July 01, 2018:
Emery in the aftermath of the HK Bombings, is doing his part as a servant of servants and fighting fatigue as he remembers this past.
Hell's Kitchen
Debris and Aftermath of the Hell's Kitchen Bombing. Its rough ya'll.
Characters
NPCs: None.
Mentions:
Plot:
Mood Music: [*\# None.]
Fade In…
They scream to him, not the physical screams or the sobs that echo in burnt buildings and broken cars. Not the people calling out for loved ones or barking out instructions. No it is the ones that cannot move, cannot see, cannot hear and can no longer speak as the core of their beings detach from this mortal plane seeking guidance and direction to the next.
And it is deafening.
Then memories of a failure past keep knocking upon the carefully constructed walls of repression, he could see them all playout in the reflection he caught of himself in the eyes of a young woman who apologizes and walks away from the flames. Purpose in her strides.
And the knocking is jarring.
All the while, he works diligently…a servant of servants. Clothing burnt in some places, blackend in most. Sweaty locks of hair plastered to his forehead as his beanie has been long lost..but a quick hair tie has secured the rest of his hair out of his face so he can help guide people to extraction points. His voice raised to call attention to the need for community cooperation, he puts it to good use challenging the smoke and ash that competes with his gift of projecting his voice for prime real estate in his lungs. It eventually wins, rubbing them raw and reminding him of his fleshly limitations.
And it is humbling.
He leaves the nurse to her triage, and accompanies random people in need into smouldering remains of family homes or works with the young bucks breaking into cars to save people to help rip doors from hinges or break windows. Always bringing them back to the nurse, and the paramedics and those who also put their lives on the line to serve.
And it is not enough.
He knows there are bruises on his knees from kneeling beside bodies, holding hands to ease the passing of those too far gone. He knows he chipped a nail or two, thumbing through his rosary. Even if they cannot hear him, there’s relief in their eyes as they watch his lips form around the familiar prayers in latin.
And there are too many.
He is a man accustomed to sorrow, and loss. He has seen many battlefield strewn with bodies, some of which he put there. He has seen many villages destroyed, raided and/or pillaged in attacks that would never make the news. He is no stranger to blood, ash, death, and smoke. Being familiar with hell, however, does not make it any easier.
And the flames don’t always purify.
The woman is badly burnt, a girl really…first apartment on her own. That delicate age between 19 and 20 when you believe your life is just really beginning. Was she a blond once? It is hard to tell because she can only tremble in shock when he catches sight of her. Her eyes are green, this is can remember before she stumbles into his arms at what was once a doorway and he sinks to his knees, cradling her to his chest. He doesn’t think about it as his hand presses against cracking and charred flesh, closing his eyes and reaching out to channel the agony and pain into himself, to provide her this relief as he sits and waits with her.
And this torture, he willingly takes.
Under his breath, he murmurs softly in Latin, invoking the help of the saints and the almighty. A repetitive flow of words that soon fade to soft whispers between shaky pants as the limits of his pain tolerance are tested. He has been flayed and boiled in hot oil however, in his mental cage of penance. So he can hold on, feeling the burns as if they are on his own skin but he holds on.
Things begin to grow hazy for him, as he wonders if the others are safe…thoughts drifting to his daughter and the new family they have adopted. And that is when he hears that snide upper crust voice with its polished vowels and carefully buffed consonants. Its colored with an accent that speaks to Greece and it echos in his head, cutting through his prayers and thoughts.
“Eamon.”
He looks up blearily, squinting at the shadow of a figure from his past.
“You have strayed from the path. This blood, this fire, and this destruction is only the beginning of what you will witness from where you are lowered yourself. Denying who you are and the grace that flows through your veins to partake in the illusion of mundane joy?”
He can feel it, creeping around the corners of his consciousness, trying to pull him under.
“You will never know peace, my child. You have always been weakest, despite having been chosen to bear the heaviest of their burdens. Come back to me, my child and allow your damnation to become their salvation.”
His control slips for a moment and he feels the trembling start again before he coaxes the pain back into his own being.
“You have forgotten who you are. Samael, do you even still know your name?”
Somewhere, something collapses and he swallows a scream to curl around and protect the young woman, still maintaining that contact until he can see someone in blue approaching and he lets the darkness claim him.