The Passenger
He wore a hood over his head as the rain poured. His jacket was soaking, and he could feel the chill which felt like it was embedding into his skin. He then went back into the warehouse where the execution had taken place, with blood entrenched into walls and on the concrete floor, he knew he got him good on point and in general he knew it had impact.
Johnson lit up a cigarette, drawing it with ruthlessness as the body began to rot, and turn blue, but Johnson knew he’d hit the jackpot here, a smooth ride, and while he had to pick up the body, which felt weightless, he already knew that money would come his way, a rich lifestyle which epitomised his eager nature.
Johnson lifted the body and put in the trunk of the car. He then blessed himself, a strong hint to forgiveness. Johnson already knew he was going to downward into the rapid flames, believing that his life wasn’t a stint of good will, but an existence where death wasn’t a shockwave moment. Johnson had seen death all around him and in his dreams.
Those dreams curled the toenails and impacted his daily life, leaving him restless, broken-hearted, and fully drawn to insomnia. Beautiful things didn’t matter; gold didn’t entice the grizzled man; it was the sense of control that made him grow into an expert marksman.
“He always felt like a challenger against the rippling sea of enemies and crooks, people who in themselves felt alienated, people who wanted to rule the world.”
Johnson sparked the ignition. He put his sunglasses on, even in the dark, cold warehouse where ghosts roam and confrontation pays. He’s tired too, wrecked by the tremulous years, the years where love sank him. Rightfully pissed, Johnson screamed at the mirror, making faces and punching the passenger seat.
Johnson drove down a dark edged road leading to a small town called Relevance serving up a speech to himself. In that moment, he felt schizophrenic, manic, and ready to take down the world and its many faces.
Torn by the past, he turned up the radio and tried to immerse himself into the sonic artistry, the nasally voice of the presenter, and all things newsworthy. But he couldn’t diffuse the emotional bomb in his head, nor could he balance love with consequence.
A bright light beamed into the car, a light that could light up an arena, and then it faded into the dark. Johnson was shaken, but he knew, these were just tests. He always felt like a challenger against the rippling sea of enemies and crooks, people who in themselves felt alienated, people who wanted to rule the world.
In his line of vision, Johnson seen a figure come at him at such lightspeed, smiling as it went past. Then, there were more silhouettes carrying the Bible, breaking through the atmosphere. Some began to read from the depths of the book, and some stood, crying.
Johnson was having an episode, and everything around him drew out the colour, leaving him in a daze of black and white. He was stuck in the jaws of adrenaline, and he couldn’t depart the scene, a snapshot bearing deep misery.
Johnson kept driving down the dark road. He couldn't see the white lines anymore; everything was stuttering and darkening, and throughout his tenure as a shooter, he’d never felt this powerful pull of mental dysfunction.
And as the turned around the street, the passenger seat had become occupied. This scrawny man with a blood-soaked shirt, spoke in his own native tongue, spitting as he bellowed for redemption.
The thing, this man was the victim. A ghostly figure praying for life to be sucked back into heart, brain and lungs. But, the victim, the Russian, smiled at Johnson. Moths and flies filled up the car, as well as a thick tar which hit against the windows and doors.
As the victim moved closer to Johnson, he mumbled through his ear.
‘’I was the wrong man.’’
‘’What?’’
‘’You killed an innocent man.’’
‘’It was you; they showed me a photo of you. You were the target.’’
‘’No. I am now caught up in realm I shouldn’t be in.’’
Johnson gazed into the eyes of the victim. He could see truth in them, a softness.
‘’What can I do?’’
‘’You can pay for it.’’
‘’How can you talk? You’re in the trunk dead.’’
‘’I’m a spirit. And a bastard like you, but I was the wrong man.’’
A storm brewed heavily. The rain poured heavily, his heart was heavy.
Johnson crashed through into the roadworks at the bridge and went over the edge into the water.
His lungs filled up, and his manic mind died with everything else.