Boston - 1904

John Lionhart stood in a cemetery, staring into an open grave. A small body laid at the bottom, wrapped in clean, white sheets. That was all that was left of his life now.

It wasn’t even a proper coffin, but it was what he could afford. After a while he pulled his attention away, looking up at the cloudy night sky. It would rain soon. That seemed appropriate somehow.

Then John noticed something odd on a hill in the distance. A black dog. It was looking his way, as if it were staring right at him.

“Sir?” A voice called out.

John turned, the gravedigger, an older, weathered looking man, watched him with a blank expression. He must have been talking, John hadn’t noticed.

“Sorry?” John prompted.

“I asked if you wanted to say a few words?”

John looked at the older man, then the grave.

“…What good are prayers going to do now?”

He waited for an answer, the man said nothing. Exactly.

As John turned to leave, he noticed the dog was gone.

John brushed past a drunk, making the man stumble. He looked pissed but John ignored him. Once the drunk had gotten a look at John, he’d gone back to his own business pretty quickly.

John Lionhart was a big man, intimidating, pushing forty and in desperate need of a shave. Between that and the badge on his hip, he wasn’t really expecting any problems as he wandered through the night. Not that it mattered.

John fingered the badge. He was reminded of a colleague he’d had, Ryder, a patrol guy that had killed himself last year. It was about a divorce, cheating wife, something like that. John wasn’t a friend of the man, no one was, really. In fact, that was probably the problem, the guy was married to his work. Then one day he just strolled into the precinct, put a gun to his head, and pulled the trigger. John had actually been there; he’d seen the man die. Worst of all it wasn’t as quick as you’d expect. Half the department had watched him bleed out with a chunk of his head missing.

John had thought about that day more than he’d cared to, no matter how he turned it over in his mind, it didn’t make sense.

Not the suicide itself. Cops, unfortunately, had a bad habit of killing themselves. He’d had more than one friend eat their gun after one tragedy or another. That was the simply the reality of the profession, people with guns tended to use them. When you mixed that with the kind of things they’d see over the years, it didn’t end well.

No, what confused him was why the man would do it somewhere everyone would see him, all just to blow his brains out in the end. Part of him, a cynical part, thought it might have been some morbid way of getting attention. Making sure you’re remembered and all that. That was important for some people, not John, but some. But that didn’t feel right. He didn’t make a specticle of it, didn’t say a word to anyone. Just walked in and did the deed.

It had taken John a while, but eventually he did come to an answer. The man was hoping for a miracle. He was hoping someone would stop him, would see him walk in, see him draw the gun. He was banking on the idea that if someone out there was lucky enough, quick enough, or cared enough to help, that if the universe deemed him worthy of that kind of intervention, he could go on.

Almost happened too. Some young clerk - John didn’t remember his name, he’d nearly stopped Ryder in time. Kid never really forgave himself after that.

But that had taught John an important lesson. He considered it as he made his way deep into the business district of the city, abandoned this time of night. It wasn’t hard to find a nice, tall building. Neither was forcing the door to the roof. He took a moment to check the place over, making sure no one was there.

Doing something like what Ryder had done, that was just selfishness. No, John didn’t need some miracle, or hope, he didn’t want to hurt others. He just wanted things to end. John strode up to the edge of the roof and looked down.

It was quicker this way, easier than what he’d seen Ryder go through. For everyone. Well, maybe not for the street sweepers, but you couldn’t please everybody.

John gave one last look to the expanse below him. He felt nothing staring at the ground far below. Not hesitation, not regret, he’d expected something like that, but now -- it was just the same numbness he’d grown accustomed to.

“. . . Fuck it.”

He took a deep breath, steeling himself, then, he stepped into the void.

A moment later, John slammed into the cement with a sickening thud. He lay there, motionless, lifeless eyes staring up at the night sky.

As the blood began to pool around his body, a black dog padded up beside the corpse, sniffing at what remained.

“Why him?” An old woman walked up beside the dog, kneeling over John’s still form.

The dog just whined in response.

“A good man. . .?” The old woman regarded John. “Fine, we’ll see how long that lasts. . . If it lasts.”

With that, the old woman placed a hand on John’s chest. A second ticked by, then another. Then, all at once, John’s world resolved into light, and pain. As his eyes snapped open, he took in a sharp breath, and screamed.