𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐲

𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐒𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐗𝐈

The sky in Jericho town was a light baby blue, the bright yellow sun shining happily, not a drop of rain to be seen, completely contrasting the dark, storming and almost vengeful forest that Saturday and Xaviera just came from.

One half of the vibrant town, behind the white church with the high blue-grey spire, beyond it's grassy field with a graveyard full of tombstones, there were a field of trees sporting their autumn leaves: auburn, yellow okar, dark green, and red with civilian homes placed in between. Beyond those trees and houses, was a beautiful, wide, pure blue lake and beyond the lake were more autumn leaved trees and houses and slight mountains, those beautiful, warm autumn colours prominent throughout.  

On the other half of the town, directly in front of the white church, was a bronze statue, next to the statue was a small white pavilion with a cross path at the statue leading to the pavilion and outwards. A little in front of the statue were the red stage and white stands for the students. Beyond the green garden, there were various large houses that were the premises of many shops. There were smooth grey concrete roads and paths for civilians and their vehicles. It was truly a beautiful and vibrant town, rich in its history.

I thought nothing scared me, but that was before I stared into the eyes of Joseph Crackstone.

Saturday, now wearing his school uniform with the black and grey striped blazer instead of his wet black overcoat, stalks into the centre of the grassy field in front of the white church, down the grey stone square paved path, one hand holding his black slate and the other, his black violin case.

On the grass next to the path, was the red stage with white chairs and white stands displaying a boutique of red and white roses with lush green leaves on its every corner. The stone path led straight to the bronze pilgrim statue. The pale, black haired, tall, brooding boy paid no attention to the obnoxious display in front of him, keeping his shining, clever obsidian eyes low and ahead.

When he reached the tall statue, he lifts his head of floppy hair and pale face to examine the man.

He walks circles the statue like a predator hunting his prey, eyes piercing into the bronze, into the face of Joseph Crackstone, the statue's expression pensive, thoughtful, brows furrowed handsomely.

I don't believe in heaven or hell. But I do believe in revenge.

The pale boy, whose lips were purple from the freezing rain of the forest and whose black hair was still slightly damp, glared up at the statue with deadly intent.

I usually serve it warm with a side of pain, but I've never faced an adversary cast in bronze.

He looks down at Thing, who had climbed onto the stone base of the statue and nods curtly. The severed hand gave the pale boy a thumbs up.

Saturday took a last glance at the face of Joseph Crackstone and stalks off.

The statue's front faced the entrance of the clearing, which was been filled with people and various fancy cars, one black van sporting a 𝗩𝗡𝗘 white and black logo on its sides and some sort of weird round cornered, square, white tv satellite on its roof, and a black tyre attached, with that same 𝗩𝗡𝗘 logo.