Reverre: A Narrative Fiction

I realized that I had stopped, finally. After looking around, I saw an old, shabby building being illuminated by the moonlight. I took the opportunity and sat against it, resting my legs for the first time in days. Nobody knew what time it was, all of the clocks were broken. Watches were for the rich, and if you stole one, it was always stolen again. And again and again and again and again and again until someone dies, as this world is a cruel reality for us. We are human, are we not? Even though it was nighttime, the people still fought. I mean, Reverre wasn’t smart enough to stop. It was a drug for him, the feel of the trigger. He once found one of his bodies and tasted their blood, and smiled. It was so sinister you wouldn’t believe he was human. I, however, went inside the café to rest since it was
I hadn’t heard any gunshots, so that was somewhat reassuring. There was no way everything was over, but maybe they took a break. I’m still sort of in denial about everything that happened here, but who wouldn’t be? I know, it’s the reality we’re in and it’s just the time, right? My mind is blocked off, that’s what it feels like. I stopped thinking for a moment and pulled my gun from my satchel. It was specially made for our battles, but every person chose a way it was made. Mine is black with silver flowers etched onto the handle, and it holds about 27 bullets. I’m not sure what you’d call it, but we’ve created a name for kicks. Each gun is called a Lavoise 13. Mostly everyone has at least one, but some are stolen. That doesn’t happen as often, though. People keep talking about the situation. “Oh, it’s terrible, awful, extraordinary, supernatural, horrid,” they say. They brought this on themselves, fighting each other over irrelevant things. What can I say? They’re human. Or at least, their appearance is. Their heart and mind, however, are more twisted than a mint and strawberry cocktail a drunkard