The Forever Kiss

PART ONE: ”Karma is the line between Death and Love.” If the SUN didn't rise that day... And I was buried in the DARKNESS to rest... Then maybe I would've lived- feel the pleasures of being alive... And not be a lifeless husk... Sailing on the RIVER OF DESTINY... To the CAVE OF HORRORS.

EXT. ALLEYWAY - NIGHT

I awoke in the rampant rhythm of the evening rain. It is so dark, you could mistake it for cold, lonely nights. There on the ground- a BROKEN-DOWN me, lifeless, barely gasping for air. The bitter rain aims it's heavenly fingers towards my heart. It is sweltering. The rain is cold. The wind is hot. Infuriatingly hot. I stand on my two feet, the ground shaking beneath me. I peer down the abyss and find a sparkle of light in the neon signs and flashing streetlights. Despite it's artificial nature, it beckons me. I attempt to step forward-

-but crumple under the pressure of my sore limbs. Still, I manage to walk- STIFF, SLOW, and THROBBING WITH PAIN. I am losing light. At least, I think. The clouds make it hard to see and the rain makes it hard to hear. I trip over a trash lid-

EXT. STREET - CONTINUOUS

-and fall face-first on the pavement. Cold blood sails down my cheek, but I let it go, confusing it with the rain. I come face to face with a reflection. Peer into my soul- messy hair, dark eyes, and bruised skin. VIKTOR, aged 26, and a mess of a human body. My skin is roughed by the concrete I was laying in and cuts and bruises lather the rest of my face. I finally notice the running blood. I rush to grab a oily tissue from a nearby trash can- I rub my face with it, careful not to clean up too much. I can't clean up too much yet. My body feels a tight shiver. Am I really getting cold now? I look around desperately for a store. The closest happens to be the same one reflection my worsening state.

INT. STORE - NIGHT

With nervous hands, I reach over a stretchable polyester jacket. It was warm and comforting to the touch. I lost myself into the inner layering that I forgot I look like a fool standing in public. Many people pass me with judgmental eyes. They quickly run away however. I brought the jacket close to my chest and see if it would fit. It was larger than me, but I am wasting time, so stuck with it. With SHAKING HANDS, I placed my fingers around the tag (made sure no one was watching)- I ripped the tag off it.

EXT. STREET - NIGHT

I wrap myself around my new possession and push through the harsh winds. Though I am not picky for color, it matched the rest of my outfit- PITCH BLACK, lack of design. I cross the street where I reach the main square.

The screen flashes black and white revealing... A FACE. Stern, diligent, ARMS CROSSED OVER. He hunches over to the screen. His name is inscribed underneath- CLEVELAND MYERS.

A crowd gathers round the TV screen. Curious, I join in.

The crowd gasp. PRESS follow quickly with rapid pictures.

Dear God, I think. Has it been five times already? I still remember the first time. The Chief flips his transcript.

The crowd stuffs their gaze into one another's eyes. I sit and pray that no one dares look my direction. Once the grim image of Cleveland Myers left the screen, the news broadcast returns to their daily program and the crowd disperses. What a joke? An absolute mockery. Six years ago, everyone wanted us gone- subject to death. We were the worshipers of Satan, carrier of misfortune, the enemies of humanity. I stare at the floating screen, waiting for Cleveland to reemerge and I, too filled with vengeance and disgust, adorn him with my worst wishes and foul speech. It never came... A citizen walks up to me.

I think he was trying to spark up a conversation. Or perhaps he was puzzled by the looks. Blood still paints my face. However, I give him a rather indifferent answer.

INT. CONVENIENCE STORE - NIGHT

I finally got the time: it's 8:30. If I hurry, I can get dinner and a hotel room in under 45 minutes. I look at baskets of others- filled to the brim. I get a depressing look at my... Vacant basket. Inside is only a can of lemonade and tissues. The line stretches fifteen people long, so I take my merrily time picking between two flavors of potato chips. At 8:45, a tall man carrying a large duffel bag enters the store. He manages to lock the sliding doors. He reaches into his bag-

-and points a run down PISTOL. Everyone SHUDDERS- they huddle towards the back, pressing into one another. The man reaches the cash register where he aims the gun at poor BECKY, shivering and raising her hands. He throws the bag on the counter.

Becky rushes to follow the man's orders. She stuffs the little cash from the register into the bag and awkwardly smiles when the man raises his gun.

Becky reluctantly hands over the shining jewelry. At this time, I make a decision between Barbecue and Sour Onion and Cream (Sour Onion won). I begin making my way towards the line-

-But I didn't notice the tiny girl I ran into. She isn't that tiny. Aged 20 something from her dove eyes and puckered cheeks. I push past her and follow behind the criminal. He still hasn't left. He begins yelling at Becky, forcing to forfeit every last luxurious item in her arsenal.

The man turns to me, raged.

I grab his shoulder and press on it tightly. I felt a sudden boost in my own energy and squeeze tighter. The man knocks my hand off his shoulder and presses the end of his gun onto my forehead.

Suddenly, the man falls to the floor- twitching, clutching at his chest, SWIMMING IN PAIN. He pounds the ceramic flooring, coughing and wheezing out blood. Gasping for breath, his holds onto my feet, and looks into my eyes for mercy. But I am not a God, and I do not give mercy.

He dies before his final words- lifeless, arms spread across the floor like a fallen angel. I set down my items by the counter.

Becky freezes. I give her a reassuring wave.

5 dollars for a bag of potato chips? I check my wallet and find only a ten dollar note. The crumpled face of the 15th Brunnel President laughs at me.

EXT. STREET - DAY

I told myself I would control my hunger until I reach the hotel, but the increasing prospect that I won't have a place to stay this evening coupled with my growing hunger, was a challenge. I also help myself to the entire can of lemonade. It isn't even cold- the summers days are about to be worse. As I cross the intersection of the two busiest roads, I find myself lost in a deserted path of the city. Sure, there are houses everywhere, but no urbanization. In the distant, I hear something: “Hello,” maybe? No, it's more like a call.

I turn around and find a petite girl running towards me. I recognize her puffy cheeks and heavenly blush. She kneels before me, out of breath. Then she looks up and hands me something.

It is the scratch ticket from the convenience store. Did she run two and a half miles to hand me this?

Being a Variant is no a longer secret. You're bound to find one in every corner of the country.

The girl extends her hand to me.

I take her gratitude. In terms of size, she is a whole six inches shorter than me with me being six feet. Her hands reflected that- short, soft, and warm. The warmness. It reminds of me today's burning winds and the jacket that I currently wear.

Hearing that, Reagan squeezes my hand tighter, doing her best to make up for her size.

I try to hand the ticket back-

She pushes the ticket back into my palms. I look at with regret.

I look down at the scratch ticket, then back at Reagan, and then back at the ticket.

I take the edges of her keys and scratch along the surface. I hate the sound it makes- RHYTHMICALLY GETTING LOUDER AND LOUDER, SCRATCHING THE BRAIN, TAKING OVER UNTIL- The result...

I stop Reagan.

She nods.

She nods again.

Her pink lips boil into a vibrant smile. She grabs my hand and pulls he towards her direction.

As she led into the sailing night, I felt a flutter in my heart. The warmness of her hand reached into my soul and plucked out my happiness. Yet I still could not smile- it was horrifying. A girl as pretty and elegant as her stuck in the delusion that I am a hero. This spell is bound to crack. This love is not real. I am man cursed by loneliness- born to sleep in the darkness and drown in the shadows. My only gift is also my curse. To give my pain to others is a sickly sight. I suffer to make others suffer. That is not hero. I am Karma- a fallen angel with path to redemption. The thin line between Love and Death. I am a man crafted by Heaven and cursed by God. PART TWO: ”Crafted by Heaven and Cursed by God.”

INT. REAGEN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

We enter the apartment by the 9:30- Reagan had insisted to explore more places, but I was too tired to walk further. Plus, the delight of being in a comforting room, and behind a wall which protects from the brutal rain, sounds appealing. I look around the place (as one does in a new environment). The couch is one of the earliest sights, right by the TV adjacent to the front door. Beyond that is the kitchen. From the overflowing pots and pans in the sink, I understood that nature of my host- a student, most likely, too busy with schoolwork to clean around the house. Reagan left for the bathroom and when I realize I am alone, I make myself comfortable on the couch. I turn on the TV- national news.

I almost forgot about that.

Reagan walks into the living room, intrigued by the TV. She looks to me for an answer.

I am surprised that a woman like her hasn't heard of this conflict. Then, I recall that no one I've met thus far has mentioned this situation- the country on the edge of blood, yet not a single distraught citizen. Was it faith in their army? Or was it ignorance? Reagan, however, shows surprise. She rushes to her phone.

That feeling is alien to me. Perhaps if I had a mother, I, too, would call her if I heard was was on the horizon. But Reagan's reaction is quite perplexing- blanched, disturbed, and surging with dismay. I grew curious, so I step outside door and begin listening to her conversation. I can only make out a few lines.

Silence.

The phone is on speaker so I hear the distinct cry of Reagan's mother.

Moving?... I began to connect the dots. Then I left back to the living room. A few moments later, Reagan walks out- the anxiety on her face is mellowed, but it still remains around her eyes. She puffs her cheeks and smiles.

A lot, actually.

I shook my head.

I didn't answer the question. The silence from Reagan means she understood my lack of compliance. It's hard to look back and ask: how did I survive for so long? 26 years, and every single one of them was spent salvaging for warmth, food, and a place to study. Some days I saved enough money to rent three days in a hotel- other days I stole enough. Food was not a big issue. I begged, quite of my character, and was fed decently enough to survive. But I grew weak and frail during that time. Even now, my frame is not much stronger- skinny arms, deflated chest, and a hoarse breath. Reagan began cooking. I could smell the char of the tomatoes from the couch. It is like burning fuel. It reminds me of something.

EXT. ALLEYWAY - DAY

I walk across an alleyway littered with garbage. Only six minutes ago, I had stolen a pocket knife and a piece of chocolate. A small amount, I thought, but the people running the store went mayhem over it. I manage to escape them in this dirt-filled hell-hole. As I cross into the main street, I remain cautious of the people I lock eyes with. I didn't get a good look at the store owner, so anyone of them could be it. Then, I hear an revolting high pitch sound-

EXT. GAS STATION - CONTINUOUS

-it is someone's whistling. Two men, of varying heights, steer their car around a lone woman. She clutches the pipe and begins fueling her car, hoping that they would leave with enough time. They didn't. Continuing to whistle, one of them gets out of the car and follows the woman. He is wearing an dusty leather jacket with an idiotic sign that read “Ted.”

Obviously not- I watch the situation from a distance. The lady turns her back to Ted. He puts his hand on her shoulder.

He brings out his wallet and flashes the stack of green cash- At this time, I make my way across the street. I see Ted getting closer to the woman, and the woman trying to resist, but my mind is dead set on that wallet. Ted notices me approaching him.

I walk closer- I reach for his wallet and-

-He punches me in the jaw. My body ends face first on the pavement. Surprisingly, there is no blood. Not good enough. I stand up and hold my ground. Ted only laughs. I lunge towards him and- WHACK! Another punch, this time to the gut. He follows it my dragging my body on the ground. Still not enough, I thought. One more hit. When I stand up, I expect a another hit from Ted, but instead he reaches over to the woman and snatches the pump from her hands. In seconds, I am soaking in dirty gasoline. I think about ending this and just going home, but then Ted says:

The other man from his truck lights a match and throws it on the pouring gasoline.

I close my mouth shut and try to wrap myself on the ground. Half my body is erupting with flames. HOT. BURNING. FROM THE PITS OF HELL. My vision is fading. All I hear is the haunting laughs of Ted and his partner. I crawl across the floor... DESPERATE.

Ted stomps on my hand. I smile. I almost laugh. What an idiot? An absolute fool- what a mockery this is.

Ted begins to wallow on the ground. He clenches the left side of his body and his screams fill the air. The woman hides behind her car and John storms off. Ted looks me dead in the eye, begging. My body, still on fire, points to the sky.

I am surprised he can still talk.

I had no clue what gotten into me that day. I just want his wallet and then I would go on merry way- hell, maybe I would've donated to a charity. But, in a few seconds, a human had managed to piss me off this much that I would subdue him to the pain of being burnt alive as his friends flee to their comforts. I was no God there- I was speaking out of my ass. Yet... It felt so fitting. My body still burning, I grab Ted's wallet and locks eyes with the woman he was harassing. She cowers.

She doesn't respond. I throw her a clipped stack of tens and keep the rest. Since that day, I haven't washed the smell of gasoline off my nose.

INT. REAGEN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Reagan slid a plate on a coffee table and sits across me. I look down at the platter- two slices of bread grilled together by a layer of cheese and a bright red soup. The pale smoke from the soup reaches the hairs of my nose. It's sweeter, but there is still the distinct char scent to it. I take a spoonful.

I take another spoon.

Reagan smiles. I see her break apart the bread and dip it into the tomato paste. I wasn't sure what to do with the bread, so I mimic her actions.

The thought of trying proper meals- not stomach-drying snacks- but nutritious meals, capable of fending hunger, is enticing.

I look back at the extending red fabric that I am sitting on.

There is her delusion again. The crook wanted money. If she stayed quiet, and endured his annoying voice for three more minutes, then she would've walked out scar-free. Then, me and her would've went our separate ways.

I reach for the my wallet- it still has Ted's ugly signature on it.

Reagan proudly holds up the red and white lanyard holding her assortment of keys. It has an image of a powerful horse surrounded by by following mane.

I look to take another bite from my food, but find my plate full of bread crumbs. Reagan slides her plate.

I demolish the grilled cheese in under thirty seconds and finish the soup in a faster time. I must look like a pig, so I wipe my face clean and give Reagan the best smile I could- my lips hurt from moving that high, but it is worth it.

I had never asked that question to anyone. I am not much for people's future plans. But Reagan seems different.

I want to retort more. How is that even the most loved people commit suicide? They're surrounded by excellent people, but they still off themselves. However, I know that Reagan's spirit won't budge.

I see a soft tear in her emerald eyes- a quick sparkle. She rubs it away quickly.

My heart jumps, dances, and wiggles around in my chest. I feel it pounding against my ribs, begging to be let lose. I've heard those words a million times over. They play in my head- POUNDING, STOMPING, GETTING LOUDER WITH EVERY BREATH. While their's carry a sarcastic cadence, Reagan said with the care and gentleness of an angel. A mother I never. A lover I never knew I had.

I didn't want to crush her dreams and idealistic thoughts with my story.

Then, there is a knock on the door. I relax- there is nothing exciting about my story, but I've never felt comfortable sharing it. I think, with Reagan's bubbly and glitter-lens personality, it would shun her away. Then there is the whole hero. There is no way, after seeing what I did, that Reagan look me in the eyes and tell me, I did a good job. I murdered a man. I've murdered many men. None of them died for heroic purpose. I selfishly took their breaths so I could breathe another. This was burden placed to me for being Karma. A cruel, ruthless stab in the back. For those who think Karma is justice, think again. Karma is murder. Karma is ruthless. Karma is cold-blooded. Karma is a blessing, but inflicting Karma is a curse.

INT. REAGEN'S APARTMENT - MOMENTS LATER

I lay underneath the squeaking fan, counting the revolutions. I read the glowing text on the microwave: 1:30. Reagan is fast asleep and I spend the hollow minutes clenching onto the piece of paper. After growing impatience, I bring the letter to my face and read. Though it is take, I can interpret a few words. Most notable, the signature of Cleveland Myers and my very own calling inscribed at the top. Viktor [N/A] Brunnel... Military Variant Project... Friday Cleveland Myers. PART THREE: ”Cowards and Malice.”

INT. RECEPTION - DAY

I left the house around 6:30 and enter the double glass doors to the celebratory hall.

I look on her face- I am not sure if I should tell her.

She doesn't bother to check. People here never do. She slaps a thin sheet of paper around my wrist.

I see children walking out of the arcade with one of these. I didn't except the Brunnel government to utilize these. There is quite a number of people roaming about, most of them being the same as me. However, I do catch a number of Lieutenants and generals patrolling. The only reason I notice them is because Lt. Myers walks up to me immediately.

I don't if I should be worried. The last time I contacted Cleveland was during the “Variant Hunt.” To summarize, I wrote a “peaceful” letter to have him stop the massacre of Variants to prevent further disaster. Lt. Myers drags me towards a table of breakfast. I try to reach for the food-

-But Myers insists on pushing me through the crowd. We reach a man of 6'3 in stature. His muscles are toned and his his uniform wraps around him to reveal his biceps.

General Addams stretches his hand- red, rough, and ridden with cuts. I didn't bother to take his offer, but Myers nudges me to comply.

Myers- recognizes the situation is going haywire- begins running his mouth.

But he clearly minds.

And so I do- Addams won't have the answers anyway. It's Cleveland I need to contact. Luckily, his son is a cheerful soul.

Fortunately, Leo ignores him.

I glance at Addams giving me a dirty look. He wipes his mouth and mouths the words, “Know your place.” I pat Leo on the back.

There is an assortment of foods sitting right next to me. If my care for the government was any less, I would've demolished all of it by now. Addams turns his back to me.

This is the first time Addams stares at me directly- no back, no turns, no side-looks. Straight menace in his eyes. The three stars on the side of his uniform sparkle and part of me thinks he hopes I notice. But I would burn that star a million times. It doesn't matter if it is the sun, I will drown it in heat until it's nothing more than that pile of molten metal.

Addams let me loose and rises up the steps to the platform. I had enough of looking at his back for one day.

The crowd dies. Addams stops cold in his feet. Still, he fights not to look at me.

Addams looks down at the crowd with hateful eyes.

Now there are no words left for General Addams. He stands empty and broken on the red carpet and as he moves up, he soul and character is running down. On the podium, he looks at me and I look at him. A few silent words are exchanged and we both the gist of what the following months are going to look like. War between Estalia and Brunnel had been declared, but war between me and Brunnel was about to start.