by Thomas, P M
His face was washed away, leaving only the bare skull remaining. His eyes turned into an oozed goo that ran down the skeletal face like the yolk of an egg.
The skull faced body of Evengi slumped in his seat, justice had been served, his execution had been fully carried out. The filth of the earth had been erased.
17
The mutilator from the grave had fulfilled his promise to Victor and Indria, he had avenged the two lovers of their wrongful murder, absolved his own dirty hands of his past sins, made it up to them for his own vanity.
His troubled soul could finally find peace, the poison spewing in his veins had been administered the anti-venom. His internal pain had been subsided, the hatred rotting his heart and corrupting his soul had calmed.
The bringer of death stood at the graves of Victor and Indria, removed the two masks that expertly deceived the guilty. He gazed at the tombstones with his own eyes, unconcealed by the masks hiding his shameful appearance for two years. He remembered he had a name back then, one that meant little to him now, Egor. That was what they called him, the name of a pathetic lowlife who died two years ago.
After the deaths of Victor and Indria, he sank into a sea of guilt for two long years of hell, trapped in a prison of ageless despair, every minute of every day was spent drowning his sorrows with as much drugs and alcohol to rid himself of the insufferable pain, to blank out the fact that he was the cause of it all.
One night, he had a dream, one that was different from the vague, blurred images of an intoxicated man escaping the hard truth. The dream was clear and vivid, it was a message to him, from Indria herself.
His angel came to him from the other-side, as beautiful and pure as he recalled in his past. She smiled at him sweetly, told him not to mourn their loss. He was stronger than that, to endure the heartbreak of her rejection and the sorrow of her death, lesser men would have died at such a harrowing ordeal.
He lived on, there was a reason for that. Indria told him that he had the power to atone for his sins, to make things right for himself, to find the peace he desperately needed to lay his hounding demons to rest.
Indria caressed his sunken cheek, he could feel her hand print long after he awoke, it was as if she had actually reached out and touched him. She told him he was meant for happiness, he could make a difference in his existence, all he had to do was change, to become a new man, start a life anew for the better.
With a sweet smile, she drifted back into the blinding white light shining behind her back, she gave him her last words, they would meet again and be together, all would be forgiven in the afterlife. His redemption was the key.
Egor knew what he had to do to find his atonement. He rid himself of his helpless addiction, purged his body of their intoxicating effects. With a clear, focused mind, he buried his past, never to surface again. He faked his death, ending his old life which had no meaning anymore. In his eyes, Egor was dead the minute he saw Indria die in front of him. In his place, stood his new persona, a nameless man fuelled by one purpose, a goal he had to complete.
He could not strike fear into the hearts of the guilty without a symbol to terrify the punished, to make them beg for their lives, to drop to their knees and lament their crimes, to suffer at the highest peak.
He altered himself, became a phantom of death, a representation of vengeance. He assumed the role of Victor, brought back from the dead due to his lust for revenge, painting them a horrific picture of the everlasting excruciation they would face in the afterlife, the hell they would face at his cold hands would be like a slice of heaven to the hellish nightmare that he promised they would endure for eternity in death.
He crafted the mask with his own two hands, forged the face of death based on the greatest image of man's mortality itself, the reaper. Under the steel mask, he had created a fake rotting skull to give the appearance that Victor's face was rotting to the bare skull.
The suit, black as death, was used to hide the padded layers to shield him from the bullets, knives or whatever resistance the condemned marked for execution would do to preserve their worthless lives.
The pads were filled with dust to present the illusion of dried, dead flesh from the rotting corpse of the reanimated Victor.
His deception was perfect, they believed it was Victor back from the dead, a zombie on the war path, and that struck such terror a man of mere flesh and blood could never do. The fantastical defied their minds, making them susceptible to his torturous methods, it was a living nightmare that no mortal could foresee nor want to face.
His performance was a success, it aided him well in accomplishing his salvation. The man once named Egor felt his entire being lifted from its eternal unrest. Now there was only one single matter at hand, the last task that would reunite him with Indria. He missed her so much with every ounce of his heart, though broken it still beat in her name. He took the machete to his neck, slit it wide open, let his blood pour out, turning the white snow a thick red.
As he lay bleeding in the freezing winds, he smiled warmly at the sky above, Egor's infernal suffering had reached its end. In short time, he would be with his true love again. Their reunion was long overdue.