Like Fire and Ice By Arianna McCormick
Zero’s hands didn’t know any shape other than the curl of his fists around a weapon, ready to strike his opponents down. His heart knew not of empathy nor compassion as countless victims pleaded, shrinking and trembling, under the sweet press of metal against skin. He’d certainly never felt the tickles of butterflies in his stomach or flashes of scarlet heat across his face upon something someone said. However, he’d felt the warmth of friendship, and that, he reckoned, was enough for now. Vanessa was the fire to his ice - lively, passionate, volatile. Together, they were an unstoppable force. Which only made it more appalling when he found those butterflies apparating in his stomach. Zero wasn’t an emotional man. He liked to think of himself as logical, in control of himself and the cool head of his duo, the ice to her fire. But fire melted ice, and he found waves of heat flashing across his face due to the fire constantly attached to his hip. One night, as they basked under a million spotlights of stars, words tumbling smoothly from their lips, he again found himself admiring the view that was his fire. She was all warm umber eyes, mahogany hair tumbling over her shoulders, chaste smile pressed against her lips. Warmth flew freely, sparking off of her in waves and reflecting across a million speckled
stars. He’d forever savor that moment, when all was well and he was hers. In that moment, he even deluded himself into believing she was his. But she wasn’t his, and she fell for another man. His name was Elijah. He didn’t know anything about Vanessa and he could never know what Zero knew. He had never seen the starlight shimmering around her figure, never felt the sparks of blissful heat that radiated off of the women. He could never have their connection. They were Isa and Kenaz; Elijah was just Elijah. Zero could see how Elijah fell for Vanessa. She was warm, lovely, casting brilliant orange sunbeams that cast onlookers into a trancelike state. But Elijah was a plain man, scrawny with glasses, an easily forgotten face and personality a brick wall. He often found himself projecting the man’s face onto a cowering victim, cool metal biting into his skin and the sweet sound of a gunshot ringing in his ears. Zero supposed, knee pressed against a man’s chest and smooth knife aimed at his throat, that he’d come to hate Elijah, detest him. Zero wasn’t a stupid man, however. He played into Vanessa’s game, shot the man sunny smiles and peace signs whenever possible. Perhaps he was Vanessa’s new victim, perhaps she had a logical explanation for it. Those thoughts ceased to be when Vanessa got pregnant, gilded ring perched pathetically on her finger. The couple had come to him, hands clasped together and eyes begging for help. They didn’t have the money for a kid, or for a wedding. With tears trickling from their eyes they pleaded, something Zero had heard a million times. Waving his hand, he’d shown them something astonishing; a gang he’d partaken in, offering money they’d eventually repay. Enthusiastically agreeing, the couple moved on, Vanessa throwing a bouquet in the air, gowned in a brilliant white dress that glimmered in sunlight. Oddly enough, Zero had caught it, one hand tightly gripping stems that bent under his grip. Yellow carnations, chrysanthemums, and aconite glared at him, each flower a glaring reminder of Elijah, and his hatred for the man. But Zero was a logical man, aware of his psychopathic tendencies, so he waited. And waited. By the time he was ordered to do anything to Elijah, the couple had two kids, the first a glaring representation of Vanessa, volatile and hyper and loud. The second was meek, blending into the background, shy and quiet like Elijah. They’d had enough time to pay off their debt, and the gang was tired of waiting. So, pistol heavy in his fist, he sought off. Stars winked at him as he ventured out, fist curled around the pistol, familiar and comforting. Crisp air filled his lungs and cleared the fog in his head, caused by the little sleep he’d gotten. Moving quickly, diligently, he found himself in front of the McCarthy household. Inhaling deeply, he opened the door. Vanessa and Elijah sat on their couch, Vanessa curled up with a book propped in front of her and Elijah blankly watching the television. As soon as he swung the door open, though, the two perked up, attention on Zero. He wanted to see shock flash across Elijah’s face, wanted to watch the man writhe in unbearable pain under Zero, wanted to watch him cry and plead, all while Vanessa watched with a sick smile on her face. He wanted to hear the girl whisper to Elijah about how she
never loved him, always loved Zero instead, just used the man to watch him suffer in the end. He wanted to see the emotional pain flash across Elijah’s features, wanted to watch tears trickle down his face, wanted to threaten to never kill Elijah and keep him in pain forever, writhing in absolute agony. Instead, he raised his pistol and applied pressure to the trigger, bullet hitting Elijah square in the forehead, the man instantly slumping over, eyes glazing over as he grabbed at the wound. Vanessa stared at Elijah, eyes widening, before turning to stare at Zero. “Zero.” She basically whispered, gripping the arm of the couch, and he advanced, grabbing the girl’s warm hand. “Vanessa.” Warm eyes stared blankly into his, heart fluttering as Vanessa merely blinked. “They want me to kill you too but you don’t have to die, come with me. We can run away together and be free, I’ll protect you!” The girl fumbled with her words, eyes flickering toward Elijah and Zero. “You just…you just-just killed him, why-why did you kill him?” Blinking again, he watched tears spill down her lovely face. “I had to, I’m supposed to kill you too, but you don’t have to-!” And suddenly the girl was moving, aiming a swift kick at him, and he instinctively blocked, noting the glint of a silver knife clasped in her hand. Zero was not a stupid man, no. He was a logical man, not ruled by emotion, so in that moment, he raised the pistol and shot, scarlet blood spilling from the girl’s shoulder and rolling onto the carpet. With another shot her fire died down, her body slumping over and falling, tears rolling quickly and endlessly down her face. Zero wasn’t an emotional man. He was a logical man, and he didn’t care about the girl. He didn’t care for the way her hair sprawled out on the carpet, the way her wide doe eyes lost light and went dull, the tears still wet on her face as her breathing stilled. He was going to be sick. Turning away, he walked out of the open door, gently closing it behind him. Faint light peeked through the blinds always snapped shut, hiding the scene painted in the living room of that house. Zero’s hands found comfort in the familiar feel of a weapon in his hands. His heart didn’t know of empathy or compassion, bodies of his victims lying dead in the living room, recalling how they’d shrunk under the nozzle of his pistol and the death it promised. He’d certainly never feel butterflies in his stomach, never again. He’d felt the warmth of friendship, and that, he reckoned, was perhaps the most dangerous thing in the world, more dangerous than the pistol he carried and the weapons stashed away in his house. He’d never feel it again, he figured. He was bound to have zero friends, zero empathy, zero compassion, had nothing for as long as he could remember. A man clad in black clothes and white, silvery hair walked down the street. And as he walked, it began to rain, washing away the salty tears that had fallen down the man’s face.