The Bone Magician

George knew he had the worst job in the history of jobs, he just didn't know how truly bad it really was. When something happens George is whisked away and asked questions he doesn't even know the answer to.


1. The Job

A dark alleyway, that’s where I live, out of sight, out of mind, that’s how I like to think about it. It feels like I’m alone. Always does. I’m used to it by now though. It’s rare for people to venture down the backstreet where I wait, where I stay. But it happens more often than you would think. Only when we’re needed, do individuals come looking, usually with enough hope left to keep their limbs moving down the narrow, misty passage. But that doesn’t mean there are never people with too little motivation to keep them going; those people collapse before they can make it. Then it’s our job to collect them after, or should I say my job. The other hardly does anything until it’s his time to take a look at the next visitor.  And I’m the one who struggles to survive. It’s not fair.

Let me introduce myself. My name is George Mathews, but mostly people call me, The Bone Magician. It still angers me but I’ve learnt to live with it by now. People see me differently; call me differently to who I really am. I’m more like the face of The Bone Magician then the actual brains of it. It wasn’t the job I particularly wanted to do, but in The City what other choice do I really have, considering my condition. Nevertheless it does have some bonuses to it, like the money, or the look on people’s faces when we’re finished with them. But then, when I have the unfortunate timing to catch another person without enough faith in us to fall to the ground and hear the snap of their bones splitting. Then I want to die on the spot with the thought of having to go and collect them.

I see the look of agony on their faces and I dread to consider what kind of life they had formed. What kind of life had been ruined and crushed into non-existence. I look at their faces and imagine myself. How I would have ended up if it wasn’t for the miracle. The miracle that had saved my life. The same miracle who I now loathed, who I shared a house with. Who had crushed my life. We are killing people and we can’t help them. We aren’t allowed to help. It’s one of the most vital rules. I would have preferred to be this person who now rests dead in my arms. At least they can’t suffer; at least they don’t dread each day and each night. Every minute of their life.

In an instant I’m out of my day dream and into the real world as I hear the high ear splitting scream from outside. I know I’m too late when I hear the gasp of another victim. I wait and listen for the crunch of their breaking bones but it doesn’t come. I wait and wait but all I hear is silence. That’s all I remember until a throbbing pain appears in my head and with a yelp of pain I’m unconscious.

Join MovellasFind out what all the buzz is about. Join now to start sharing your creativity and passion
Loading ...