's breathing slows and the light begins fading from his eyes.

“I am sorry,” he says, and kneels at Janosh’s head. The dying man’s eyes remain fixed on the ceiling. “I could not let you ruin this for me.”

Janosh doesn’t respond except to draw one long, shallow breath and blow it out on a gurgling exhale. His chest does not rise again.

“And yet you have anyway.”

The firm line of his lips touches with a hint of contempt. He pushes his hands beneath Janosh’s shoulders and half stands, tugging the body halfway up with a low grunt of effort. He wasn’t built for labor like this, but the bright urgency of adrenaline through his blood aids him.

He backs toward the doorway dragging the burden of the chef’s body, as the flames snap and lick higher and fill the kitchen with billowing black clouds of smoke.