_{January 2nd - Two Days After The War}

Scrunched up newspaper in hand, Scriba stood outside the barbershop. The night was cold and wet as water bucketed down to set the sombre tone and continue to ring in the new-year. Blood had been spilled just two days past. It seemed fitting that nature was hard at work, in the cleaning business, playing its part. So many lives lost and sacrificed for this thing of ours.

Yet, that was the name of the game. It wasn’t all smiles. Sometimes tears were shed. And sometimes, those tears were mixed with blood. Blood that overflowed onto the streets. Blood that stained the hands of those that took part. More so, blood that would forever leave its mark on this thing of ours, no matter how many inches of rain fell in the coming days, weeks, months and years.

Scriba had been standing there outside the shop for a good few minutes staring in through the window. He was dripping wet with rain. The young man held the scrunched and wet newspaper in his right hand by his side as he let the water wash over him. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. His shaggy hair caught the majority of the water that then trickled down upon his face. He took a deep breath then let out a sigh as he continued to soak in the rain drops that steadily and rhythmically fell. It almost seemed like the god’s were responding to the beat of his pain.

He was dressed simply. Plain clothes for this young man. Plain, dripping wet clothes. He remembered the men who frequented AL’s Barber Shop who wore suits and fine garments yet he cared less for those things. He was just happy having a figure to look up to and respect. Adz was that man before he was slain in the war that broke out across the sister cities of New York and Philadelphia. Yet he never knew how much an influence he had on him till this evening.

He let his head drop as he felt the weight of the loss wash over him. Still standing outside the Barbershop, newspaper in favoured hand, he wiped at his face with the back of his left sleeve and took a heavy sharp breath. He felt the sting that was his first taste of loss in this life. He felt the sour and bitterness lingering in his mind. He just wanted to go back and meet the man one more time.

Scriba never knew Adz was his father till hours earlier. His mother laid the news on him only after he found her in such a state. He asked the question. She gave the answer. He only wanted to know what had her so emotional. She handed him a newspaper open to an obituary dedicated to the South Philly businessman. He instantly knew. He felt it times prior yet pushed it away into the depths of the subconscious as he had no logical reasoning to back it up.

The newspaper scrunched tighter in his right hand as Scriba leant his forehead against the cold wet glass of the window of the barbershop, for a moment, before lifting his left forearm and placing it in-between the window and his face. He began sobbing into the fabric of his jumper as he remembered the moments Adz was there for him. He reminisced on the many times he was schooled in the ways of business, yet always told to keep his nose clean. Maybe he had a point, he thought, as the tears ceased and he sniffled, wiping his face.

The barbers had a police tape across the front door. It had been forcefully closed the day before, on New Year’s Day, due to an arson attempt. Scriba and his brother Surtr were eventually taken from the scene in handcuffs. He loved his brother, yet couldn’t help but feel ashamed of his actions that day. He still needed to speak to Surtr yet that wasn’t his ambition this night. He was back here out of an unconscious drive to fill that ever growing emptiness he was feeling.

Scriba turned away from the shop and stepped through the rain, making his way across the pavement toward the road. Water flicked about as he swiped at his hair revealing more of his face. If you had an eye on him you would guess his age to be no older than eighteen yet no younger than fifteen. He found his way to where the concrete of the sidewalk and road met, in the form of a shallow gutter. He slumped down taking a seat on the soaking foundation. Water trickled by in the drain beneath his feet as he sat there in anguish, head in his hands.

He finally found out the man he admired so much was his actual father. News that would’ve delighted him given other circumstances. War had a way of bringing death in many forms. This night, it killed the love in his heart. All he felt was sorrow and emptiness. Delayed Christmas gifts from his late father. Although not intended, it set his will in motion. A fiery will of vengeance. A vendetta to meet the man who pulled the trigger. He wanted him to feel this same pain as he returned the favour with a shiny bullet of his own. A vendetta that would never be quenched, yet always ready to give the illusion of future satisfaction.

As others had prophesized that fateful New Year’s night was, in some aspects, a good night. For those that stood tall, still standing, towering over the fallen. Good for the shaping of this life of ours, if indeed the deed was just in reasoning. Good for the people who had their own vengeance, that satisfaction they sought for so long, finally appeased. Yet good could come in many different forms and symbols.

Scriba sat there in the gutter outside AL’s Barber Shop with a pain in his chest that burnt like nothing could tire it. He felt that same drive as those may have felt that set the New Year’s Eve War into motion. Tonight the effects of the biggest war in recent times took on another form. Tonight, it was willing a new bloodline into this thing of ours. A vendetta had been etched into this young man’s heart and soul. Scribed with tainted hands of blood and tears.

As the moon light shone, the street lights joined in to keep the surroundings from falling into complete darkness. The dampened and worn newspaper Scriba had been holding had fallen to the ground and lay open beside him on the sidewalk. If you were to look close enough you could quite possibly read amongst the rain droplets the title, which had graced the front of the South Philly paper the previous day. The date printed was January 1st. The title read ‘New York’s New Year’s Eve War: Happy Bloody New Year!’ It was a good night for some, and most definitely a bloody night to remember.