October 20, 1892 - Chicago
For the first time in his entire life, Jon was nervous. He hadn't exactly made a name for himself as he had promised he would when his
father step-father kicked him out, but this was going to be big. World's Fair big. His boss was lazy and the paper would be thoroughly embarrassed if they didn't have a front row seat at the dedication ceremony. As he walked towards the fair grounds, his hands fiddled with the small box in his vest.
"A married man is an established man," the old man at the pub had said. "Lets people know you're serious about putting down roots - gives them a reason to keep you on at the factory." It had worked for his father, before the heart attack, and it had worked for his step-father after. Jon's feet were sore from the long walk, but he kept his mind focused on the big event.
He had to sneak in, of course; technically no one was allowed onto the fairgrounds until tomorrow morning, but he slipped one of the guards a fifth of whiskey he had picked up at the store and promised he was just scouting out a path to get to the main stage.
Hours before, in the jewelry shop, his hands were sweaty, but his nerves were calm. He knew it was the right choice. He knew she'd love the ring. She, like him, hadn't come from much so having something like this should really put her over the edge. He loved her, but he loved his work more. He was going to go over to her apartment that very night and propose, but when he got the tip from one of his watchers that his boss was passed out drunk again, he knew he had to step in and do something about it.
That was Jon's way. Always stepping in and doing when he should be focused on the more important things in life.
He felt for the ring again, just to make sure it was still there, and stepped toward the fair grounds.
It happened so fast. He recognized the man right away. The same old guy he had seen the past few nights lurking in the shadows. He looked European. Out of time. Out of place. That's when he felt the first stab, right between the shoulder blades. It knocked him forward, the ring stumbling out of his pocket, out of the box, and lost somewhere in the darkened grounds.
Strangely, he didn't think of Elizabeth first, but how he could have been so careless as to not leave the ring at home where it would have really been safe. Again, it was his way. Assume that everything is safer in his control. He felt immense pressure on his back as his attacker stabbed him again and again.
He felt the darkness passing over his eyes. The pressure was gone, and a wave of pleasure passed over him. Then nothing but a pair of voices.
"Is this it then?" It was his own voice.
"No, this is not the end, my son." A voice that for decades would call out to him in his times of need. "Your work is not yet finished."
He felt the life drain out of him, and something wrong take its place. Something keeping him here when all he wanted to was to reach out for the ring and go home. Something inside him knew he couldn't, anymore, that going home was never going to happen again.
He silently cursed himself for realizing it all too late. This. This is the way of things. Death does not happen all at once. It happens in steps, like life. He averted his eyes from the ring and looked toward his attacker.
He no longer cared about love, or rings, or World's Fairs. His blood boiled in his veins. All he cared about now was blood.