TowersofSilence
01-22-2009, 06:21 PM
Part 1: The Boy
He knew that winter was on the way. It was from past experience that he sat where he did, watching the birds on the lake. Strange the swans don’t migrate with winter so close, he thought.
“I will get you a Swan in time for Christmas.”
For days he had sat there, not moving, just watching, examining the swans, interpreting their moves and immersing himself in their world. And the old man watched the boy as he did this, from his perch amid nature. He examined how the boy moved, trying to interpret what he thought, trying to work him out. And then one day the boy brought an axe with him. As the icy breath of winter arrived, he waded into the river, unafraid, to where the last swan still swam. Delicately he killed it. The blood slowly flowed to create a pattern in the crystal white lake. The old man didn’t even flinch, and the boy went back home for Christmas. After all, it was not unusual to see a young lad wade out to kill a swan.
“I have the swan for you. It is a gift to thank you for giving me a home.”
Assignment 1: Project Prague“The taste of human flesh is an acquired one, Mr. Sullivan”
“What the hell are you playing at?”
“I’ve already told you.”
“The authorities will catch you! My bodyguards have probably alerted all the authorities between here and the next county!”
“You clearly have placed trust in this fabricated society, its lies intricately woven together by media and corporations such as yours…”
“What the hell are you on about? You’re clearly a loony! What with – breaking into my house at night, ranting on about – God knows what! Stories about destroying society and –“
“Simply the changing of, Mr. Sullivan.”
“and, and, and… brandishing that weapon… For God’s sake! Get some sense into you!”
“Oh, but I have. Have you not observed contempary society, riddled with its lies and fat-cat owners? It’s like a sheep paddock, Mr. Sullivan. The dog and farmer representing the Government and corporations, the sheep the carefully controlled minds of the people.”
“Where are you getting this from? Do you belong to some cult of wackos? Are you some kind of extremist…. Religious extremists maybe? What the hell do you mean by corporations and the government controlling the minds of the…”
“You’ve said it yourself. You’ve put it into practice. You helped start the cycle, dear Sullivan. Now, my dear, loyal Sullivan, all this talking has worked up my appetite. Thank you.”
The body of a man lies motionless on the floor, a trickle of blood flowing down from the slit in his Adams-apple. Shame, I think, before removing the man’s index finger.
I walk down a narrow hall, past the children’s bedrooms. For the briefest of seconds I consider bringing one along for breakfast, but decide against it. Enough bloodshed in one night. After all, I do have their arms and legs. They died in their own blood, both barely eight. I look upon their once white sheets, now a stark contrast, covered in deep crimson, youthful blood. The house seems so much more barren. My assignment is complete.
Assignment 2: Russian Roulette
In a decrepit building in a run down, empty city, a car pulls up. The wind howls through broken windows, a man pulls a body out of a car, dragging the misshapen figure into a shadowed alleyway between two crumbling houses. There is no warmth in the area, no signs of love or life, just decay.
“Who the hell are you?”
“That’s another finger gone, Mr. James. I’m sure you wouldn’t like to lose anymore? Or should I cut to the chase and get straight to the limbs? Your choice.”
“I’ll listen.” he stammers.
“No. You’ll answer, you’ll relate information to me, you’ll tell me what I want to know.”
“Ask away, big boy.”
My knife swipes down, removing his right hand.
“F***! Oh f***.... what the hell was that for you psychopath!”
“So, we have a smart-arse in the ranks...”
“Fine, I’ll answer... just... just how do I stop the blood flow? Please..... help me...”
“So now you turn to the psychopath for help? Amusing. Remove your shirt and wrap it tightly around that stub of yours. Wrap it up real good now, we wouldn’t want you to die now, would we?”
“Talk to me. Let me see if I can give you anything of use.”
“Why does your Corporation continue to pollute? Why do you continue to enslave child labourers? Why do you show no integrity in business, your business?”
I stare into the embers of a dying fire. I have lost track of time, but I am acutely aware of the goings on around me. I am one with all in this dark space. All things make sense. This fire is my epiphany. I remember the faces of dying victims. You can always tell the strong from the cowards. Feeling the warmth of it on my face and let loose the demons of my life. Suddenly bright, white lights explode into view. Surely the drugs are kicking in now. Dear God, everything seems so surreal, so fake. Let me pass out, slip into the darkness of surrealism, falseness…. nothing.... slipping away knowing that my assignment is complete.
Part 2: The Adolescent
If I’m was so wonderful, then why was I so misunderstood? I sat outside the Principal’s office, poising myself to appear as if I didn’t care, but in reality an internal battle raged, one where I was fighting guilt and fear. Fear and guilt about what? I was not sure I can answer this, but I had the general idea. I guess the teacher I’d somehow insulted felt I was a smart-arse, or fears that I was smarter than him. Whichever one, I know I shouldn’t have provoked him, I know I shouldn’t have kept asking the kind of questions that come across as being a smart arse. And now I had the price to pay. The price to pay for trying to ‘engage in the activities in an intellectual manner’. I hoped they liked that precise wording, because I hadn’t come up with anything else yet.
The thick wooden door opened to a dishevelled principle. Anger fought compassion on his twist of a face.
“You can come in now, Christopher.”
I hated it when teachers said your full birth name. I mean, what was the point? Did they not know that it’s a warning sign telling students that something dreadful is about to happen?
“Coming, Sir…”
I rose silently, my face downcast. I walked over, stiffly, rigidly, silently and accepted the invitation in from His Majesty’s gesturing arm to seat myself in a overstuffed leather chair. Out of the corner of my eyes, I noticed my teacher. First reaction, what a wanker….. Second reaction, holycrapwhatamIdoinghereohmyGodIshouldn’tbeheredon ’tthinkthatyoudeservetobeherenoIdon’tjuststicktoth eplanyou’llbealright……
“Now, you know why you’ve been called in, don’t you Christopher?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good, then shall we begin?”
He glanced at my teacher, then at me. He seemed sad and bored at yet another whinging teacher and having to deal with another teen kid who thought he was cool.
And so the lecture begins. Yelling from two sources, well, professional yelling - one must keep one’s composure during arguments. Bunch of losers. I couldn’t stand that crap. “….and you understand how important education is?....”
“….privileged to go to a school like North Woods…..throwing it all way….”
“……poor teacher here trying to educate you…..”
This time the words don’t fade out, I just start laughing. Hysterical laughter, welling up from nowhere inside, but flowering to life in a series of deep guffaws.
I guess it’s funny in a way, ‘poor teacher trying to educate you’, what a load of bull crap. I started laughing hard again, aware of their curious, frustrated glances. They didn’t stop me, rather they waited patiently, readying a new assault. Bewildered, insulted and angered the teachers tried to recuperate from this ‘shocker of a kid’, and tried a different tack.
“You do realise how serious this is, don’t you, Christopher?”
“Sir, I have a funny quote.”
“Chris, we don’t have time…” his voice sounded strained.
“It goes a bit like this, it’s funny, you’ll see, just try picture this, “Sorry Sir,”
‘No – you’re not sorry.” I started laughing again. I found the quote humorous, but they didn’t see the joke in it.
Actually, looking at his face closely, I noticed how livid it had become. It was ghost white, the tendons in his neck look strained. The veins were bulging underneath his pasty skin, that looked paper thin. I thought was a bad joke, or he was deep in thought, and then I realised he was not breathing. His eyes look dilated, distant and…. lonely. I realised something was amiss, and instantly survival instincts kicked in. Thinking he was going to have a seizure, I jumped over his desk, took him by the chest, siphoned him out of his seat and transferred him to the floor.
“Chris! What do you think you’re doing?” screamed my teacher, before going into momentary shock. Meanwhile, I was groping through the piles on his desk, searching for a phone, a mobile, anything that I could call an ambulance with. My Principal seemed to shudder into silence.
“Chris…. Oh Jesus… oh.... What the hell did you do to him?” my teacher yelled. Typical, I thought, of a teacher. Go into shock, then try to make sense of the issue, then shift the blame onto the student to save your own skin and dodge taking responsibility. Fair. Fair? How could I be thinking these thoughts while my Principal was potentially dying?
Realising there was no phone, I panicked. At least my breath came out calmly, unlike my babbling teacher, who was standing beside the Principal echoing white noise and wringing his hands uselessly. I almost laughed, but didn’t. The idea of using my own mobile phone struck me. My hand slammed into my left pocket, then my other. As realisation dawned that I left my phone back in my locker. I panicked. I was running out of options….
I was on the floor, almost on top of the Principal, searching his pockets for a phone. Finding none, and realising that my last, most dreaded, option had come into play, I looked at my numb teacher.
“Do you have a phone?”
“….stupid boy… get off him…. What?”
“Dammit, do you have a phone?”
“uhh…”
“Hurry up, we don’t have forever!”
“Ye…. Yes, yes I do”
I enjoyed substituting roles, me playing teacher, him student.
“Give it here, please”, I grimaced at him, politely.
His hand shock violently as he reluctantly handed it over.
“Thank you..... hypocritical bastard....”
Calling the ambulance, trying to calm down the teacher, fighting the fear for my dying, or dead, Principal. Another teacher has heard the noises, and joined in on the fun. The secretary had burst through the door, seen the teacher in turmoil, seen me next to the Principal, assumed the worst and called the cops, as well as alerted all the staff. An alarm rang out, breaking the claustrophobic silence, the stifling stillness. The alarm punctures the air, and broke the monotonous hand wringing of the shocked teacher.
I thought of it as a twisted song. The sad sounds of shocked teachers were my bass, the alarm my shrieking guitar. That thought comforted me. I must have looked out of place in the scene of terror. That’s what I believe the police officer thought anyway, that’s why I think everyone was giving me distasteful looks as I was carted away from the Principals office and bundled into a police car.
Next I was sitting behind a metal desk, in a concealed back room of the brick building. The room was dim, with hazy light snaking through slit curtains. The room’s silent, atmosphere was tense. I was scared, nervous and anxious. I felt fear, sick and worry. I’d always wondered what it would be like to be taken away by a police car. Now that I’ve experienced it, I realise how stupid the thought was. I suddenly felt like a coward rather than a hero, as I imagined it’d be like.
It seemed I’d been waiting for hours, when a very serious man entered through a small, misleading door. I instantly felt a wave of fear, mixed with a strange sense of calm. He was carrying something in a grey briefcase. He sat on a cold metal chair and lit a cigarette. The smoke swirled into funny patterns as it rose through the stale air. I coughed, and he rolled up his sleeves. For a minute we sat in silence. His eyes met mine occasionally. He was trying to suss me out.
Eventually he peered into his briefcase, and pulled out a yellow tinged folder. He slid the folder gently across the smooth table. I stared down at it, uncertain what to make of it. He grimaced, then said, “Open it.”
I stared back at him for a minute, as if trying to dismantle the individual syllables of the sentence and make of them what I wanted. I must have seemed scared, so he needed his head approvingly as I placed my hand on it. I turned the folder, to find, staring up at me through dead eyes, a photo of my Principal.
I cringed, leaned backwards, then opened my sorry eyes to clarify what was looking at. My wretched heart beat heavily, as if also crying out tears of grief. And suddenly emotions like I’d never felt before, so strong and uncontrollable, overtook me. For a few minutes I was a shattered wreck, heaving my grief upon the stark table between the cop and myself.
“You killed him. At least the evidence suggests it.” His voice broke the darkness.
“I didn’t.” My voice was as small and pathetic as my teacher’s had been. “I didn’t kill him...”
“You put a fully qualified teacher into a medical ward. When authorities arrived, you were the closest to the body, your hands covered in his blood. Our evidence shows your fingermarks all over the body... and you were smiling...”
“I swear I didn’t kill him!”
“How old are you, son?”
Sigh.
“What’s your name?”
“You probably already know the answer to those questions.”
He cracked a rugged smiled.
“Do you live with your parents? Or with an aunt or uncle or guardian?”
“I was adopted. I live with guardians.”
“What’s your phone number?”
“You’re a cop! Surely with your resources you already know that!”
“And I do.”
“Then what’s the point! What’s the point? What’s the goddamned point anymore?” I start crying again, and slowly everything fades to black.
Assignment 3: The Chinese Gun Seller
“You sold me a gun, Yorick, which doesn’t f***ing work. You sold me a faulty gun!” I scream into the dog’s face. I look him over, hold him close as he squirms in my hand. I hold the faulty pistol in the other hand.
“I want my money back!” I growl. I shove him, the shifty Chinese gun seller, into the mud at my feet. He looks terrified. His family, who help him at his dingy stall, look on in fear. The rain leaps in torrents to the ground.
“Get me my money,” I order.
And the bastard tries to run. I chase after him, dodging past stores and people, leaping over the trail he leaves me. I catch him by tripping up his feet, a look of sheer terror imprints his round face. I start beating him, until his eyes are bruised, nose and jaws broken, and blood streams down from his temple. Nobody tries to intervene; either they know who I am, or they abide by the one rule of the slums: don’t mess with anyone, keep to your own business to yourself.
I slam my fist into his stomach as he breathes his last, and then withdraw his filthy wallet. I examine his I.D.: 47 years old, 4 kids, moved from Eastern China to Western Russia 20 years ago for economic reasons (the lie makes me laugh), member of the Red Faction, married for over 15 years. I take the hundred or so dollars I payed for the gun, then leave the corpse to rot. You see, I follow one code. It’s kept me alive on the numerous missions that I’ve been sent on. As well as that, it’s allowed me to kill, and keep killing, without a second thought.
Alas, poor Yorick is dead. But my own assignment is complete.
Assignment 4: New York, the End of Line
I’m Godless. How can there be a God in a hole like earth? The code is simple, yet is the key to survival. Kill, or be killed. Shoot, or be shot. Survive, or die. Lie, or be deceived. Don’t touch the fruit, or be banished. I lose myself in the crowds coming to buy weapons sold on the black market. Some sold by members of Factions, or territory controlled by Factions. There are even corporations which help produce weapons for anti-government Factions. There is a market for everything here.
My journey takes me from Prague to Russia, and then through the swarming, stinking bowls that is the mass called Asia. From Asia I caught a decommissioned nuclear submarine to the National Glacier Park and Reserve in Alaska, en-route to New York.
Once I’ve infiltrated New York City, I set up to do business, to kill my last target. To end the trail of dead and bleeding breadcrumbs that littered my path. The only problem is, the previous targets only led up to the last one. I would not have known where to look if I hadn’t killed the others and if I didn’t kill the last one, then half a billion dead people, the largest section of the free world would lay in ruins, lay on my conscious.
The final target was a weapon, a biological weapon designed to neutralise over massive distances. In effect, by the target being set off via a remote detonation, the sway of the war between numerous Factions, social groups, the way corporations operated, who owned what, sold what and bought what, the battle between the free and enslaved world, the very essence of survival would change.
I have been hired to eliminate the threat. If I succeed my plan is to stay in the free world; retire to farmland, away from the plaque of injustice.
You know, you’re going to run out of luck one day, my conscious speaks out. Besides, you can assassinate the person, or disrupt the peace of peoples for a while, but you cannot assassinate the martyr you make of them. You can never completely kill off the icon they become. And I block that part of my mind and concentrate on readying myself for the killing.
Three hours later, the third, and hopefully the last, target is entering his hotel room. I’ve situated myself in a hotel on the other side of the road, in a room which looks straight into his penthouse. I feel the chilly night air against the exposed part of my face, and feel a slight breeze working up, but nothing too drastic to change the operation. Attached to my chest, hidden by a bulky jacket, are two leather straps. Connected to one is a small knife, the blade to eliminate the target.
I wait until he’s readying himself to take a shower or bath, then exit my building I’m in, and walk around the block, to diver any curiosity sparked my unusual activities. As I round the first corner, I stop at a small cafe. I order hot coffee, and sit at a window booth. Some former customer, or consumer, has left a newspaper on the table.
The headlines broadcast havoc, the main stories narrating death and destruction. Many about my killings, but the media and corporations do not know it is my handiwork. How can they ever? Besides, in the very next day or so will they find the next body, with no clues attached for hungry authorities.
I down the coffee, head around the other side of the block. Turning the last corner, I make my way to the hotel my target is in. From the knowledge I’ve garnered by watching and scrutinising his every move over the previous few days, I expect he’s relaxing in a hot tub.
I blend inconspicuously amongst the people in the lobby who are coming and going. The only thing that sets me apart from the crowd is that I don’t approach the front desk, rather heading towards an elevator. I punch in my destination, and tiredly wait. Mentally, I prepare myself. Once I’ve reached the floor, I head for the only door on this level, the door to the Penthouse. Scrutinising the door handle to room 612, I realise how useless his attempt at locking the door has been.
Once inside the Penthouse, I evaluate my surroundings. I’ve seen this place before, and already know my way to the spa. Just straight ahead, then right past the kitchen into another room and there it is. Heading along the passages quietly, trying not to make a sound. I hear the target relaxing in his spa. I can feel the steamy water on my cold skin, and smell the stink of sweat and grime of stress and life; a sweet odour. These ingredients mixed create a sour taste, I gather, from the way my target sobs subconsciously.
I withdraw my knife from the concealment of my attire. The knife glints in the light. The man’s eyes are closed and his head is facing the other way. His body is relaxed, lazily spread out beneath the dull water. I inch my way towards him, a crooked smile surfacing on my crooked face. I take satisfaction in watching men die, I take satisfaction in watching them struggle for survival. I also like to toy with my prey.
I aim my blade for his bald head. I cut a clean line, not too deep so as to give him brain damage, but deep enough to cut into the complicated ventricles and blood flow located in the head. He lurches forward in surprise, and screams as the blood seeps into his swollen eyes. It’s gives strange contentment to watch a man become blinded by his own blood. It’s joyous to watch a dying man squeal, a member of the capitalist pig society squirm.
I slash up and down his arms; I rip into his soft middle section, and slice into his exposed body. The clean water turns a sickly red. The man I’ve killed has died slowly and painfully. I turn to leave, knowing that there was no reason to interrogate him. And then a sickly beeping starts up. Why is it beeping? I killed him! Realisation hits, the virus trapped in him triggered when he died. I start running. I have failed, and now I have to get out of the country. I have failed my assignment, but with due diligence.
Part 5: The Man
Mad cackling laughter escaped my lips. The walls surrounding me seemed to rattle and nurses rushed in. Bodies consumed me, pinning me down to the soft floor. A dishevelled doctor arrived, his demeanour indicating the lateness of the hour. He came from a hallway which was dark. One light shone, and from it I could see his eyes, red and dark rimmed, and his face a swirl of panic and depression. As he strode in, his footsteps echoing in the dark hall behind, a metallic object appears in his right hand. It glinted in the dim light, making my laughter more hysterical than before, and then it pierced my body and injected its drug.
The bushes and thickets had grown lush. The birds sang happily, winter was on its way out. The old willow tree by the river bowed down in testimony to its age. The slow creaking of aged boughs, mixed with the lively rushing of water sounded. The air tasted sweet. My thoughts were deadly. The thoughts were grey and dismal. They did not taste sweet, they tasted dry, tasted of tears and death and destruction. Tasted of torment, physical, emotional. Tasted of nothing, yet everything. The thoughts were bitter. It was a realm of wisdom, yet chaos. And everything outside was affected by the inside, and everything inside born out of the outside. It was turmoil, suffering, quiet, peaceful. It was a blank page, a filled up page. It was sad and happy. It was the difference between heaven and hell, but neither one nor the other. It was what made, defined and informed me. It was the reason one would cry out in his sleep. It was creation. Yet in this creation where was there anyone for me? Where were my own real parents? Where I was brought to by the agitated talking above me?
Epilogue
“What do you think he’s thinking, doctor?”
“I don’t like to think about what goes on in his head”
We stare ahead solidly, watching him watching us, running a normal diagnostics test. I know the thought is crazy, but then why do I feel shivers go down my spine every time I lay eyes upon him? The wall is one way. I can observe him, he can’t see me. Except this knowledge is riddled with flaws, ultimately contradicted, when you see how he smiles as you turn your gaze on him, how he sometimes follows us with his eyes, sometimes his whole head, when we move.
“He’s watching us.... he knows too much... he knows we’re here....”
“And?”
My Thoughts:
This story was originally done for a school project.
The end product of my story is a string of 5 vignettes. The story is divided into 5 separate parts, which when made whole tells the story of the main characters life. I divided the story in this way so that it is no longer disjointed, rather an actual story, yet narrative in style. This style required many attempts at editing, as each vignette is written in a different tense. It has ended up being written this way for effect. Before editing the draft was so disjointed that every paragraph was told in a different way, and the story was not grouped into sections, making it confusing and not a story. My story is now held together by the following structure:
1: Part 1: The Boy:
Past Tense as it is time long gone. It is in 3rd person narrative to give the sense of a wiser person observing the child’s development and foreshadowing the danger.
2: Assignment 1: Project Prague
This is in present tense, and 1st person narrative to show Christopher’s personal perspective and deep engagement in his assignment.
Assignment 2: Russian Roulette
As above.
3: Part 2: The Adolescent
Past tense is used as it is time long gone. 1st person narrative is used to show the teenagers response to a situation that blows out of control and for which he is unfairly blamed. This part is important in showing how he begins to mistrust authority and organisations.
4: Assignment 3: The Chinese Gun Seller
This is in present tense. It is 1st person narrative to show Christopher’s huge potential to destroy for his own purposes.
4: Assignment 4: New York, the End of the Line
Present tense, 1st person to show he is tiring.
5: Part 5: The Man
1st person narrative to emphasise the protagonists sense of hopelessness and his perspective of what it is like to be observed compared to Part 1 where we saw him through the eyes of the nameless observer.
6: Epilogue
The epilogue leaves the reader with an uncomfortable sense that the protagonist has that the protagonist has not found peace yet, and he has not found peace yet, and the may continue.
He knew that winter was on the way. It was from past experience that he sat where he did, watching the birds on the lake. Strange the swans don’t migrate with winter so close, he thought.
“I will get you a Swan in time for Christmas.”
For days he had sat there, not moving, just watching, examining the swans, interpreting their moves and immersing himself in their world. And the old man watched the boy as he did this, from his perch amid nature. He examined how the boy moved, trying to interpret what he thought, trying to work him out. And then one day the boy brought an axe with him. As the icy breath of winter arrived, he waded into the river, unafraid, to where the last swan still swam. Delicately he killed it. The blood slowly flowed to create a pattern in the crystal white lake. The old man didn’t even flinch, and the boy went back home for Christmas. After all, it was not unusual to see a young lad wade out to kill a swan.
“I have the swan for you. It is a gift to thank you for giving me a home.”
Assignment 1: Project Prague“The taste of human flesh is an acquired one, Mr. Sullivan”
“What the hell are you playing at?”
“I’ve already told you.”
“The authorities will catch you! My bodyguards have probably alerted all the authorities between here and the next county!”
“You clearly have placed trust in this fabricated society, its lies intricately woven together by media and corporations such as yours…”
“What the hell are you on about? You’re clearly a loony! What with – breaking into my house at night, ranting on about – God knows what! Stories about destroying society and –“
“Simply the changing of, Mr. Sullivan.”
“and, and, and… brandishing that weapon… For God’s sake! Get some sense into you!”
“Oh, but I have. Have you not observed contempary society, riddled with its lies and fat-cat owners? It’s like a sheep paddock, Mr. Sullivan. The dog and farmer representing the Government and corporations, the sheep the carefully controlled minds of the people.”
“Where are you getting this from? Do you belong to some cult of wackos? Are you some kind of extremist…. Religious extremists maybe? What the hell do you mean by corporations and the government controlling the minds of the…”
“You’ve said it yourself. You’ve put it into practice. You helped start the cycle, dear Sullivan. Now, my dear, loyal Sullivan, all this talking has worked up my appetite. Thank you.”
The body of a man lies motionless on the floor, a trickle of blood flowing down from the slit in his Adams-apple. Shame, I think, before removing the man’s index finger.
I walk down a narrow hall, past the children’s bedrooms. For the briefest of seconds I consider bringing one along for breakfast, but decide against it. Enough bloodshed in one night. After all, I do have their arms and legs. They died in their own blood, both barely eight. I look upon their once white sheets, now a stark contrast, covered in deep crimson, youthful blood. The house seems so much more barren. My assignment is complete.
Assignment 2: Russian Roulette
In a decrepit building in a run down, empty city, a car pulls up. The wind howls through broken windows, a man pulls a body out of a car, dragging the misshapen figure into a shadowed alleyway between two crumbling houses. There is no warmth in the area, no signs of love or life, just decay.
“Who the hell are you?”
“That’s another finger gone, Mr. James. I’m sure you wouldn’t like to lose anymore? Or should I cut to the chase and get straight to the limbs? Your choice.”
“I’ll listen.” he stammers.
“No. You’ll answer, you’ll relate information to me, you’ll tell me what I want to know.”
“Ask away, big boy.”
My knife swipes down, removing his right hand.
“F***! Oh f***.... what the hell was that for you psychopath!”
“So, we have a smart-arse in the ranks...”
“Fine, I’ll answer... just... just how do I stop the blood flow? Please..... help me...”
“So now you turn to the psychopath for help? Amusing. Remove your shirt and wrap it tightly around that stub of yours. Wrap it up real good now, we wouldn’t want you to die now, would we?”
“Talk to me. Let me see if I can give you anything of use.”
“Why does your Corporation continue to pollute? Why do you continue to enslave child labourers? Why do you show no integrity in business, your business?”
I stare into the embers of a dying fire. I have lost track of time, but I am acutely aware of the goings on around me. I am one with all in this dark space. All things make sense. This fire is my epiphany. I remember the faces of dying victims. You can always tell the strong from the cowards. Feeling the warmth of it on my face and let loose the demons of my life. Suddenly bright, white lights explode into view. Surely the drugs are kicking in now. Dear God, everything seems so surreal, so fake. Let me pass out, slip into the darkness of surrealism, falseness…. nothing.... slipping away knowing that my assignment is complete.
Part 2: The Adolescent
If I’m was so wonderful, then why was I so misunderstood? I sat outside the Principal’s office, poising myself to appear as if I didn’t care, but in reality an internal battle raged, one where I was fighting guilt and fear. Fear and guilt about what? I was not sure I can answer this, but I had the general idea. I guess the teacher I’d somehow insulted felt I was a smart-arse, or fears that I was smarter than him. Whichever one, I know I shouldn’t have provoked him, I know I shouldn’t have kept asking the kind of questions that come across as being a smart arse. And now I had the price to pay. The price to pay for trying to ‘engage in the activities in an intellectual manner’. I hoped they liked that precise wording, because I hadn’t come up with anything else yet.
The thick wooden door opened to a dishevelled principle. Anger fought compassion on his twist of a face.
“You can come in now, Christopher.”
I hated it when teachers said your full birth name. I mean, what was the point? Did they not know that it’s a warning sign telling students that something dreadful is about to happen?
“Coming, Sir…”
I rose silently, my face downcast. I walked over, stiffly, rigidly, silently and accepted the invitation in from His Majesty’s gesturing arm to seat myself in a overstuffed leather chair. Out of the corner of my eyes, I noticed my teacher. First reaction, what a wanker….. Second reaction, holycrapwhatamIdoinghereohmyGodIshouldn’tbeheredon ’tthinkthatyoudeservetobeherenoIdon’tjuststicktoth eplanyou’llbealright……
“Now, you know why you’ve been called in, don’t you Christopher?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good, then shall we begin?”
He glanced at my teacher, then at me. He seemed sad and bored at yet another whinging teacher and having to deal with another teen kid who thought he was cool.
And so the lecture begins. Yelling from two sources, well, professional yelling - one must keep one’s composure during arguments. Bunch of losers. I couldn’t stand that crap. “….and you understand how important education is?....”
“….privileged to go to a school like North Woods…..throwing it all way….”
“……poor teacher here trying to educate you…..”
This time the words don’t fade out, I just start laughing. Hysterical laughter, welling up from nowhere inside, but flowering to life in a series of deep guffaws.
I guess it’s funny in a way, ‘poor teacher trying to educate you’, what a load of bull crap. I started laughing hard again, aware of their curious, frustrated glances. They didn’t stop me, rather they waited patiently, readying a new assault. Bewildered, insulted and angered the teachers tried to recuperate from this ‘shocker of a kid’, and tried a different tack.
“You do realise how serious this is, don’t you, Christopher?”
“Sir, I have a funny quote.”
“Chris, we don’t have time…” his voice sounded strained.
“It goes a bit like this, it’s funny, you’ll see, just try picture this, “Sorry Sir,”
‘No – you’re not sorry.” I started laughing again. I found the quote humorous, but they didn’t see the joke in it.
Actually, looking at his face closely, I noticed how livid it had become. It was ghost white, the tendons in his neck look strained. The veins were bulging underneath his pasty skin, that looked paper thin. I thought was a bad joke, or he was deep in thought, and then I realised he was not breathing. His eyes look dilated, distant and…. lonely. I realised something was amiss, and instantly survival instincts kicked in. Thinking he was going to have a seizure, I jumped over his desk, took him by the chest, siphoned him out of his seat and transferred him to the floor.
“Chris! What do you think you’re doing?” screamed my teacher, before going into momentary shock. Meanwhile, I was groping through the piles on his desk, searching for a phone, a mobile, anything that I could call an ambulance with. My Principal seemed to shudder into silence.
“Chris…. Oh Jesus… oh.... What the hell did you do to him?” my teacher yelled. Typical, I thought, of a teacher. Go into shock, then try to make sense of the issue, then shift the blame onto the student to save your own skin and dodge taking responsibility. Fair. Fair? How could I be thinking these thoughts while my Principal was potentially dying?
Realising there was no phone, I panicked. At least my breath came out calmly, unlike my babbling teacher, who was standing beside the Principal echoing white noise and wringing his hands uselessly. I almost laughed, but didn’t. The idea of using my own mobile phone struck me. My hand slammed into my left pocket, then my other. As realisation dawned that I left my phone back in my locker. I panicked. I was running out of options….
I was on the floor, almost on top of the Principal, searching his pockets for a phone. Finding none, and realising that my last, most dreaded, option had come into play, I looked at my numb teacher.
“Do you have a phone?”
“….stupid boy… get off him…. What?”
“Dammit, do you have a phone?”
“uhh…”
“Hurry up, we don’t have forever!”
“Ye…. Yes, yes I do”
I enjoyed substituting roles, me playing teacher, him student.
“Give it here, please”, I grimaced at him, politely.
His hand shock violently as he reluctantly handed it over.
“Thank you..... hypocritical bastard....”
Calling the ambulance, trying to calm down the teacher, fighting the fear for my dying, or dead, Principal. Another teacher has heard the noises, and joined in on the fun. The secretary had burst through the door, seen the teacher in turmoil, seen me next to the Principal, assumed the worst and called the cops, as well as alerted all the staff. An alarm rang out, breaking the claustrophobic silence, the stifling stillness. The alarm punctures the air, and broke the monotonous hand wringing of the shocked teacher.
I thought of it as a twisted song. The sad sounds of shocked teachers were my bass, the alarm my shrieking guitar. That thought comforted me. I must have looked out of place in the scene of terror. That’s what I believe the police officer thought anyway, that’s why I think everyone was giving me distasteful looks as I was carted away from the Principals office and bundled into a police car.
Next I was sitting behind a metal desk, in a concealed back room of the brick building. The room was dim, with hazy light snaking through slit curtains. The room’s silent, atmosphere was tense. I was scared, nervous and anxious. I felt fear, sick and worry. I’d always wondered what it would be like to be taken away by a police car. Now that I’ve experienced it, I realise how stupid the thought was. I suddenly felt like a coward rather than a hero, as I imagined it’d be like.
It seemed I’d been waiting for hours, when a very serious man entered through a small, misleading door. I instantly felt a wave of fear, mixed with a strange sense of calm. He was carrying something in a grey briefcase. He sat on a cold metal chair and lit a cigarette. The smoke swirled into funny patterns as it rose through the stale air. I coughed, and he rolled up his sleeves. For a minute we sat in silence. His eyes met mine occasionally. He was trying to suss me out.
Eventually he peered into his briefcase, and pulled out a yellow tinged folder. He slid the folder gently across the smooth table. I stared down at it, uncertain what to make of it. He grimaced, then said, “Open it.”
I stared back at him for a minute, as if trying to dismantle the individual syllables of the sentence and make of them what I wanted. I must have seemed scared, so he needed his head approvingly as I placed my hand on it. I turned the folder, to find, staring up at me through dead eyes, a photo of my Principal.
I cringed, leaned backwards, then opened my sorry eyes to clarify what was looking at. My wretched heart beat heavily, as if also crying out tears of grief. And suddenly emotions like I’d never felt before, so strong and uncontrollable, overtook me. For a few minutes I was a shattered wreck, heaving my grief upon the stark table between the cop and myself.
“You killed him. At least the evidence suggests it.” His voice broke the darkness.
“I didn’t.” My voice was as small and pathetic as my teacher’s had been. “I didn’t kill him...”
“You put a fully qualified teacher into a medical ward. When authorities arrived, you were the closest to the body, your hands covered in his blood. Our evidence shows your fingermarks all over the body... and you were smiling...”
“I swear I didn’t kill him!”
“How old are you, son?”
Sigh.
“What’s your name?”
“You probably already know the answer to those questions.”
He cracked a rugged smiled.
“Do you live with your parents? Or with an aunt or uncle or guardian?”
“I was adopted. I live with guardians.”
“What’s your phone number?”
“You’re a cop! Surely with your resources you already know that!”
“And I do.”
“Then what’s the point! What’s the point? What’s the goddamned point anymore?” I start crying again, and slowly everything fades to black.
Assignment 3: The Chinese Gun Seller
“You sold me a gun, Yorick, which doesn’t f***ing work. You sold me a faulty gun!” I scream into the dog’s face. I look him over, hold him close as he squirms in my hand. I hold the faulty pistol in the other hand.
“I want my money back!” I growl. I shove him, the shifty Chinese gun seller, into the mud at my feet. He looks terrified. His family, who help him at his dingy stall, look on in fear. The rain leaps in torrents to the ground.
“Get me my money,” I order.
And the bastard tries to run. I chase after him, dodging past stores and people, leaping over the trail he leaves me. I catch him by tripping up his feet, a look of sheer terror imprints his round face. I start beating him, until his eyes are bruised, nose and jaws broken, and blood streams down from his temple. Nobody tries to intervene; either they know who I am, or they abide by the one rule of the slums: don’t mess with anyone, keep to your own business to yourself.
I slam my fist into his stomach as he breathes his last, and then withdraw his filthy wallet. I examine his I.D.: 47 years old, 4 kids, moved from Eastern China to Western Russia 20 years ago for economic reasons (the lie makes me laugh), member of the Red Faction, married for over 15 years. I take the hundred or so dollars I payed for the gun, then leave the corpse to rot. You see, I follow one code. It’s kept me alive on the numerous missions that I’ve been sent on. As well as that, it’s allowed me to kill, and keep killing, without a second thought.
Alas, poor Yorick is dead. But my own assignment is complete.
Assignment 4: New York, the End of Line
I’m Godless. How can there be a God in a hole like earth? The code is simple, yet is the key to survival. Kill, or be killed. Shoot, or be shot. Survive, or die. Lie, or be deceived. Don’t touch the fruit, or be banished. I lose myself in the crowds coming to buy weapons sold on the black market. Some sold by members of Factions, or territory controlled by Factions. There are even corporations which help produce weapons for anti-government Factions. There is a market for everything here.
My journey takes me from Prague to Russia, and then through the swarming, stinking bowls that is the mass called Asia. From Asia I caught a decommissioned nuclear submarine to the National Glacier Park and Reserve in Alaska, en-route to New York.
Once I’ve infiltrated New York City, I set up to do business, to kill my last target. To end the trail of dead and bleeding breadcrumbs that littered my path. The only problem is, the previous targets only led up to the last one. I would not have known where to look if I hadn’t killed the others and if I didn’t kill the last one, then half a billion dead people, the largest section of the free world would lay in ruins, lay on my conscious.
The final target was a weapon, a biological weapon designed to neutralise over massive distances. In effect, by the target being set off via a remote detonation, the sway of the war between numerous Factions, social groups, the way corporations operated, who owned what, sold what and bought what, the battle between the free and enslaved world, the very essence of survival would change.
I have been hired to eliminate the threat. If I succeed my plan is to stay in the free world; retire to farmland, away from the plaque of injustice.
You know, you’re going to run out of luck one day, my conscious speaks out. Besides, you can assassinate the person, or disrupt the peace of peoples for a while, but you cannot assassinate the martyr you make of them. You can never completely kill off the icon they become. And I block that part of my mind and concentrate on readying myself for the killing.
Three hours later, the third, and hopefully the last, target is entering his hotel room. I’ve situated myself in a hotel on the other side of the road, in a room which looks straight into his penthouse. I feel the chilly night air against the exposed part of my face, and feel a slight breeze working up, but nothing too drastic to change the operation. Attached to my chest, hidden by a bulky jacket, are two leather straps. Connected to one is a small knife, the blade to eliminate the target.
I wait until he’s readying himself to take a shower or bath, then exit my building I’m in, and walk around the block, to diver any curiosity sparked my unusual activities. As I round the first corner, I stop at a small cafe. I order hot coffee, and sit at a window booth. Some former customer, or consumer, has left a newspaper on the table.
The headlines broadcast havoc, the main stories narrating death and destruction. Many about my killings, but the media and corporations do not know it is my handiwork. How can they ever? Besides, in the very next day or so will they find the next body, with no clues attached for hungry authorities.
I down the coffee, head around the other side of the block. Turning the last corner, I make my way to the hotel my target is in. From the knowledge I’ve garnered by watching and scrutinising his every move over the previous few days, I expect he’s relaxing in a hot tub.
I blend inconspicuously amongst the people in the lobby who are coming and going. The only thing that sets me apart from the crowd is that I don’t approach the front desk, rather heading towards an elevator. I punch in my destination, and tiredly wait. Mentally, I prepare myself. Once I’ve reached the floor, I head for the only door on this level, the door to the Penthouse. Scrutinising the door handle to room 612, I realise how useless his attempt at locking the door has been.
Once inside the Penthouse, I evaluate my surroundings. I’ve seen this place before, and already know my way to the spa. Just straight ahead, then right past the kitchen into another room and there it is. Heading along the passages quietly, trying not to make a sound. I hear the target relaxing in his spa. I can feel the steamy water on my cold skin, and smell the stink of sweat and grime of stress and life; a sweet odour. These ingredients mixed create a sour taste, I gather, from the way my target sobs subconsciously.
I withdraw my knife from the concealment of my attire. The knife glints in the light. The man’s eyes are closed and his head is facing the other way. His body is relaxed, lazily spread out beneath the dull water. I inch my way towards him, a crooked smile surfacing on my crooked face. I take satisfaction in watching men die, I take satisfaction in watching them struggle for survival. I also like to toy with my prey.
I aim my blade for his bald head. I cut a clean line, not too deep so as to give him brain damage, but deep enough to cut into the complicated ventricles and blood flow located in the head. He lurches forward in surprise, and screams as the blood seeps into his swollen eyes. It’s gives strange contentment to watch a man become blinded by his own blood. It’s joyous to watch a dying man squeal, a member of the capitalist pig society squirm.
I slash up and down his arms; I rip into his soft middle section, and slice into his exposed body. The clean water turns a sickly red. The man I’ve killed has died slowly and painfully. I turn to leave, knowing that there was no reason to interrogate him. And then a sickly beeping starts up. Why is it beeping? I killed him! Realisation hits, the virus trapped in him triggered when he died. I start running. I have failed, and now I have to get out of the country. I have failed my assignment, but with due diligence.
Part 5: The Man
Mad cackling laughter escaped my lips. The walls surrounding me seemed to rattle and nurses rushed in. Bodies consumed me, pinning me down to the soft floor. A dishevelled doctor arrived, his demeanour indicating the lateness of the hour. He came from a hallway which was dark. One light shone, and from it I could see his eyes, red and dark rimmed, and his face a swirl of panic and depression. As he strode in, his footsteps echoing in the dark hall behind, a metallic object appears in his right hand. It glinted in the dim light, making my laughter more hysterical than before, and then it pierced my body and injected its drug.
The bushes and thickets had grown lush. The birds sang happily, winter was on its way out. The old willow tree by the river bowed down in testimony to its age. The slow creaking of aged boughs, mixed with the lively rushing of water sounded. The air tasted sweet. My thoughts were deadly. The thoughts were grey and dismal. They did not taste sweet, they tasted dry, tasted of tears and death and destruction. Tasted of torment, physical, emotional. Tasted of nothing, yet everything. The thoughts were bitter. It was a realm of wisdom, yet chaos. And everything outside was affected by the inside, and everything inside born out of the outside. It was turmoil, suffering, quiet, peaceful. It was a blank page, a filled up page. It was sad and happy. It was the difference between heaven and hell, but neither one nor the other. It was what made, defined and informed me. It was the reason one would cry out in his sleep. It was creation. Yet in this creation where was there anyone for me? Where were my own real parents? Where I was brought to by the agitated talking above me?
Epilogue
“What do you think he’s thinking, doctor?”
“I don’t like to think about what goes on in his head”
We stare ahead solidly, watching him watching us, running a normal diagnostics test. I know the thought is crazy, but then why do I feel shivers go down my spine every time I lay eyes upon him? The wall is one way. I can observe him, he can’t see me. Except this knowledge is riddled with flaws, ultimately contradicted, when you see how he smiles as you turn your gaze on him, how he sometimes follows us with his eyes, sometimes his whole head, when we move.
“He’s watching us.... he knows too much... he knows we’re here....”
“And?”
My Thoughts:
This story was originally done for a school project.
The end product of my story is a string of 5 vignettes. The story is divided into 5 separate parts, which when made whole tells the story of the main characters life. I divided the story in this way so that it is no longer disjointed, rather an actual story, yet narrative in style. This style required many attempts at editing, as each vignette is written in a different tense. It has ended up being written this way for effect. Before editing the draft was so disjointed that every paragraph was told in a different way, and the story was not grouped into sections, making it confusing and not a story. My story is now held together by the following structure:
1: Part 1: The Boy:
Past Tense as it is time long gone. It is in 3rd person narrative to give the sense of a wiser person observing the child’s development and foreshadowing the danger.
2: Assignment 1: Project Prague
This is in present tense, and 1st person narrative to show Christopher’s personal perspective and deep engagement in his assignment.
Assignment 2: Russian Roulette
As above.
3: Part 2: The Adolescent
Past tense is used as it is time long gone. 1st person narrative is used to show the teenagers response to a situation that blows out of control and for which he is unfairly blamed. This part is important in showing how he begins to mistrust authority and organisations.
4: Assignment 3: The Chinese Gun Seller
This is in present tense. It is 1st person narrative to show Christopher’s huge potential to destroy for his own purposes.
4: Assignment 4: New York, the End of the Line
Present tense, 1st person to show he is tiring.
5: Part 5: The Man
1st person narrative to emphasise the protagonists sense of hopelessness and his perspective of what it is like to be observed compared to Part 1 where we saw him through the eyes of the nameless observer.
6: Epilogue
The epilogue leaves the reader with an uncomfortable sense that the protagonist has that the protagonist has not found peace yet, and he has not found peace yet, and the may continue.