Sempiternal.Jas
S E M P I T E R N A L
To be numb, dead, to desire and despair, was a way of life that few have to suffer. Despite their rarity, each one holds great intent within their faceless expressions and feign empathy, intent that would become their hamartia.
A grey stone pavement which has seen war once this century sat within the very heart of Brighton city; it was bleak though bright as the sun revelled in shining down upon the seaside pier. Shoes which dragged their heels across such an austere path somehow caused earthquakes to those who live in the contended town; these shoes caused the same dread an oncoming storm caused to naive sailors.
The shoes belonged to one of those whom suffer from impassive empathy, they belonged to a deadpan face with barren bronze eyes. Oh his eyes: if eyes truly were windows to the soul as the bard had said, then his eyes would be the windows of an empty house for nothing lies behind them. His eyes insight fear for they blink only rarely and are the centre of many children’s nightmares.
Such eyes stared ahead, not diverting to eye those who swiftly divert their own gaze due to fear of confrontation. His route was specific though his intent was undecided; though such intent was set in stone as his gaze fixated upon a thin, pale man with thin hair and a grey complexion. He carried a briefcase and wore a two-piece suit which matched the tone of his damp skin. His eyes held a soul, though his soul was alarmed by something for he periodically snapped his head behind him; little did he know, the monster that pursued his scent was directly before him.
The gang leader who has yet to reach his twentieth birthday had swiftly stepped to the edge of the pavement as he walked, and as the harrowed man turned once again to check his hind, he pushed his weight into his right shoulder and barged the man into the slip of alleyway that stood beside the main road. None dared to intrigue as the man stumbled to the side, dropping his irrelevant suitcase and raising his hands in defence; he knew exactly whom had attacked him.
The sly boy pushed the man against the brick, their faces inches away; one fearful, one frigid.
“I-I don’t have it—“
“I don’t want your money, Bruner. I need to know where your loyalties lie.", His tone was smooth, deadpan and almost monotone; both hands, one with a small scar between his index and his thumb, pushing Bruner by his shoulders. There was no need for weaponry for this man would not dare even try to resist.
“…what!?….” Bruner’s tone was panicked, stuttered and loose. He was clearly a man whom was looking into the eye of hell itself.
“…T-Timothy…please…I don’t know what you mean.”, The grey-faced man fell to his knees, seemingly frantic and frenzied; similar to the bate movements of a falcon’s wings, frantic, panicked, as a corybantic dance. He had become demoralised and chaotic, sweat dripping down. The teenager’s words only made him more so…how could someone be so calm and ataraxy when he was in a state of Eleutheromania. “Tell me are you going to bark or bite? I saw you with those peelers on Thursday. Do you know what they do with traitors to royalty? They hang ‘em, they draw ‘em, they quarter ‘em.”
Still, no malice nor amusement escaped his lips; just the joy of seeing a man quiver in his freshly polished shoes.
“I’m sorry—they asked me so many questions! I didn’t know what to say!”, Silence. Silence but the occasional quivering of a broken man’s voice and the emphatic sound of the city they stand in. Timothy let him go, slowly stepping back but not taking his eyes off of him. His pushed his fist into his jacket pocket and took out a pack of smokes, pressing one gently upon his lips and striking a match to the potassium on the box, lighting the cigarette and throwing the small match down to the concrete below their feet. Never did the eighteen-year-old seem uncomfortable, simply frigid and static.
“I will see you very soon, Mr Bruner. Very soon, indeed.”
And with that, Timothy Audette began to walk out into the basking but cold sun of the autumnal Brighton pier, leaving Bruner staggering and gasping with a handkerchief pressing against his forehead. The Mad Prince of the Streets struck fear into everyone but his dominant rivals or the incompetent police. Still, poor Bruner, despite his spinelessness, found a new fury for the Brighton Razor Gang and would not let this acrimony go to waste.
(INSPIRED BY BRIGHTON ROCK, 1938)
A grey stone pavement which has seen war once this century sat within the very heart of Brighton city; it was bleak though bright as the sun revelled in shining down upon the seaside pier. Shoes which dragged their heels across such an austere path somehow caused earthquakes to those who live in the contended town; these shoes caused the same dread an oncoming storm caused to naive sailors.
The shoes belonged to one of those whom suffer from impassive empathy, they belonged to a deadpan face with barren bronze eyes. Oh his eyes: if eyes truly were windows to the soul as the bard had said, then his eyes would be the windows of an empty house for nothing lies behind them. His eyes insight fear for they blink only rarely and are the centre of many children’s nightmares.
Such eyes stared ahead, not diverting to eye those who swiftly divert their own gaze due to fear of confrontation. His route was specific though his intent was undecided; though such intent was set in stone as his gaze fixated upon a thin, pale man with thin hair and a grey complexion. He carried a briefcase and wore a two-piece suit which matched the tone of his damp skin. His eyes held a soul, though his soul was alarmed by something for he periodically snapped his head behind him; little did he know, the monster that pursued his scent was directly before him.
The gang leader who has yet to reach his twentieth birthday had swiftly stepped to the edge of the pavement as he walked, and as the harrowed man turned once again to check his hind, he pushed his weight into his right shoulder and barged the man into the slip of alleyway that stood beside the main road. None dared to intrigue as the man stumbled to the side, dropping his irrelevant suitcase and raising his hands in defence; he knew exactly whom had attacked him.
The sly boy pushed the man against the brick, their faces inches away; one fearful, one frigid.
“I-I don’t have it—“
“I don’t want your money, Bruner. I need to know where your loyalties lie.", His tone was smooth, deadpan and almost monotone; both hands, one with a small scar between his index and his thumb, pushing Bruner by his shoulders. There was no need for weaponry for this man would not dare even try to resist.
“…what!?….” Bruner’s tone was panicked, stuttered and loose. He was clearly a man whom was looking into the eye of hell itself.
“…T-Timothy…please…I don’t know what you mean.”, The grey-faced man fell to his knees, seemingly frantic and frenzied; similar to the bate movements of a falcon’s wings, frantic, panicked, as a corybantic dance. He had become demoralised and chaotic, sweat dripping down. The teenager’s words only made him more so…how could someone be so calm and ataraxy when he was in a state of Eleutheromania. “Tell me are you going to bark or bite? I saw you with those peelers on Thursday. Do you know what they do with traitors to royalty? They hang ‘em, they draw ‘em, they quarter ‘em.”
Still, no malice nor amusement escaped his lips; just the joy of seeing a man quiver in his freshly polished shoes.
“I’m sorry—they asked me so many questions! I didn’t know what to say!”, Silence. Silence but the occasional quivering of a broken man’s voice and the emphatic sound of the city they stand in. Timothy let him go, slowly stepping back but not taking his eyes off of him. His pushed his fist into his jacket pocket and took out a pack of smokes, pressing one gently upon his lips and striking a match to the potassium on the box, lighting the cigarette and throwing the small match down to the concrete below their feet. Never did the eighteen-year-old seem uncomfortable, simply frigid and static.
“I will see you very soon, Mr Bruner. Very soon, indeed.”
And with that, Timothy Audette began to walk out into the basking but cold sun of the autumnal Brighton pier, leaving Bruner staggering and gasping with a handkerchief pressing against his forehead. The Mad Prince of the Streets struck fear into everyone but his dominant rivals or the incompetent police. Still, poor Bruner, despite his spinelessness, found a new fury for the Brighton Razor Gang and would not let this acrimony go to waste.
(INSPIRED BY BRIGHTON ROCK, 1938)
