Chapter Thirty-Four #3
Something terrible is about to happen. I can feel it in the way the air shivers, and the particles drag over one another. There’s a heat—a violence—brimming, and then, a shout. But Deogal’s already moved.
He snaps, and the world lurches violently to keep up with him. The market jerks sideways, stalls blurring, colours smearing together in a sickening rush.
Someone shouts.
He spins fast, too fast for a man who has nothing to hide, and his elbow drives back into the guard’s ribs with a dull, cracking thud. The sound is wrong, too precise, too final for an accident.
The guard yells, stumbling, an ugly wet sound tearing from his lips. The second guard reacts instantly. A baton flashes, catching Deogal across the shoulder hard.
He staggers, teeth bared, pain ripping a sound from his throat.
He turns to meet the second one, but another agonising blow is delivered to his body.
This time, he falls to his knees. He stays down for a fraction of a second before pushing himself back to his feet, stumbling into his cart.
He pushes it forward, metal screeching as it tips.
The silver pieces of jewellery spill across the dirt like scattered teeth.
Someone screams. Someone else yells to stop. The crowd surges back, panic blooming like a riot.
I stumble after him, useless and incorporeal, my heart hammering as if this body is my own.
Deogal grabs the first thing in reach, a wooden pole torn from a stall, and swings it wide. It cracks against the guard’s forearm with a sickening crack. The man cries out, dropping his weapon.
But more boots thud against the ground, and more guards pile in from all sides.
They pour into the space, iron and leather and discipline, their movements rehearsed and brutal in their efficiency. Someone slams into Deogal from behind, taking him by surprise. They drive him forward, into the dirt. His cheek hits the ground hard enough to split skin. I taste copper in my mouth.
He scrambles up, feral, swinging blind. His fist connects with a jaw, but he receives one in the ribs. He roars. An ugly, furious sound dragging from his chest, and he lunges again.
He doesn’t fight like a trained man. He fights like someone who cannot afford to lose.
A baton crashes into his thigh. He buckles but stays upright. Another catches him across the back.
Still, he doesn’t stop.
He throws himself at them, fingers clawing, teeth snapping. He lands a blow against one guard’s throat, crushing their windpipe just enough to force the man choking to his knees.
For a heartbeat, Deogal stands over him, chest heaving, eyes wild.
This is the man I know.
This is him.
This is what he becomes.
Not the silence. Not the restraint.
This.
But someone clubs him across the back of his head, and the world stutters.
He drops to his knees, vision swimming. Blood spills freely now, hot and sticky, running down the side of his face. He tries to rise but a boot stamps down on his back. He’s thrust forward.
I scream but no sound comes out.
He collapses in a heap against the dirt, fingers flat in the mud. He howls. There’s no dignity left in the sound. Just pain, pure and unfiltered.
“Hold him,” someone barks.
Rough hands seize his arms, twisting them behind his back. He bucks, snarling, nearly slipping free, but there are far too many of them. They drag him upright, wrenching until I’m sure his shoulders are going to tear loose.
He spits blood. It lands across the guard’s cheek and the response is instant.
A baton slams into Deogal’s stomach, snatching the air from his lungs in a vicious burst. He folds forward, gagging, and they use the moment to shove him into the dirt again. His face connects first.
The sound of them closing in makes something deep in my chest collapse.
He thrashes once more, desperation flaring bright and brief, though his head hangs.
They gather his arms behind his back and tie them with a thick rope.
His gaze lifts, unfocused, scanning the crowd wildly, but the guards move fast. They haul him upright, dragging him across the dirt for all the eyes to watch.
His feet slip and scrape, toes catching uselessly.
I snap free from the dream with a gasp. My fingers curl around my throat protectively, eyes blistering with tears. I heave and pant. Everything whirls, distorting, as my mind struggles to comprehend what just happened.
I can’t speak straight away. My body is still somewhere else; it suddenly locks like I’m being dragged back into sleep. I can’t get it out of my head. The dirt. The blood. The sound of it.
“What was that?” I screech, legs already scrambling beneath the duvet as if I can kick some distance between us. They barely twitch.
“Now do you understand?”
I can’t breathe properly. I can still hear the sound the baton made against his skull.
“That wasn’t real,” I whisper immediately. My voice shakes violently. “That can’t be real.”
He watches me carefully. “You felt it.”
I choke. “Was it them? Did you kill the police?”
“The city guard,” He corrects me. The name drags through my mind like a curse, but he pushes back fast. “No. I didn’t kill them.”
“Then why—” I can’t control the racing of my heart. “Why did you show me that?”
The heat from his body engulfs me in a flame. He pushes forward, dangerously close, until his eyes are searching mine. “You need to understand why I did what I did. You don’t get to judge without seeing it.”
Tears well in my eyes.
“You said you wanted to know.” He says slowly, his words deceptively soft.
I feel sick. The room hasn’t stopped spinning and shaking. I grip onto my sheets like they could possibly ground me. His hand brushes my cheek, hot and heavy, and yet it leaves a frozen wake in its path.
“My story isn’t a happy one, Doctor,” he whispers, voice barely above a whisper. He pushes forward. “Will you still think I’m a monster when you see what they did to me?”
His face cracks into something desperate. “Or will you agree that I did what had to be done?”