shouted, his jealous words slowly piecing together in Mural's ears.
The man wouldn't take his eyes off Veronica. He looked at her like she was his, like she was his runaway puppy. Speaking to her like she loved him instead of Mural.
"Who would insult us like this?" Mural pondered.
The butcher knife was tight in Mural's hand, sweat coating his palm as he readied to react to these insults. The man spat more vulgar words against Veronica that Mural couldn't comprehend, but he knew they were dishonest. He was prepared to guard his name, hoping it was still his to protect. The man's musket lowered and inched past the awning, raindrops bouncing off the metal barrel and bayonet, and the man aimed at Mural.
"You lied to me you bastard," Veronica snapped at the figure, "What would you know of love?
You only know of your own needs!" The figure on the porch cocked back the hammer on the musket. The air was wet; a misty rain began to fall. Veronica stepped closer to the gun and spoke to the man.
"Are you mad? Do not dare point that at me! I made a mistake that I am now rectifying. Stop this. At least keep your dignity. I will turn back to the man I love."
"Is that love?" The man pointed with his hand that was on the barrel, past his crooked nose and dangling blond hair, to the knife nestled in her estranged husband's hand.
Veronica's glance drooped to Mural's right hand and she recoiled from the sharp gleam of his knife that sparkled into sight. She gasped and screamed and jumped down the steps to avoid both men. A deafening roar snapped the momentary silence. Reflex made Mural wrap his fingers tighter around the knife as he crouched. He was primed to attack as a startling explosion spit fire from the porch. The musket's fires brought a bright dance of light that shone through the bleak rain. In mid escape, Veronica sprawled in the air as the smoke from the barrel spread out and curled around her neck. She was flung to the ground with a charred seeping hole in her back. Both men were left stunned. With little hesitation,
Mural leapt to her side and watched the back of her dress stain red. The shot still resonated between the raindrops. Mural took one look at the gaping bullet wound and knew it to be identical to the gash dug into his heart.
The knife was hard and anxious in Mural's hand, and the very same love that blazed in his eyes for his wife immediately morphed into fury for the man. His musket was a blurred sheen through the rain, but as the butcher knife persistently called for his blood, Mural's vision began to change again. The black and whites of his blindness swirled together with the rain and it all became gray; he could see straight through it all, right to the bright gleam of the gun. Mural looked down at his hand, his veins bloated with rage, and he stood. Mural knew the shot was meant for him, but the musket ball was in his wife. He had forgiven her only for her to die. Mural focused on the man, who, by means of protecting her, had instead killed her.
Approaching slowly, Mural watched the man pack his musket in vain. He knew the man hadn't the time to reload; Mural knew it all too well. The man's face grew familiar, features gradually turning into a visage he had seen only once before, but only needed to see once.
"Benjamin," Mural uttered. It was the man Veronica had left him for.
Benjamin's eyes filled with racing panic as he continued to jam the rod down the barrel, his blond hair shaking about his white face. He was on in years and that slowed him. All color drained from his cheeks as Mural's hulking body drew closer, looming like an eclipse, until he no longer looked like a black mass of long coat, but a man sizing up to an oak tree.
Gripping his butcher knife, staring Benjamin down with vengeful eyes, Mural swore to kill him. The rain seemed to unearth an ungodly stink as the water washed around the muck.
Mural's breath pushed out with the chill in the air and the puff dissipated just
The man wouldn't take his eyes off Veronica. He looked at her like she was his, like she was his runaway puppy. Speaking to her like she loved him instead of Mural.
"Who would insult us like this?" Mural pondered.
The butcher knife was tight in Mural's hand, sweat coating his palm as he readied to react to these insults. The man spat more vulgar words against Veronica that Mural couldn't comprehend, but he knew they were dishonest. He was prepared to guard his name, hoping it was still his to protect. The man's musket lowered and inched past the awning, raindrops bouncing off the metal barrel and bayonet, and the man aimed at Mural.
"You lied to me you bastard," Veronica snapped at the figure, "What would you know of love?
You only know of your own needs!" The figure on the porch cocked back the hammer on the musket. The air was wet; a misty rain began to fall. Veronica stepped closer to the gun and spoke to the man.
"Are you mad? Do not dare point that at me! I made a mistake that I am now rectifying. Stop this. At least keep your dignity. I will turn back to the man I love."
"Is that love?" The man pointed with his hand that was on the barrel, past his crooked nose and dangling blond hair, to the knife nestled in her estranged husband's hand.
Veronica's glance drooped to Mural's right hand and she recoiled from the sharp gleam of his knife that sparkled into sight. She gasped and screamed and jumped down the steps to avoid both men. A deafening roar snapped the momentary silence. Reflex made Mural wrap his fingers tighter around the knife as he crouched. He was primed to attack as a startling explosion spit fire from the porch. The musket's fires brought a bright dance of light that shone through the bleak rain. In mid escape, Veronica sprawled in the air as the smoke from the barrel spread out and curled around her neck. She was flung to the ground with a charred seeping hole in her back. Both men were left stunned. With little hesitation,
Mural leapt to her side and watched the back of her dress stain red. The shot still resonated between the raindrops. Mural took one look at the gaping bullet wound and knew it to be identical to the gash dug into his heart.
The knife was hard and anxious in Mural's hand, and the very same love that blazed in his eyes for his wife immediately morphed into fury for the man. His musket was a blurred sheen through the rain, but as the butcher knife persistently called for his blood, Mural's vision began to change again. The black and whites of his blindness swirled together with the rain and it all became gray; he could see straight through it all, right to the bright gleam of the gun. Mural looked down at his hand, his veins bloated with rage, and he stood. Mural knew the shot was meant for him, but the musket ball was in his wife. He had forgiven her only for her to die. Mural focused on the man, who, by means of protecting her, had instead killed her.
Approaching slowly, Mural watched the man pack his musket in vain. He knew the man hadn't the time to reload; Mural knew it all too well. The man's face grew familiar, features gradually turning into a visage he had seen only once before, but only needed to see once.
"Benjamin," Mural uttered. It was the man Veronica had left him for.
Benjamin's eyes filled with racing panic as he continued to jam the rod down the barrel, his blond hair shaking about his white face. He was on in years and that slowed him. All color drained from his cheeks as Mural's hulking body drew closer, looming like an eclipse, until he no longer looked like a black mass of long coat, but a man sizing up to an oak tree.
Gripping his butcher knife, staring Benjamin down with vengeful eyes, Mural swore to kill him. The rain seemed to unearth an ungodly stink as the water washed around the muck.
Mural's breath pushed out with the chill in the air and the puff dissipated just
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