Solitude by Any Other Name

The rain was pouring outside, smashing into my window with considerable force. Yet it wasn’t that coldness which accompanied rainfall, nor the coldness of the late autumn nights which was what was on my mind, but the steely coldness of metal. Positioned at my temple. Yet I showed little fear, for I was the one holding the gun. I was the one whose finger was on the trigger. I’d end it tonight. Twenty-seven years and tonight was the end. It all built up to this sorry state of affairs.

I hesitated for a moment. As one should when making such a major choice. And yet I resented myself for that. Had I not hesitated, I could’ve made a comfortable life for myself and Clarissa. Had I not hesitated, Johnathan would still be here. Had I not hesitated, I could’ve made something of myself, instead of getting through life being carried by others and having what was given to me handed on a silver platter.

I was done. I was done hesitating.

I pulled the trigger.

A loud bang rang through the air.

Then the world went dark.

Yet…

That buzzing, grating noise. Why was it there, buzzing like a flock of flies to a dead body.
I slammed down my hand next to me on my nightstand. Why? Why do I have feeling in my body? Why did my alarm go off?

I open my eyes and checked my clock. Wednesday.

“Of. Fucking. Course.” I said, voice filled with a mix of frustration, disappointment, and resignation. “It wouldn’t be that easy.” I slammed my body back down, making the mattress spring up. It looked like the clock had rewound itself sixteen hours. Meaning work was in two hours, and the weekend another day away.

I made sure to add getting myself a new alarm clock to my mental list of errands to run. I had smashed it out of anger, breaking even its rigid plastic armor, damaging the internals within. This wasn’t a normal occurrence, though so was waking up after blowing your own brains out and waking up the same day for work. I was severely annoyed. The kind of annoyed one gets along with that sense of dreadful disappointment.

I laid in bed for a good while. When I had felt sorry for myself enough, I pulled myself out of bed, to the kitchenette, placed directly in view of my bed. My small Eastwater apartment didn’t have room for walls. Those were too expensive. Those were an unnecessary cost. I poured some of my favorite coffee into a filter, filled my coffee pot up with some water, and flicked it on before throwing a microwave breakfast meal to heat.

I went into the bathroom. I turned on the faucet and began to brush my teeth. I wondered if this was some weird trippy dream or such, but I’d doubt something of such would be so in-depth. All my sensations felt real too. There was the distinct sharp pang of a headache which rarely entertained my mornings. Just where I had shot myself. It wasn’t gone, but rather felt like it was distant, out of reach. My face in the mirror looked worse than it usually did this early, the clear signs of exhaustion creeping into every artifice. Nicking myself shaving, the pain reminded me that despite what should have happened, I was still very much awake and alive.
My attention went to my hair. Jet-black. Getting a little too long, meaning I’d have to make a trip to the barber at some point. It was unkempt like a tangle of brush, so I combed it straight. Straight enough anyhow. I didn’t want my coffee to cool too much.

Then it went to my eye. Or rather lack of. My eyepatch was bugging me, so I adjusted it. The other was a royal shade of purple, the kind you find on an expensive amethyst necklace. At least that’s what my mom had said. To me, it looked more like a void. Dark, cold. I’ve been told that’s my general vibe. Dark and cold. I’d hardly blame them. I’ve been so solemn recently. I stopped looking at the mirror.

Breakfast was the same as it always is. With the limited room, I didn’t have a stovetop, meaning my days were full of eating out, leftovers, and microwaved goo in the rough shape and color of food. Dry, fake egg to which I had to add enough salt to spike my blood pressure up to unhealthy levels to shovel down my throat, colored a ghastly, pale yellow, and reminiscent more of plastic than something edible. Subpar waffles, drowned in maple syrup, not only so I could enjoy a taste which wasn’t washed up cardboard, but to remove the rock-hard texture. And the only good part: real coffee, mixed with two teaspoons of sugar and a cup of milk. I tried to like black coffee. I couldn’t. So, as much as my coworkers chastised me for such an action, I sweetened it. I still couldn’t taste the hints listed on the box, though.

I threw the packaging in the trash, washed my dishes and coffee mug reading “World’s Best Devil Hunter” in the sink, and left them to dry before changing into my suit and leaving for work. It was your standard businessman affair. Grayish-blue blazer and slacks, white undershirt, and a tie; today I used purple with yellow stripes. It didn’t work on me. I doubt it worked on anyone. The mismatched colors looked garish as if they were battling on the tie for domination. But the tie held too much sentimental value to not wear it.

And so I left the house and locked the door. Went down the elevator and through the lobby. Then to the station and boarded a train. The same route I’d been going on for the past two years. To the step, every motion a perfectly rehearsed play, all with a thoughtless precision only matched by the acting greats. My body made the trip while my mind wandered to useless matters, such as making fun of the billboards I was paying little attention to, or the dress of my fellow commuters.

The train ride wasn’t special either. I boarded, found a vacant seat, and stared out the window blankly. Sometimes I fell asleep, even though the trip took a little under 20 minutes. Today I couldn’t. I was stuck on the fact that I shouldn’t be doing this. I should be six feet under. I should be witnessing my funeral, with its grand seven attendants. If it was scheduled on a good day. I should be in the afterlife. Not sitting on the train.

“Sector 68, Oratori Station.” The cold, robotic female voice which announced my station pulled me back into the world.

“Sector 68, Oratori Station.” I got up and stretched a little as the train came to a halt. It’d be a five-minute walk to the offices. Then I’d swipe my ID card to clock in. Then I’d get to my desk to file paperwork. Then I’d eat lunch. Then paperwork.

And before I knew it, five o’clock hit, I said my courtesy farewells, and do the reverse of my trip. To the station. On the train. To the apartment. To Room 823. Another day as always. Pointless. My job didn’t matter. It was just reflex. Some paperwork to fulfill some bureaucratic requirements. A job devoid of meaning, only necessary because of some law that was written by men long dead. Damage reports, invoices, inventory orders, and the like. Work blended together like a weird smoothie. Days formed one big mash, fully uniform in feeling.
I threw myself on my bed before anything else and stared at the white ceiling. It was a flat, uniform white. But on closer inspection, you’d notice the other characteristics. Black marks, parts where the paint had peeled, parts with not enough paint, parts with too much. Why was I here? There was no good answer. I guess I was. I had escaped death. End of story. I decided to forget it ever happened. It’d be easier if I acted like nothing special happened.
I arrived at my desk on Friday to find a surprise. In the sea of white papers and the black ink adorning them, the faded yellow of a small manila envelope stood out like a sore thumb. I secretly hoped it was a termination notice, but I guess that’d leave me with no way to pay my rent. Not that I needed one that badly at the moment: I had at least three years’ worth of expenses saved up.

I opened it.

Recipient: Ezekiel Gray

Verne Counter-Devil Armed Forces (CDAF)

Notice of Transfer

By orders of the Minster of Counter-Devil Operations, Lieutenant Ezekiel Gray is hereby transferred from Verne Counter-Devil Armed Forces Administrative Division to Verne Counter-Devil Armed Forces Eastwater Division Squadron E, effective Monday, 3rd of September, year twenty-two hundred and one.

Signed,

Simon de Fortier

Minister of Counter-Devil Operations.

There were some papers behind it, going into more details. I brushed them off. What concerned me was the front page. I didn’t understand. They were the ones who forced me into this office work, and now, after two miserable years, they reversed their decision like that. I sighed. Not much I could do.

I walked out of my cubicle and hunted down my manager. He was a portly, old man. The stereotypical male manager, straight out of a movie. Straight-laced, but reasonable. Stern and decisive, but soft and flexible. A fine manager, one without complaint, but lacking in traits to complement.

“That envelope,” I inquired.

“Got it this morning,” he said in his usual, matter-of-fact tone. “I’m not shocked, though. The hunter shortage’s hittin’ pretty hard.”

“I see.”

“Don’t worry about work. Just pack up. I’ll redelegate your work.” He sighed. “Damn HQ, thinkin’ they can just spring this on us whenever they want.” I walked off.

I used to be a devil hunter. Used to is the keyword. It’s how I ended up with an eyepatch where an eye was supposed to be, and scars I hide under my suit. The former also happened to be the reason I was sent to the Administrative Division in the first place. Well, I did end up in the Training Division before that as an instructor, but I like to forget that disaster.

It wasn’t bad. Surely it was more meaningful and enjoyable than what I was currently doing. But seeing a new roster for the Squadrons each month was a little disheartening. More so when you knew who got replaced. There’s an old saying amongst devil hunters: “you end up dead or wishing you were.” No wonder no one wants to do it. It must’ve gotten particularly bad when they called on me.

It wasn’t a tough job for me. I was skilled, and devil attacks had significantly lost their bite in recent years. Knowledge of their physiology and tactics allowed us to develop counters. Weaponry and technology improved. Though death rates amongst other hunters were still absurdly high, by the end of my service, it was like a weekly chore to me. When you are constantly on the precipice of death, life tends to hold little meaning, and death equally so. When I was transferred away, I didn’t miss it. I still don’t, but then again, not much I miss nowadays. It’ll be a nice change of pace, though.

I cleaned up my desk. Packing up was quick. I subscribed to the minimalist philosophy when it came to my work surface. A single, black steel fountain pen filled halfway with blue ink, and its accompanying holder and ink bottle. A calculator with no more than the four functions I needed, buttons with worn-off labels. A few pencils and a sharpener, contained in a mug I stole from a coworker prior to his departure. A red ballpoint pen, almost dry. A coffee mug, glossy black with no logo or design, still containing coffee grinds at the bottom as I hadn’t had the time to wash it.

The only thing which stuck out from such a utilitarian crowd was a silver, carefully etched revolver, patterned with flowing lines and a pair of skulls on each side, accented by an ebony wood handle. It was gifted to me a long time ago, far longer than anything else in my possession. A revolver, nowadays, served little purpose as an actual weapon. They were comparatively slow, inaccurate, and weak, supplanted by modern pistols. But it’s been with me far too long, reminding me of, if not better, at least more tolerable days when it might have seen some limited use. I picked it up and opened its chamber. Purplish-black cartridges filled two slots, the other shots spent and stuck in their enclosures. I closed it, and put it in the box I was keeping everything else in.

It was a weird feeling with everyone talking to me and such, acting all chummy, but it didn’t bother me. I didn’t know most of their names or personality. Considering I’d take a bullet to the head before returning to the Administrative Division, I’d doubt that would change.
I read the rest of the contents of the envelope when I got home. What stood out to me was the location. Squadron E was stationed directly in the middle of Eastwater, in Sector 78. The city was split into 144 sectors. Roughly arranged according to a 12 by 12 grid, it was numbered from top left, left to right, then row by row. Meaning Sector 78 was smack dab in the middle. Squadron Headquarters were placed strategically throughout the city to ensure they can cover their areas efficiently, and being directly in the middle, where the core of the city was containing the richest people and most important buildings, meant that this was an important job filled with likely the best Eastwater had to offer. Living in Sector 20 myself likely meant doubling my commute, forcing me to wake up a half-hour earlier.

I sighed. Monday would be at least the start of something new. For better or for worse, I’d get the change I had so long desired. Two years in Administrative hell, and now they threw me on the equally hellish frontlines. I fell asleep that night quickly, as always.