THE LAST KILL

•••

“I’m Elias Thorn.” Silas Volkov said, looking at Dr. Anya Sharma directly in her eyes. She somehow made him feel calm. The kind of calm that would still have one thinking if they really wanted to do this thing, if they really wanted some woman in a dark purple English suit asking them questions about their past. She said it helped her know him more, and somehow that was true, but mostly, it helped Silas Volkov feel free, good, and able to move on with his new life. It's called therapy, she had said on their first day.

The room they stayed in felt too cold to be real, warm lighting, and a calm soft rain sound playing from unseen speakers. Things that take your mind off the world and all its vile.

“Do you have intentions of living forever?” Silas asked.

“What makes you think this, Thorn?” Dr. Anya replied, with perplexity curled up in her tone.

“Elias Thorn. I beg your pardon.” He corrected her.

“My apologies. Elias. Thorn.” She said, feigning ignorance at his confidence. Not many men around this neck of the woods possessed such outright confidence, and she knew that well, and so carefully watched him as he spoke.

“Your office is too cold.”

“Oh. That. I…I could turn the AC off if you want.”

“I can bear it. I've borne much harsher conditions.” Silas said, thinking about putting his nose up in pride. But who would be proud about that kind of life? No one, I guess.

“Hmm..” Dr. Anya thought for a while, watching him, then she said, “let's begin.”

He only nodded.

“You have a scar on your left cheek. It's deep. Could you remember what happened to you there?”

Silas slowly took his hand up in a careful attempt to touch the scar on his cheek, he's never even—really—given much thought to these things, they all happened, and healed, and happened over again, it was routine, he has lots of scars beneath his clean dark suit, lots of ugly looking tattoos even, but the suit has helped in hiding the very things that made this man. He felt it. It's an old scar from when he was only twenty-five, starting out in a gang downtown, something that had Scorpion to it, and most of what patterned his skin were Scorpions, and he liked it. In fact. He loved it. I'm not sure he does now, because he'd not be here having these lots of clandestine therapy sessions with Dr. Anya every Saturday, seeking absolution from his past. It's not been the greatest, it's not been what he wanted.

Silas Volkov had dreamt of becoming a Lawyer, yes, that's what he wanted, he wanted to make things right, put people in their place, chase and catch his desire for Justice, and to make a difference. Silas has seen many aspiring lawyers who are passionate about upholding the rule of law, advocating for those who can't advocate for themselves, and contributing to a fairer and more equitable society. They want to right wrongs, they want to challenge abuses of power, and also help people find their way through difficult legal situations, and that was all he wanted.

“Elias Thorn. Elias…”

“Ma'am.” He jolted back to his senses.

“Are you there?”

He only nodded.

His days are routine: Gym. Home. Therapy. Snooker. Gym. Home. And that was it. And sometimes it even included Church. He believed he had truly outrun his former life, and honestly, he wanted to fix it. Make it right. But when he goes to bed, his nights are haunted by fragmented, violent memories. Guns and blood. Screams of the men he tortured in several basements, images of how he plucked their fingernails out, seared their skin with hot iron, made hell for them on earth, and gladly became their devil, their worst nightmare.

“I think I'm done here, Doctor.” Silas up and walked towards the door.

“Elias Thorn.” Dr. Anya called after him, “It gets better with every breath. Don't forget that.”

He turned around and only nodded.

•••

Silas Volkov had deliberately erased everything from his past, and started a new life. Clean. No guns. No Mafia movies. No phones. No friends. No triggering pictures pasted on his wall. Nothing. No cigarettes even. Anything that would make him feel that way was done away with, and deliberately. He needed peace. He did.

His house smelt of food, he didn't know which, just something foody. But he couldn't bring himself to eat now, he was tired, and his head was pounding, and his body was failing, he needed a good long nap.

“Claire?” He called, and fell into his sofa.

Did he just call Claire? Had he forgotten that she was one of a kind? And the last time she cooked for him was her last day on earth? How dare he? How dare he not remember that he was the one who accused her of sleeping with John Cordon, and later put a bullet in her head. It was Lena he wanted to call, but our past always stays with us, or doesn't it?

The doorbell rang, and he sprung back to life wiping his eyes, it was a mail. He took it and returned back to the sofa, ripping it on his way. An antique pocket watch. A watch? Its crystal cracked, containing a single, tarnished silver bullet, and a symbol of a coiled viper was etched into the bullet, this was known only to a select few from his forgotten past. What was happening? He thought.

The watch belonged to a man of greater vile reputation than him, he was called The Architect, and had made it a life long ambition to be against Silas Volkov, back then when everyone thought fighting and killings, and gangs, and guns and bullets were the coolest things on the planet. But The Architect had died many years back when the Mafia was still in force, when the fights were rampant, when it was the news on a daily basis, The Architect had—disappeared—wait, what really happened to The Architect? No-one ever heard of him again. Silas looked at the watch in his hand, and clearly, it was the one. Even the bullet, the coiled viper, was a sign of The Architect's property. He's alive, isn't he?

Silas carefully examined the bullet, his breath catching, he couldn't believe it, his mind was already running to how he was going to start fighting again, where he'd get a gun or guns—as the need arises—in this city, and how to go about it, because that's exactly what it meant, The Architect was not going to stop. He remembered the symbol from a job that almost broke him, a mission that ended with an unforeseen civilian casualty. He realized that the past had found him again. The watch ticked, though broken, counting down to an unknown command. His heart thumped as he sank deeper into his sofa. Whatever he was going to do, he had better done it, and fast.