Microfiction: The Fall of a Good Man

It was the last straw.

He had sent his supporters to round up and kill those who refuse to silence their protest against the government. His secret cult of followers descended upon protests to incite violence. In the midst of the chaos they’d take as many lives as possible before the police could regroup and stop the killings. Since the killings began, no arrest had been made. No suspects found. Investigations into these murders always turned up nothing.

Morgan was undeterred. His madness had been pushed to the brink, beyond the lines and comfort of reason. He seethed, foaming at the mouth. Unable to see beyond the red obscuring his vision. With stealth and subtlety, he unsheathed the curved blade of his combat knife. Over and over again, Morgan plunged the weapon into soft flesh as he moved through the president’s crowd of counter protestors, leaving behind a wake of confusion and terror.

He looked up and there atop a building stood an woman overlooking the mob. Her skin was like the night, her eyes bright as falling stars. Holy and otherworldly. She wept and held a sign with the names of her slain brothers and sisters written in blood.

With a glance, Morgan caught sight of a police officer raising a long rifle towards the woman. Morgan sprinted forward striking the barrel off target with his free hand and drawing the curved blade across the man’s throat; baptizing himself in a spray of crimson.

Screaming filled the air. The mob turned its focus to Morgan. He was surrounded. Certain his time had come to an end, he leapt into the seething crowd striking out with his blade. Four, five, six, ten, thirteen bodies fell to the earth never to rise again. The crowd, twisted forms of knuckle dragging, inbred, mouth breathers, reached out for the young man. His knife slashed wildly, liberating fingers and opening deep canyons in flesh. He knew he was to die, but refused to do so alone.

Their hands grabbed and pulled at him. Someone drove a knee into his ribs causing several to crack loudly. The blows rain down like stones upon him. A booted foot shattered his jaw. His eyes swelled shut. He was lifted and dragged along by the crowd. He wished he still had his knife, but it had been lost when the tides of battle shifted.

Around his neck the crowd fastened a noose. He felt himself drifting in and out of consciousness. The noose tighten around his neck, lifting him into the air. He wanted struggle, but his body refused to answer his commands.

A heavy wooden board smashed into his shin, fracturing the bone and tearing a gash in his flesh. The crowd cheered. They taunted and jeered. Tomorrow there would be arguments over who struck first, who acted in self defense, but that didn’t matter now. There would be thirteen fewer men to interfere with the protests. Thirteen men who could no longer cut down innocent lives with impunity.

With one final breath, Morgan gave his spirit up to the dark.

Published by

St Basil Z Fish

Curator of the strange and incredibly awkward. A rambling writer with the misguided notion he has something to say. Attracted to horror. Survivor of abuse. Professional Insomniac. PTSD and MDD misguided.

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