execution
Cold raindrops lashed against the huge portholes of the Bethlehem's cockpit, which was filled with a strong, pungent smell of tobacco.
Milo stood with his back to the hatch, in front of the control panel. The cigarette between his fingers had burned down to the filter, the long ash hanging precariously. A dozen or so crushed and twisted cigarette butts lay scattered at his feet. He took a deep drag, a spark suddenly igniting before he stubbed it out sharply. He pressed hard on his temples, his knuckles white, the veins on the back of his hands bulging, as if trying to forcefully suppress the churning noise and chaos in his mind.
Father Ward stood not far from him, his aged body ramrod straight, his gray hair damp with sweat and tension. His hands were clenched tightly in front of his chest, his lips moving incessantly, his voice low and persistent, like the buzzing of mosquitoes, repeatedly scratching at Milo's chaotic nerves: "Violence will only bring deeper darkness. Look at Mr. Dale, he needs healing."
Miles slumped in a luxurious leather high-backed chair, his expensive suit disheveled, a shocking bruise on his left temple swollen high, with dark red blood seeping from the edges, his eyes slightly closed, in a semi-comatose state.
"Shut up! Shut up!" Milo suddenly turned around, his eyes bloodshot.
Ward looked at Milo with pity, his hands clutching the cross to his chest: "Child, you were blinded by hatred. Forgiveness takes more courage than judgment. What you need to do now is to regain your courage. You—"
"I told you to shut up!" Milo's rage reached its peak. Like a caged beast that had been completely enraged, he suddenly raised his foot and kicked the bulkhead hard.
Miles was awakened by the loud noise and struggled to open his eyes.
Ward was startled by the sudden violence, all the words stuck in his throat, his face filled with horror, and he instinctively took a step back.
Seeing his expression, Milo suddenly sneered: "Well said, kind priest. Tell me, if someone killed your parents, imprisoned you for six years, subjected you to electroshock therapy, erased your memories, and trampled on your self-esteem, could you still so easily say 'forgive'?"
Ward stood in front of Miles, his desolate eyes filled with pleading and sorrow. He picked up his pistol and pointed it at his own heart: "I swear to God, if you're going to shoot, I'll kill myself first."
Miles sighed. "Ward, stop talking."
Ward quickly turned around and asked anxiously, "Mr. Dale, are you alright?"
“Do you know what you’re saying? Who do you think you are?” Milo frowned in disgust. “You really think you’re God? That you can save him?”
“Mr. Dale donated a lot of supplies to our cruise ship, and he also funded my eye surgery. He was a good man. He may have made mistakes, but you shouldn’t take his life like this.” Ward shed tears sadly. “You know, if your soul is consumed by hatred, you will never find true peace.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Milo sneered. “Nobody will listen to your outdated sermons.”
“I can die in his place, if that will ease your pain,” Ward murmured.
Miles raised his voice: "This is between him and me, Ward, it's none of your business!"
Milo remained unmoved, coldly staring at his former mentor and friend: "If you want to die, you can shoot me."
Ward pursed his lips slightly, looked up at the church sculpture in the center of the stained glass window, closed his eyes slightly, and pulled the trigger without hesitation.
Milo's pupils constricted as he rushed forward to stop him, but it was too late. He could only watch helplessly as the bullet pierced Ward's chest, blood splattering everywhere.
Miles' Adam's apple bobbed, the bloodstains on his face still warm. He tensed his face, gritted his teeth, and closed his eyes.
Milo stared in shock at Ward on the deck, watching him clench his fingers and place them on his chest in a gesture of prayer, gazing lovingly at Milo as the light in his eyes faded.
Tears welled up in his eyes. Milo held his breath, but he couldn't resist the shock of the bloodshed before him.
The housekeeper Beverly, the little boy with black hair and green eyes, Yuma, and Ward—these people who shouldn't have died all perished one after another in this long tug-of-war.
Why would Ward choose suicide to persuade Miles to let go? Why must pain always be compared? Why must his suicide awaken his guilt and make him let go of all grudges?
He can't let go!
He can't turn back!
His brain was about to explode...
Milo covered his temples and screamed, "Can't all those chattering people who're plaguing my head just die? Just die!"
He'd had enough! He'd had enough!!!
Miles watched silently as Milo, leaning against the wall, shrugged his shoulders, forcibly pulling himself out of his frenzied state and gradually moving towards a forced calm.
He had seen this scene countless times through the one-way monitor glass.
“I’m jealous of him,” Miles said slowly. “I’m jealous of Blaise, not because of his background, nor because he owns shares in the Daller Group. I’m jealous of him because he has someone who loves him unconditionally, and someone who loves him unconditionally.”
“Suma, this woman was outstanding. I didn’t dislike her; in fact, we had a good relationship. It’s just a pity she overstepped her bounds, so she had to die. When I injected that tube of maca into her, she was very calm. In the end, she just told me to lock the door so that Blaze wouldn’t come in and see her, because she was afraid he would be scared.”
“That’s when I suddenly realized I was jealous of Blaise. He could want to be with you without any scruples, regardless of his own status. I’ve never had a life like that. If he really rushed into the fire to save you, I know you would fall in love with him.”
"Actually, back then, during that fire, he was just one door away from finding you. I took you away, which is why he missed you. The voice in your memory isn't mine, yet you love me because of that voice... Sometimes when I think about it, it's really ironic. I created you, and I've become his substitute."
Milo's eyes were bloodshot. Seeing Miles speak without batting an eye, he couldn't help but sneer, "Are you proud of what you've done?"
“Milo, I had some irrational thoughts. Knowing that everything was beyond repair, I still wanted to take you away, but I never thought of asking for your forgiveness. Did Steven beg for your forgiveness before he died? If that's what you're waiting for, then you'll really be disappointed, because I've never regretted anything.” Miles lowered his eyes. “But I'm sorry for the harm I caused you.”
"Sorry?" Milo uttered the two words stiffly, loaded the bullet, his spasming fingers gripping the gun, the trigger guard grinding red marks into his palm, but his vision gradually blurred without him realizing it.
"Why are you crying?" Miles looked at Milo, his brows furrowing involuntarily. "I'm the one who lost. As you wished, I lost everything. You took away everything I cared about. You've already won."
"Why me?" That was all Milo could say.
It was a stupid question, he knew that. But until the very end, that was the only question he really wanted to ask Miles.
Miles lowered his eyes.
The past events were vivid in his mind. There were some things he was certain he had possessed, and others he regretted having missed. At this point, it was no longer necessary to delve into whether their feelings were deep or shallow, or whether their fates were shallow or deep. What he wanted was Milo, not Theo Green. But that's the crux of the matter; even with extraordinary means, he couldn't separate one person into two. Milo's very existence carried the indelible shadow of Theo Green.
Miles looked up, his voice slightly hoarse: "Before I met you, I didn't know it would be you."
Milo laughed in despair.
This person has always been like this.
Even if he doesn't act arrogantly, doesn't abuse his power, and works diligently every day, treating all his subordinates and colleagues with perfect friendliness, the indifference that grows from his very bones—the kind of indifference that belongs exclusively to those in power—is like willow catkins, seeping into every nook and cranny and blocking all his senses.
He is forever indifferent to your pain and your dignity, so the word "love" is distorted for him; he can't express it. He always loves the self that controls everything, and the essence of his love is the perfect work he has personally crafted. When this handcrafted work has a problem, his first reaction is to consider cost-effectiveness; repairs are the most economical option, and if all else fails, he can simply melt it down and refire it.
But can someone who has melted and then burned still be considered a person?
“Miles.” Tears streamed down Milo’s face as he raised his hand, pointing the gun at Miles’ head. “You know I have to kill you.”
He kept having nightmares. In his dreams, he was torn between two extremes. On one hand, he desperately wanted to destroy everything Miles owned, but on the other hand, he was terrified of the day Miles would die. If Miles really died, he would have no purpose. But without killing him, it couldn't end.
The feeling was like the fear of seeing a flag on a vast, snowy slope—a fear of the finish line. He never enjoyed the fleeting moment of sprinting down the slope, but rather the countless moments of life-or-death struggles along the way. He feared the finish line; the finish line meant the end.
For someone like him, what is the ultimate end of his life?
In the silence, Miles grasped Milo's trembling wrist, his warm palm enveloping Milo's cold fingers.
Miles' Adam's apple bobbed; there was another question he really wanted to ask.
Milo could tell that Miles wanted him to answer a question.
Their eyes met, but Miles suddenly looked away.
It wasn't that I was afraid to ask, but I couldn't bear to see Milo answer.
He seems to have driven Milo crazy.
But this is not what he wanted.
“I still don’t feel comfortable calling you Theo Green. Theo, Theo… If I had called you that earlier, things would have been different.” Miles suddenly smiled, his ever-calm eyes now only showing a small figure. “Then let’s leave it at that.”
"Goodbye, Milo." A very soft murmur.
"Bang--"
Gunshots rang out.
*
The sea breeze, carrying a salty, fishy smell, poured in through the bullet-riddled portholes.
Milo knelt amidst the spent cartridge cases and pools of blood, with Ward and Miles' bodies beside him, yet he showed no emotion whatsoever. He simply picked up a Beretta pistol from the deck and loaded a bullet.
His palms were covered in slippery blood, and Milo could barely hold them.
Slowly, Milo tilted his head back and pressed the cold muzzle of the gun against his chin.
Along the way, his life has been threatened by too many people. This time, it is his turn to make this long-cherished wish that has been desperately suppressed.
It should be something that is fulfilled; not everyone has such good fortune.
At the very least, he could die on the Bethlehem, beside his parents.
Milo's heart pounded, his index finger clenched in spasm as he awaited death.
However, he did not experience the pain he had anticipated.
Milo used almost all his strength to keep his taut spine from collapsing. He opened his eyes and looked down in disbelief.
The gun chamber was completely silent; it was most likely jammed.
Surviving the ordeal brought no joy. The pain that had been building up in his heart for years was finally about to be relieved; a cloud of black mist was about to emerge from his ruptured forehead, bringing him the peace he had longed for.
Why?
Why!
Milo gasped for breath, his eyes bloodshot. Almost impatiently and without hesitation, he gripped his fists again and fired a second shot ruthlessly and swiftly into his jaw.
But it was still just a muffled thud.
Milo suddenly threw his head back and burst into laughter, laughing so hard that he could barely breathe, and even retched, vomiting blood. He felt hot tears welling up in his eyes, and for a moment, he couldn't stop crying.
Did he actually cry? Could he still shed tears?
The gun was pressed against his heart for the third time.
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