A Double-Edged Life

There was nothing left for him.

He'd stared death straight in the eyes and come away with his life and for what? Another day of not knowing where to go or who he even was anymore. He'd only been on the streets for a week and it felt like a score of them. The days had all melded together into one long blur of time in which he had wandered, been hungry, and huddled miserably in doorways for warmth -- it was times like that a man really had to sit back and count what he had left for reasons to go on.

But Mekakushi had had his reasons. Two of them. They had been nestled in the chamber of the double-action revolver he'd found four days ago behind Woolworth's. He'd gone there to check the dumpsters for something to eat and had, instead, found the gun resting on the pavement just waiting, it seemed, to be found. It had likely been abandoned after a drug deal or something of that ilk and forgotten about...but where it had come from wasn't important.

There had been three bullets at the time, the first he had spent later that night by squeezing the trigger at the side of an empty trash can to satisfy his curiousity as to whether or not it even still worked. The kick of the recoil and the concave hole that had appeared in the dented metal had certainly been answer enough and it immediately answered his other question as well -- namely, what did a twenty four-year-old raccoon with nothing to lose such as himself have business toting a gun around like Clint Fucking Eastwood?

The answer was simple -- two bullets with two marks to find. The question of which two marks was simple and had been answered immediately. The gun had been a sign, he decided. If he hadn't thought so when he'd found it, the number of bullets in the chamber had cinched it for him. One for Roan, and one for him.

It was a romantic notion, but it hadn't, of course, panned out. After bumming enough change to take a late bus to the Burrdale University campus and retracing his steps back to Roan's apartment, he'd found it long-abandoned and empty. He supposed it should have been expected -- had he really expected the badger to stay in one place after learning the hard way how dangerous Roan was?

Feeling cheated and frustrated, he'd not even bothered to return to familiar territory. What was the point? It didn't matter, really, whether people passed him by and ignored him in familiar or unfamiliar alleys. He was still alone and still dead to anyone who may have cared about him.

He had spent the second bullet this morning in anger as he shot at an ill-tempered cat that had awoken him from a sound sleep by lunging on top of his left buttock, its filthy claws scrabbling for purchase as it yowled and spat. Meka hadn't actually managed to kill or even wound the cat, but sending it skittering for the shadows had been satisfying in its own rite.

And now there was one left. His.

Meka had spent the better portion of the day trying to come up with a reason -- any reason -- why he shouldn't and kept coming up blank. It was a funny thing to be on the edge because you became detached. Your problems seemed like someone else's. And rather than realizing the enormity of negotiating your own existance with yourself, it became trivial. He may as well have been debating whether or not to get extra foam on a latte he'd never order.

Live? Not live? Who cared anymore? Tomorrow morning he'd be a blurb on the news and maybe if he was -really- lucky, they'd find his mom and stuff a camera in her face so she could ramble in a half-drunken stupor about how she didn't know where she'd gone wrong and wa goa good boy he'd always been. They wouldn't ask her if she'd ignored him for the past ten years and she certainly wouldn't mention that she'd thrown him out last week.

At least it would finally be over. It wasn't as though he had to worry about Roan stepping forward and telling the world about what he had spent the better part of a year doing to him. THAT much, he was glad, would die along with him and no one would ever have to know.

The young raccoon stared at the barrel of the gun as he sat huddled against the back wall of a diner that had closed hours ago beneath the buzzing flourescent lights, watching as its single black sightless eye stared back at him. "What are you waiting for?" It seemed to ask. What indeed. Closing his eyes, Meka gingerly placed the end of the gun to his lips, the chilled kiss of the metal on his flesh bizarrely soothing him.

He wondered if it would hurt. Probably not long enough to matter, he decided, as he laid his ears back, hot tears puddling beneath his closed lids as he parted his jaws, slowly inserting the barrel into his mouth.

~You're almost done.~ an inner voice assured him. ~All you have to do now is squeeze. You can do that much, can't you? Sure...Roan taught you all you know about squeezing.~

Meka suddenly withdrew the gun from his mouth with a gasp, his eyes flying wide as his heart jackhammered in his chest. Was this really what he wanted? As he dragged his eyes down to look at the gun again, its muzzle glistening with saliva, his earlier assertiveness began to waver.
~Just do it. Do it, you fucking pussy. Have a little dignity and go out like a man. Its either this or some crackfiend knifes you in your sleep before too much longer for kicks and you die like the little cumgurgler you've turned into.~

"I don't....want to...." he whispered aloud to no one, the first real twinges of fright beginning to stir in him.

~Do it!~ his mind shouted back. ~Stick that fucking gun back in your gob and do it! You only get one chance at this, Kushi, so how about you make it count? You can chalk it up as -one- thing you finally did right.~

The barrel hovered and jittered before him as his hand began to shake. That much was true...he -would- only get one chance. And he -would- probably die out here anyway if he managed to botch it somehow. Swallowing hard, Meka jammed the muzzle of the gun back into his mouth, wincing as it glanced off of his bottom teeth. He held it there for a moment as he wrapped both hands around the handle, his thumb fumbling over the trigger and resting on it.

The tears were flowing steadily down his cheeks as he began to apply pressure, every nerve in his body tensed and quivering. It would be over any second now.

Any second now....

"Hey, boy!"

Meka jolted out of his trance, his eyes snapping up to regard the shadow that had fallen over him with wide-eyed surprise. A grizzled dark-skinned wino, his human face half-obscured by an unkept gray beard peered down at him with rheumy eyes. "Whatchoo doin' with that, boy?" he asked, a waft of sour breath passing over Meka as he spoke.

The raccoon began to shake even harder, frozen in place as his mind stuttered somewhere between pulling the gun out of his mouth to attempt an answer and simply squeezing the trigger right in front of the stranger. He, however, did neither and remained sitting rigidly where he was, goggling up at him like a frightened child.

"Hey now...." the wino grunted, kneeling in front of him, summoning as fatherly of a tone as his hoarse rasp would allow. "You doan wanna do that, do ya? Dat kinna shit's fo people who dun lost everything. You just a baby."

Meka's thumb faltered on the trigger and then slipped off of it as he started to cry helplessly, spit running down his chin. He wanted to tell the drunk that he -didn't- have anything. And that he didn't care about what the fucking future held for him. A future as WHAT? The next thing he knew, one of the man's calloused hands had closed around his own and he was slowly drawing the gun out of his mouth.

"You jus wanna put dat down, son. Dat's right...jus' let it go..." The wino didn't attempt to force the gun out of Meka's hands, rather he waited for him to let it go on his own...little by little until he no longer had it at all. The stranger casually opened the chamber, looking at the single bullet inside with disdain before noisily coughing as he rattled it out onto the pavement and flung the now-empty gun aside. Meka watched it clatter off into the shadows, a strange mingling of emptiness and relief filling him.

The wino looked after it as well before turning his head to the side and coughing again as he fumbled into his pocket, coming up a moment later with a dingy flask. "I ain't gonna ask you what broughtchoo here. Dat's yo business, boy." he wheezed, unscrewing the cap and offering it to Meka, the contents inside sloshing a bit. "G'wan...tastes better dan a bullet." he grinned, showing worn and yellowed teeth.

Meka hesitated and awkwardly accepted the flask, taking a sip of its contents and immediately choking as whiskey burned his throat. The drunk watched placidly before taking it back from him, taking a drink himself and wincing a bit before recapping it and stuffing it back into the pocket of his filthy jacket. "Yo mama's probably worried about choo...why doan you head on home? Dis ain't no place for a kid."

"Don't have one..." Meka rasped, breaking off into another fit of choking.

"Doan have one or doan wanna go back to it?" the stranger questioned, his salt-and-pepper brows raising.

"-Can't- go back." Meka admitted grudgingly, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his right hand. A short stint of silence spanned between them before the wino nodded once.

"A'ight...I doan wanna tell you ya business, boy, but y'can't stay here neither or you fixin' to find y'self in a world of trouble. More than you already in." He began to cough again, a deep-seated horrible rattling sound that tore out from somewhere deep within him. "When's d'last time you ett?" he inquired when he'd recovered, reaching out and prodding at Meka's narrow chest with one sausage-like finger.

Meka shrugged, looking sullenly at the pavement. The last thing he'd eaten had been a dollar cheeseburger he'd bought with what remained of his pocket change sometime yesterday morning. He'd been so caught up in the planning that had led up to a few minutes ago, he hadn't had time to think about being hungry. As though someone had flipped a switch, he realized he was ravenous.

"Dey's a shelter not far from here. Getchoo cleaned up an fed, eh?" the man smirked, clapping a large hand on Meka's shoulder and chuckling, venting more fetid breath over him.

"How come you're not there, then?" Meka inquired, managing to summon a tone of suspicion in his wavering voice. The wino laughed again, drawing himself up to his full height.

"I gots my reasons. Dey's allut but betterin' yaself and gettin' ya off the streets." he shook his head slightly. "I ain't got da time, boy. Get m'self into a job I'd be retirin' from in five years and I'd be right back out here. But someone like you gots all d'time in the world. Y'can at least let'em feed ya and from dere, you on ya own." He cleared his throat, snorted, and spat to the side. "You in? I be goin' dat way with or witout choo tonight so make up y'mind."

Meka sat where he was for a moment, his mind churning. A large part of him wanted to stay where he was. Maybe wait until the drunk had vanished back off into whatever cranny he had crawled out of and see if he couldn't recover both the bullet and the gun and try again. His stomach clenched and roiled with a strong pang of hunger, assisting him in his decision as he pulled himself to his feet on legs that felt every bit as stable as rubber bands.

"Dere y'go." the wino chuckled, taking him firmly around his upper arm to steady him before starting forward at a shambling walk, Meka half-dragging, half-walking to keep up with him. "You doan need no chickenshit way outta here, boy, cuz things is gonna get better. You jus bet dey gonna."

Meka listened to the slightly-slurred words of encouragement half-heartedly, allowing himself to be led. Nothing sounded emptier when you felt like absolute shit than someone telling you things were going to get better. The only thing that could make it worse was when you were hearing said words from someone who couldn't possibly sink much lower than he already was.

"Yeah. Better." he muttered wearily. But who knew? It wasn't too far-fetched to think that he might have a brighter outlook on things if he had somewhere warm to sleep and a hot meal in him. Maybe he'd feel better in the morning.

Maybe...