Sin Eater's Journal -Entry 41 Entry 41 I woke to Crawford pulling his blade from my gut. He did it slowly, twisting it a quarter turn. The pain was electric, but different, not as hot as moments before. I lay still. I could feel the pain in my back (from the shotgun wound) dialing itself back. I gave an experimental squeeze of my shoulder muscles. They still hurt, but I was healing. Crawford whispered his poison to me, telling me how he cut Nina Franks and spoke my name in her ear as he did so. I took mental stock of my weapons. My gun was pinned under me in it’s holster. One of my knives was in my father’s shoulder. One was still in its sheath between my shoulder blades, and one I dropped when I was shot. I couldn’t reach the one in my father’s shoulder or the one behind my back. My best option was the one that I dropped. I thought back. It was in my right hand when I got shot. Did I fling it or just drop it when the buckshot hit me? I thougt I just dropped it. The sudden shook to my spine made me go rigid. So it should have been on my right side, but Crawford rolled me over…which way? I had been in so much pain, I wasn’t sure. I stretched the pinky of my right hand, hoping beyond hope that it would touch the cold hard steel of my knife. No luck. My face lay to the left. Crawford was bent over whispering how he was going to find Amy and her sister. His lips were hot and wet against my ear. I hoped his eyes were closed as he envisioned the vile acts that he described. I took a chance that he wouldn’t notice and opened my left eye, the one closest to the floor, just enough to give myself a blurred vision of the space around me. And there it was, my knife. I would have to move my arm to get it, but it was within reach. If I went for it, the movement would alert Crawford and probably cost me. I needed something to give me that extra half second I would need to grab it and use it before Crawford could stop me. I felt the wounds closing on my back. The pain slackened to a dull ache. If I only had more time to heal…to get my speed and strength back. If I could play possum just a bit longer. Crawford’s left arm slid down to my right side. I felt the point of his knife as he lined it up against my side. There was no more playing possum. I couldn’t afford a blade in the kidney. I had to act. Thankfully, by dropping his arm, Crawford exposed a prime target. Before the brute could plunge the knife into me, I snapped my right fist up and over into the side of his neck. The shot wasn’t hard (I had no way to get leverage), but it landed close enough to the Vagus nerve that it shocked and surprised him. He reared up, taking his weight off my upper body, allowing me a fraction more freedom of movement. My left hand snaked out. My fingers found the loop at the end of my knife handle and pulled it into my grasp. I did a modified stomach crunch and brought the knife around in an arc, hoping to find Crawford’s neck, but he either sensed or saw the movement and rolled away from it. Instead of his neck, my blade buried in his shoulder. Crawford howled as the blessed metal sank deep into the heavy muscle of his upper arm. He rolled off me, jerking the blade from my still weak grip, leaving the knife in his shoulder as he pulled away. I rolled the other way, still not fully recovered, still slower than I wished I was. We came out of our rolls and up to our knees a few feet apart at about the same time. As I rolled I reached for my gun, making a clean pull from the holster, hoping to end this quick. Crawford smacked my hand as I brought the gun around and the weapon fell from my grip. Crawford slashed at me with his knife. I rolled backward away from it, carrying my momentum over my shoulder and up onto my feet into a crouch. The muscle-head had put everything he had into the swing and overextended himself when it hit nothing but air, causing him to be a second behind me getting to his feet. I sprang forward, lashing out with a front kick that caught him in the left hip as he tried to stand and come for me. The shot forced his hip back, and the leg went out from under him. He went down hard, losing the grip on his knife. I threw an ax kick at the back of his head, but he was rolling before he even landed and the kick grazed his ear instead of finding true purchase. Crawford was quick. I had no doubt he was drawing speed from the demon riding him. He made it to his feet, throwing a backhand at me to ward me from drifting in before he could right himself. I jumped back to avoid the blow and used the time and space to pull the knife from the sheath between my shoulders. We stood panting and staring each other down. Crawford growled as he pulled my other knife from his shoulder. He dropped it and shook his hand as if it burned him. “I’m going to break every bone in your body,” he huffed at me in a ragged cadence. “Then as you’re broken and bleeding, I’ll make you watch as I ravage that pretty little detective you like so much.” I knew he was baiting me, trying to dull my thinking with anger and fear, but he’d already whispered worse things in my ear. He’d already failed breaking me with words. I pointed at Crawford’s arm. “That’s not healing up there, big guy. You must have an allergy to holy weapons.” Crawford glanced at his arm. Blood soaked his shirt sleeve and was starting to run down his forearm. His eyes flicked back to mine, and I saw the slightest hint of fear reflected in them. He kicked the knife he pulled from his arm so that it slid under the couch behind him. I shrugged and and spun the knife in my hand. “Got another one for you.” I acted like I was going to throw it. Crawford dodged left away from my throwing arm. I slid my feet and met him with a side thrust kick to the outside of his right knee. The leg buckled, and he went down on all fours. I followed with a downward stab of the knife, looking to severed his spinal cord high between his shoulders, but Crawford spun to his knees and got his arm up to block. His forearm was like steel, and the sweeping block acted more like a blow, catching me an inch below my hand on the inside of the wrist. My entire forearm went numb for a three count. Thankfully, I managed to hold onto the knife. Crawford got a foot under himself, twisted at the hip, and threw a rising uppercut. It landing solid in the right side of my stomach. I gasped from the force of it and stumbled back. My muscles cramped from the punch. I forced myself to maintain my breathing, and slowly, mercifully, the knot in my side began to unwind. Crawford lurched to his feet. His knee almost gave out, but he caught himself and stood. He was breathing heavy. He took a few weakened steps on the knee I nailed, but then started to straighten. I was used to picking guys apart piece by piece during competitive matches, but this was different. This was for keeps, and the guy in front of me healed to quick. I was going to have to land hard and fast and not give him time to recover. I saw Crawford tense and roll his weight forward onto the balls of his feet. I moved right, hoping he was still feeling some effects of that blow to the knee. Crawford was a hulk and space in the living room was limited. I realized I wasn’t going to be able to avoid him when he charged me. He threw a reaching hook as his big frame leaned forward to tackle me. I lunged back to avoid the swing. My foot caught something as I moved, and I realized what a smart move Crawford made. I fell, arms pinwheeling, over the prone form of my father as the bulging form of Crawford zeroed in on me. I didn’t have many options. Crawford was going to land on me and tripping over my father robbed me of the choice to make lateral movement. I sacrificed bracing my fall to strike a blow. If this didn’t work I was in trouble. I snapped my arm at the elbow and flicked my wrist. The knife flew less than two feet in the air before it hit Crawford. The blade sliced him, hitting at a an odd angle and only going in about an inch. He let out a groan of pain before he landed on top of me. The weight of him knocked the air out of me. I felt the edge of my knife cut into my gut, but from the gasp of pain, I guessed the blade pushed deeper into Crawford. He was slow to take advantage, but I was pinned under him, unable to roll his bulk from on top of me. A strong hand found my throat. I punched at Crawford’s side, but it was weak blow. He didn’t even flinch from it. I threw three or four more rabbit punches, but they had little effect. Crawford’s other hand found my throat, and I knew I was in trouble. The deep wound in his right shoulder may have been the thing to save me, because he couldn’t get that hand to squeeze as hard as he would otherwise. Regardless, if I didn’t do something, he’d choke me out for sure. The weakened grip was merely buying me precious seconds. When I tried to plant my thumbs in Crawford’s skull and drive his eyes into the back of his head, he straightened his back and his arms, raising himself up and out of my reach, while using my neck as the point to bear all his weight. My vision began to blur and little white lights popped behind my eyes. I punched at Crawford’s side, and my hand grazed the knife sticking crookedly in his gut. I wrapped my fingers around the hilt and twisted as my head swooned. Crawford gasped, but his grip only slackened for a second before he fought through his pain and laid as much weight as he could on my neck. I yanked the knife from Crawford’s gut. He flinched, but didn’t let go of my neck. Bad move big guy. I drove the knife into his uninjured shoulder, pulled it out, and ran the sharp edge across the inside crook of his elbow, slicing deep right where the bicep connects. His arm was thick. I didn't cut deep enough to disconnect his bicep from it’s anchor, but he let go of my neck, screaming madly as he reared back. I gasped in air. It actually hurt my lungs they were so drained, but that didn’t stop me from drawing hard again and again, until the spots blinding my vision began to fade. Crawford blocked my next attempt to slice him and landed a heavy elbow to my face. My nose popped and blood exploded from it. The shook of the blow rammed my head against the floor, and everything went black for a startling second. I came to as Crawford was wrestling my knife from my hand. He yelled as the blade sliced his palm, but he managed to take the knife from me. He reared back and throw it through the door into the entry room. My head was spinning, and I could taste blood, hot and metallic, in my mouth. I pushed through the pain and dizziness, intent on taking advantage of the opening Crawford left me as he disposed of my knife. I punched him right in his stomach wound. The exposed nerves and flesh gave the punch an extra measure of pain, causing the monster to roll off of me. He went scrambling for his knife a few feet away. His breath was short and panicked. Blood covered both arms and his stomach. His left arm gave out under him as he scrambled on his hands and knees. He fell hard on his shoulder, but immediately pushed himself back up with a cry of defiance. He lunged forward using his legs to propel him, and his right hand found a hold on his knife. He spun and lurched to his feet, holding the knife out before him ready to continue the fight. What Crawford didn’t see as he made that desperate scramble was my own mad scamper. While he made a move for his weapon, I had done the same, noticing my gun on the floor about five feet from me. I was faster to the prize. When he turned with his knife in hand, I was standing with my Glock in mine. Crawford roared at me. The noise sounded unearthly. I didn’t cock off. I didn’t smile with grim satisfaction. I simply blew his knee out with a silver bullet that had been dipped in holy water. He fell like a tree being timbered. I walked over, stepped on the hand holding the knife, and placed a bullet into his shoulder. Then his other knee. Then his other shoulder. Crawford laid, mewling in pain, unable to move. I wasn’t sure if he would be able to heal from the bullet wounds (at least those bullets), but I had a feeling he wouldn’t be. I walked over to the ruined body of my father. He had fallen backwards from the shot that he placed under his chin. The worst of the damage was to the back of his head, which was mainly hidden. I could still see part of the ghastly wound, but his face was intact, and for me that was the important thing. Really, it was trivial at this point, but it was still important to me. I closed his eyes with my hand. “Love you, dad. Hang strong. Maybe I can find a way.” I pulled my knife from his shoulder and spun it in my hand. Crawford struggled as I walked over to him, but all he could really do was twist his hips, just not enough to roll over, not that he would be able to go anywhere if he did. I sat on his gut. He stared at me with hatred. I brandish the knife so that he could see the symbol on the hilt. Crawford snarled. The noise was deep and guttural. His eyes turned dead black. “I’ll be back, Sin Eater. You and I now have vendetta.” It wasn’t Crawford’s voice, but that of the demon riding him. I flipped my Holy Sight so I could see the beast. It had melted into Crawford, covering him like a gelatinous coating. The beast snapped at me, spiritual teeth clipping the air. I could see it’s ball of power shining on Crawford’s forehead, imbedded in the skin. It’s light was weak as the wounds caused by holy weapons stole its power. Could I really just release this thing back to Hell? “Do it!” the demon barked. “No,” I said. “You’re done.” I held up my hand showing Crawford and the thing inside of him the silver ring with the jagged edges, the ring containing Nina Franks hair. I twisted the ring, driving the sharp edge into the meat of my finger until blood ran down my hand. I snagged Crawford by the chin and squeezed making his mouth popped open, then I slapped my bleeding hand over his mouth. He struggled under my grip as my blood spilled into his mouth. I willed the wound on the finger to stay open and the blood to flow. When I felt it was enough, I slammed Crawford’s mouth shut and held it with my hand so he couldn’t spit the blood out. I held his nose until his body acted on instinct and he swallowed. I watched as the demon struggled inside of him. I watched as the angel in my blood flowed over the denizen from Hell. The beast yelled in agony as it’s core of power was encased with the bright light of the angelic spirit. Then I called on the power inside of me, and just as I would eat sin, I pulled on the angelic spirit that I had released inside of Crawford, calling it back to me, calling it home. A cloud of white mist encasing a swirling black mass flowed from Crawford’s mouth and nose and into mine. I felt the demon slide into me. I locked it away. You have no idea who you’re supposed to be. I was now a prison for two demons. I searched myself, and thought I had room for plenty more. Crawford moaned. In the mist of it all I’d forgotten him. To be honest, I had no idea if what I just tried would work, and if it did what it would do to Crawford. He was still alive, but just barely. I could have watched him die. I could have placed a bullet in his brain. I did neither. Somewhere along the line, things went wrong for Crawford, and he became determined to take that out on the world. What if things had gone different for him? What if one event changed him and filled him with love for #life instead of rage for it? Everyone deserves their chance at redemption. I realized that now. And I knew it wasn’t my place to judge someone’s soul. That was for a power much greater than me. I leaned forward, called on the power of my ancestors, and inhaled. Whatever sin was left in Crawford that I failed to take the first time and all that which came after, flowed from him in a dark cloud. I inhaled it tasting the char and honey. Mathew Crawford fell to dust under me. Copyright 2014 Wade Hunter