Portraits of the Poor

Sullied was the usual mood held by Cell, the loneliness of the vehicles offer little sway from the monotony of silence that was much too often broken by the bass emanating from his stereo. Not this time, no, this time he was focused, if not weary of his task. Given to him by a brother he was well aware would prefer forgetting he existed at all, and with minimal insults thrown between them. No…this time was different. This time marked not only the first ‘off-the-books’ task he had been given, but it was delving into the lives of those he would rather of kept a level of secrecy between. Not that he had a problem helping Bishop, but he knew that he would be better off if he stayed away from the position of leverage should his lack of skill prove a liability. Thoughts like this coursed through his head as salmon in a stream, fighting ever so strongly against the currents that hold such actions, or thoughts, from reaching their destination. Fighting…so very strongly…only to be bloodied and skewered upon the jaws of nature. Not so very different that the thought for which the analogy is made, for light always finds a way, and Cell’s mild manner would return upon a time. That time, however, would not come until he had completed what he was here to do. What he was here to finish.

The maze of warehouses caused even satellites to fail as Cell put away the GPS he relied upon, cursing under his breath at the object until the building Sin described was in sight. Parking his car as soon as the structure met his eyes, Cell approached instead by way of walking. Doing so felt safer, or at least quieter. Which is what he wanted, his calm façade betrayed by the hair standing at attention on the back of his neck, given life by the electricity in the air. The dryness, the wind, one’s flesh felt as though it were being eaten by the world itself. Every grain of sand lending aide to feeling fiber from bone as it brushed upon Cell’s cheek. Getting closer to the warehouse, Cell’s heart skip a beat as adrenaline surged through his being. The receptors within him jolting to life at the sound of thunder echoing on the air…repeating itself…again and again. Walking slowing towards the building, Cell sees the sound that lays embarrassment in place of fear: The door to the warehouse, standing ajar and slamming into the side of the building to the tune of the wind. Sighing to himself, Cell’s pulse returns to that of…whatever level of normal he could achieved in this circumstance. Walking through the door, Cell feels a relief wash over his body as the wind stop devouring his flesh. Pulling the camera from his pocket, Cell begins the first of the pictures of warehouse: A wide shot of the chain of buildings, taken at an angle that gave the illusion of a never ending line of dilapidated structures.

Gaining some confidence from the emptiness of the room, Cell walks further inside, taking various pictures left and right. After walking a fair few paces into the building, a sight causes him to stop in his tracks. A table, still set for a meal, dried stretches of carcass laid upon it, baked in the sun beaming through the broken ceiling. The table cloth of white, with shining silver china upon it, the colors were brilliant in the sun, save for one, single if not very large blemish. One seat, and the respective side of the table, was a bubbled black. The coagulated effect of the events that transpired upon its use. Taking several pictures of the table, it is then that Cell realizes the gravity of what he would be seeing there. Nero, the love of Bishop’s that he had laughed and smiled with, was upon the table…upon the floor and the hooks…The person was spread before him, and yet in front of him she had walked. The thought emptied Cell as he turned his attention from the table to the cart sitting a fair distance from the table through a few of the buildings. With a sight that could only be described as medieval in its treatment of the human body, Cell photographs the now solidified puddle of Nero, caking the walls and floor of the cart. To Cell’s extreme surprise, the scents of his premonitions didn’t fill his nostrils. No, time and the desert had seen to that. Instead he found only the monuments of blood and flesh left behind from her exit.

Her exit.

That was another secret among the halls of the church, with most of the patrons too disapproving of Nero to actually inquire as to it. He needn’t think of that, however, as he was engrossed in much more pressing concerns of late. The epitome of grotesque greeted him as he followed the chains to their ends, seeing the hooks and spikes along the way. Each photographed, each documents for anyone’s eyes but Bishop’s. If one thing was afflicting Cell other than the obvious, it was curiosity. Curiosity for the ground that looked different that the rest of other. Meaning there was none. The hole that was left by the ground drew him in as a moth to the flame. Peering into its depths, the spikes of rebar holding the same image as the rest of the warehouse, but among them lay the drop of ink into the otherwise clear image. An assault rifle, new and unstained by the blood, lay upon the floor. Taking the pictures with intent for the first time since he had been there, Cell’s blood ran faster as the possibilities race through his head with every click of the picture. Standing up without taking his eyes from the gun, Cell turns to see what could only be described a memory. A memory of a person, because no other physical name would suite it. Laying in the corner, with all form lost, lay Bethany in whatever state he remains managed to be in. Taking pictures of the mass, Cell walked only close enough for the camera to fully capture the form of what lay before him. Cell sighed as the final photo was taken, stepping back from the body as he turn towards the door.

Leaving the warehouse with a nearly full camera, Cell walked purposefully back to the car, the wind had stopped and the sun had begun to set on the horizon. The waves of heat distorted the image of the edge of the world as Cell drove back to the church, speeding towards the reaction to the photos and whatever that may lead to.