A cold gust swirls through the drapes, a million particles of dust twist in the light as the last Warden stares down into his lap. The dust, scattering violently at first, begins to settle lazily in the air, drifting aimlessly in the sun's golden beams as pulls a worn photograph from his vest pocket, discarding the vest itself onto the dark brown grime of the motel's once brilliant white tile panels.
The edges of the photo have long since worn away, but at its center is an image as vibrant and beautiful as any the world has to offer him. There in that vibrant pool of light stands his wife, his best friends, his brothers and sisters in arms. Family in all but blood. They shared all the troubles of the world together, survived the bullets and the bombings, the blades constantly seeking their throats, the burden of newborn babes and the challenges of unexpected parenthood. But he was alone in his final misery. He was alone in the loss of his comrades, of his wife, of his surrogate family. He stares at that photo, lost in time.
On that humid night in the Congo, so many years ago, he went to bed with his family at his back, their bonds seemingly eternal. When he awoke it was to tortured screams, fire and blood. The blood of his kinsmen, his family. He awoke to the very visage of hell.
And now, now all that remained of them was his picture. A tiny square of color in between four white borders, fading away with each passing day. He stares for hours, legs carrying him on their own will. Away from here, into there. He smooths his thumb over the image, hears their laughter, sees their smiles.
He hears their screaming, sees their faces, twisted in agony.
The picture falls, his fingers limp, once sweet memories agony on a guilty soul. Failure haunts him. His failure to find his wife, failure to avenge his friends, failure to live by his own code. He opposed no tyranny, he lived not for the good of others. He lived for himself. He had lived to find them justice, vengeance, a blind eye turned to his own acts of godless savagery. To the blood he shed in their name.
He takes another swig from the near empty silver flask, but the burning brings no solace to his weary soul. It too falls to the grimy motel floor, the family crest glowing dully in the half burnt fluorescent bulbs. He runs a hand through his hair, the other flat against the base of the disgusting motel sink. Roaches crawl for refuge as his gaze meet glass, staring into tired, sunken eyes, the paltry lighting revealing the the sight of a man defeated.
His hand slips from his head to his holster. The motion seemingly born of idle thought, an accident perhaps, in reality a practiced routine. A .44 Magnum rests in his hands, the wooden grip worn to the shape of his palm. As per the ritual the cylinder pops open to reveal itself, well polished metal gleaming even in the meager lighting, the sound of five brass and gunpowder shards hitting the ground reverberating through the tiny room. The cylinder locks back into place, in the chamber a single round, hollow point.
He retrieves the worn photograph, tucking it gently into the metal folds of the cabinet mirror, his eyes locking once more with the phantom staring back at him, staring into bloodshot eyes that are all too familiar with the forbidden final step in his "routine". The barrel rests beneath the chin, his tongue pressing against its familiar touch from the inside of his mouth. His eyes lock with another's now. Not the same sunken eyes of the defeated man, but with the genuine joy of a young girl, her honest smile as her sweetheart holds her tightly by the waist, surrounded by the those they hold dear.
The hammer pulls back, slamming forward as he shuts his eyes. He is there. He is holding her, they are together, smiling. Smiling even though the sun is too warm, the jungle too humid, their time too short, their deaths inevitable. In a flash the smell of gunpowder fills the room, the wall is painted in his memories, and the half burnt bulb finally goes out.
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