Written by Abdun Nur
A drop of Rain
“A belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness.” Joseph Conrad
Seisyll walked slowly to the main road hoping to find the shelter of a bridge, after a while he spotted one way off in the distance; as he walked closer he could just make out someone was already camped out under it.
The Rain poured, and the man huddled under the bridge watched the drain swallow the stream greedily as it ran along the gutter of the highway a few feet below him, he could see the figure walking against the driving rain heading his way. The bridge he sat under was cold and bleak; a graffiti covered grey concrete erection, he was low on poison. He would have to go out into the storm to get more if the pain got too strong, if his dulled senses began to recover from the anaesthetic he ingested. He sipped a little on the bottle of cheap booze and closed his tired eyes, hoping he wouldn’t wake again and his suffering would finally end.
As Seisyll approached he could see the man camped out was filthy, even by his standards, festering in the shadows; a man hiding from life, this man lived concealed in self-loathing. His chimera built every judgement, a narcissistic torturer, inflicting vindictive cruelty. Memory and regret scratching at his soul, crushed hope, shamed existence itself for him, he cared so deeply, he could not care at all, not for himself or the world. He grieved for his soul, in truth he’d grieved for many years in a self-imposed solitude, simply to indulge his craven suicide, and so escape the torment eating upon his essence, a solitude filled with a sad drudgery, intent on forming nonexistence.
The amplified sounds of the rain and wind filled the air under that soiled concrete shelter. Places like this had been his home ever since he’d escaped the horrors of his past.
The wind was getting stronger, and the cold penetrated his blanket where the tarpaulin allowed the air in, the old wagon tarp covered his layers of protection, but the blanket stank below it, it even over powered his dulled sense of smell, but he didn’t care, hygiene was nothing to him; he smelled, and the garbage that passed for his home smelled.
He opened his eyes and reached for the bottle sipping a little more. He looked out into the storm and saw the figure walking in the rain towards the bridge was almost under cover, it was getting late, the sun was setting behind the storm, the streetlights were turning on along the road, another cold night, he thought.
He felt he was dead already, his soul had curdled and soured upon the deeds and experiences of his past, he waited to be buried, he didn’t drink for pleasure or addiction, he drank to drown his mind; his soul screaming in pain, and that cannot be endured, the sound has to be masked, as such pain is hard to suffer.
He sipped again on his bottle watching the figure walk up to him.
“Hello.” Seisyll said with a wide smile.
He sipped on his bottle, and just looked at Seisyll without comment.
Night was closing in, the storm made the environment even darker, reducing the effect of the streetlights to illuminate the air. A car drove by at speed steering close to the curb callously, spraying water out from the road up the side of the underpass. Water splashed over the drunken tramp, as Seisyll moved quickly in a vain attempt to save himself from a drenching, then the water ran back down the slope. The drunk sipped again on his bottle un-phased.
The brave ones faced their soul square on, and ended the relationship abruptly, to him there was a certain respect in doing that, he wasn’t that brave, he edged along the rim of the abyss of his life, hiding his face from the blackness of the depth he would face. He couldn’t do that without dulling his senses, as without a soul to guide the mind all hope and joy is gone.
His suicide was a sordid affair, it’d no virtues; it was slow and difficult, but to him anything to avoid facing that dark self-judgment abruptly. He saw the past in every moment, so no future could exist, if he couldn’t drown his mind the soul would tear upon his thoughts, screaming in torment, horrified and abased, held fixed upon his past.
His contempt and self-loathing was penance, he blamed no one else for his choices, although others were far more accountable than he; he after all was acting in wilful ignorance, while those who deceived him into false beliefs, acted with full knowledge. He’d never shed those false beliefs, he continued to grasp them firmly as absolute truths, and so these ingrained lies ate away his very essence. That ignorance had allowed him to act with willing abandon in the past, abandon he now regretted deeply; but for him paradoxically.
He watched the storms majesty and power filling the sky beyond the underpass, and he sighed. He wished he’d taken the hard way so often, and not the easy way of slow suicide, he didn’t live anyway, he was long dead, only he feared the grave, and what may wait for him there.
Is a fearful slave culpable for the dictates of his masters; is a soul that is intentionally filled with the confusion and manipulations of a contrived web of lies rational, so then culpable?
This was the question, and he knew well the answer.
He’d tried to wrestle with his soul, but he knew he was fighting with lies, how could he save himself if he knew himself to be guilty; your soul cannot be deceived or tricked.
Seisyll didn’t impose, he just ignored him as he made a bed a short distance away and settled down for the night, his aching feet glad of the rest.
“How ya doing?” Seisyll asked with a smile when he was settled and the lack of human interaction had become more difficult to deny himself. “I’m Sill.”
You got anything to drink?” Was the reply.
“No. Sorry, just some water I collected from a stream this morning.” Sill told him. “You been in this area long?” Sill inquired.
“Na. Just working my way down to Edina (Edinburgh) for winter. Weathers getting too cold for the wilds.” He explained.
“How’d you end up a jaikey?” Sill asked.
“Long story.” He replied sadly.
“I’m not busy if you want to chat?” Sill prodded.
“Ehh. You’re a nosey…
Ahs blootered, so aye why no...
I’ve seen things; ‘n’ stood by, things that cannae be unseen, I’ve dane things that cannae be undone.” The old jaikey replied and took a sip of his bottle. “Aye, that’s howfur ah ended up ‘ere.”
“What things are those?” Sill asked.
“I did ma duty; I did ma duty laddie.” The jaikey turned away and fell silent.
“Ya seem in a dark place, talking can sometimes be helpful.” Sill said.
“Ye nae a harry hoofter ur ye, wanting ta ken me life story?
I cannae do wi jobby jabbers laddie.”
Just chatting” Sill replied.
The jaikey was silent for a few minutes, and Sill thought he must want to be left in peace, but the jaikey suddenly began to talk again. “They protected em, I protected em, that wis th’ job, keep em safe, keep em safe.
Could nea da anything, just stood by. Thoosans o’ em laddie, thoosans.
Those poor wee bairns.” The jaikey stared off into space for a long time.
“That was nea whit broke me laddie.
Ah wis in transport, just a driver, hud ma orders.
He booted her richt in th’ fud (virgina) laddie, she could’nee bin mair than six or seven, just a wee barra.”
“Your ex-military.” Sill commented.
“Ah wis al’most back at camp, he wis in th’ road getting his bawl, ‘foot down’ screaming in ma ear, ‘foot down’, ah hit that wee bairn full oot wi’ that ass holes’ voice ringing in ma ear ‘foot doon.”
Whin we stopped ‘n’ ah gut oot, that wee bairn wis wedge in th’ front o’ th’ truck.
Ah peeled him aff. He wis a bonny wee bairn, his wee blood cover face, ‘n’ his broken body in ma arms.” the jaikey began to sob. “he wis nort bit four years old.” Sill was silent as the jaikey sobbed for a while.
“I held that wee bairn so tight. They’d to pull him from my arms.
I refused to drive for those bastards after that, I refused boy. That’s what broke me. Then after the jail I was left with nothing, not even self-respect.”
“What those bastard get up to, no one stands up, they sold those bairns as sex slaves and when things settled down and people with a moral compass began to arrive, they gutted those kids, thousands of em laddie.” The jaikey stared into space again.
“Who did?” Sill asked.
Those Ashkenazi bastards.” The jaikey’s face contorted in hatred.
“What’s the Kazakh?” Sill asked
“The Khazarian mafia, they run the world.” He replied
“They murdered children?” Sill asked.
“Murder, slavery, extortion, theft, blackmail, intimidation, racketeering, is their trade.
Harvesting organs, a modern expansion, it should be outlawed completely, and every member of the Khazarian mafia hunted down and exterminated.” The jaikey answered.
“They killed the kids and cut out their organs?” Sill replied.
“Na laddie, ye cannea tak’ organs from a corpse, ye ‘have’ ta tak’ them whin they’re still alive. Why’d ye think th’ quackery invented th’ lie o’ brain death, they couldn’t very weel convince family ta sign awa’ a relative ta organ harvesting, if they knew they’d feel every cut, which they dae, sa they invented th’ lie o’ brain death.” The jaikey’s face remained hate filled. “They inject a paralysing agent then start cutting, it kin tak’ hours, sometimes days afore th’ victim finally dies, just an organ vessel ta th’ soulless. Those bairns felt every cut, emptied like meat sacks.
I’ve had enough of this world, leave it to the whores and soulless.” The jaikey turned away from Sill and pulled his covering over his head.
Click Link: Chapter Five
If you’d like to contribute to the further development of this book, please use the information below, thank you.