Christmas at the Maratzzos

If you haven’t been to Christmas at the Maratzzos, then you haven’t been at any Christmas at all.

Indeed, it was a splendid gathering for a splendid time of year. Often while purchasing supplies for the party, members of the Maratzzo blood would look upon other shoppers and silently look down at them with condescending glares, knowing that their Christmas get-together could not even come close to one that has been in esteemed practice for the past one hundred years.

However, this year all members of the Maratzzos knew it would be much different. It was not too long ago that Joseph Maratzzo, son of Don Maratzzo and next in line to be patriarch of the family, was released from the state prison. It was some time ago that Joseph raped and murdered a 14 year old girl of the bank of the Philamabury river. He was caught almost immediately, and was originally set to be sentenced to thirty years; however, lucky for him, Joseph’s father knew many people in the state legal system and his sentence was reduced to six.

Despite this, it wasn’t Joseph’s crime that was the problem. The Maratzzos have had a long history of running bad into the law – perhaps almost as long as their Christmas tradition – and so Joseph’s behavior could be easily excused. What was the real problem was Analissa Maratzzo, sister of Joseph, who for quite a few years now had been indoctrinated into a fledgling feminist movement. Analissa had known about Joseph’s felony and asked the family multiple times for him to not only be declined an invitation to the Christmas party, but also to be exiled from the family altogether – two punishments that carried much the same weight. Of course her pleas had fallen upon deaf ears, and eerily in the weeks coming up to the fateful Christmas gathering she had suddenly gone silent. Now was the night.

The first to arrive were cousins Pesco and Maribel. Pesco was a good friend of Joseph’s – their history extended much before Joseph’s prison sentence, and they in fact kept up their relationship via regular prison meetings. Maribel, born Maribel Shaufter, had been indoctrinated into the Maratzzos via marriage, and by this point had become used to their ways. She, much like Pesco, Don, and Don’s wife Maria, believed Joseph to actually be innocent, despite overwhelming evidence otherwise.

Ironically, the one person who believed this evidence was the next to show. Analissa came slung on the arms of her own boyfriend, Monticello, a hippy man from the west that her parents despised. Analissa herself said nothing off suspicion – in fact, she even gave her cousin Pesco a hug when she first saw him, which had always been seen as out of the ordinary, and likely the first hit that something was wrong.

After this followed some brief time where the family all got together in the living room to talk amongst one another. Monticello was introduced to Maribel by Analissa – though beyond that, she hardly said a word. Maria had thought to bring up Analissa’s disfavor towards Joseph multiple times, but continually decided against it. This all lead up to Joseph’s ultimate arrival.

He came with no one. He wore a fresh suit with a mahogany tie. His father was the first to greet him – then his mother, who embraced him with a warm hug. All this time Analissa stayed in the living room, never moving, waiting along until everyone else had finally gone into the dining room. She followed.

It was only when everyone finally settled that Don realized something was wrong. He turned toward Analissa to his right and in a gruff tone asked where Monticello was.

Analissa shrugged. “No idea, pa. Probably out having a smoke.”

“We’re about to have dinner and he’s out back having a smoke?”

“I’m not his mom.”

“I’m not saying you are, but he needs to be here. Go get his ass back.”

Joseph, who was aware of his sister’s distaste for him, perhaps tried to remedy the situation by siding with her and calming his father down. “I’m sure it won’t take him too long. Let’s just start now, alright?”

As agitated as Don was, he couldn’t help agreeing with his favorite son. And yet, as dinner went on, Monticello continued to be absent. By the end of the dinner, both Don and Maria seemed completely agitated. While they were distracted, Analissa tapped on Joseph and Pesco, who were sitting together.

“Can I talk to you both, for a bit? In private.”

Pesco knew what was coming, though perhaps Joseph was a bit more ignorant. Though Pesco tried to convince his cousin not to go through with it, Analissa had rushed them just enough that Pesco had no time to do it. And so the three made their way to the garage.

Perhaps a more romantic writer would say that, in the end, Joseph got what he deserved. But I am not a romantic – I, in all honesty, am more of a realist, and can say with complete certainty that Joseph Pescetti Maratzzo spent his last moments on Earth choking on a mixture of lead, vomit, and his own blood.

Pesco squirmed back into a corner while Analissa held the gun shakily in her hand.

“What the fuck, are you crazy? What are you thinking?” Pesco no longer seemed to have the mental stability to bargain with his captor. Though, as it appeared, Analissa herself didn’t quite know what to do either.

“I’m doing exactly what needs to be done, Pesco. I know injustice when I see it. I’m sorry you couldn’t see it the same way.”

Time stopped as Pesco looked for an out. In a quick and desperate leap he dashed toward the button to open the garage in hopes that he could get out just before Analissa could get a clear shot. Yet, as the door opened, he realized what was really going on.

The opened garage revealed Monticello in his black pickup. Analissa hopped on, though not without giving some last words to her cousin.

“I’ll be watching you and this family. Don’t try to pull any shit like this again, or I’ll know.”

By the time everyone else had come to investigate the noise from the garage, Analissa and her boyfriend were long gone. Don and Maria loomed and sobbed over the corpse of their once renowned son. One thing was for sure – Christmas would never be the same.

Bluesnake Lake

The boy met the girl on the rooftop of the Best Inn at the outskirts of the city, just as they had planned. It was peculiar – not many times, at least from what the boy could count, did she come before him. But this wasn’t like any other time. This time, the boy’s heart thumped irrhythmically. The only other time it had done that was when he saw her for the first time.

He sat next to her on the edge, overlooking a good portion of the city in front of them. At first, they didn’t speak. The boy offered his hand on the cement between them, and she took it. Her hand was small, and soft to the touch. He softly caressed it with his thumb, just as his mother had once done, when he was a child – when he came crying to her and she would let the boy put his head in her chest and put her hand atop his head and caress it, ever so gently, and it would calm the boy. It was one of the things he remembered from being a kid, and he hoped to apply it. He applied it that night.

“Talk to me. About anything.” He didn’t look at her, nor did she look at him – they just kept their hands interlocked, not firmly grasped but restfully handled.

“It just… it still hurts. It hurts and I don’t know who I can tell about it. I normally wouldn’t put this pressure on you, but… I just don’t know what to do.”

The boy had woken up that morning well-rested and a little complacent. It was only an hour after he had woken up, when he was still up reading the news and sipping at french roast, that he got the text from his childhood friend saying she was raped. In a few ways, he anticipated it – he never liked her boyfriend, and made it clear to at any point he could. The three used to go out, along with a group of separate friends, but the feud between the boy and the boyfriend continued to such an extreme that it was clear one of them had to be removed from the outing. The girl chose to bring her boyfriend.

In a vain and abhorrent way, he even wanted it to happen – not out of any sort of vain jealousy, but based on the fact that as the years went on the boy and the girl’s relationship began to dwindle from the peak it had reached during four years before. They say that the ultimate test of a friendship is its length, but the boy would tell you otherwise – it seemed that the longer things went the more distant the two became. He needed something to bring her back to him, and for them to rekindle their friendship. He believed that an incident of this proportion could have her consoling him first, and as it turned out, he was right. He quickly texted back, telling her to come to the roof of the Best Inn alone that night. Hours passed, and here they were.

“I know it hurts,” He replied back, never making eye contact. “I tried, but… I couldn’t figure out any useful advice to give you. I just want you to know that… I’m here for you. I really am.”

“I should have listened to you,” she kept in her tears, “I never should have done that to you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Now his eyes diverted, and he began to look at her figure. Her head was tilted down, and her eyes were shrouded by long black hair, that seemed to hide her emotions and describe them at the same time. “No, don’t. Don’t bother being sorry. The last thing you need to feel right now is guilt. None of this… none of it was your fault.” Rain began to fall, but only sprinklets. A car alarm went off somewhere in the northeast. “Maybe… maybe you could talk to your mother about it. She’d help you.”

The girl used her free arm to rest her chin on. “She really liked him. Plus, you know, my relationship with her hasn’t been the best. Not anymore.”

“So? She has unconditional positive regard for you, you know she does. All mothers do.”

“Unconditional positive regard is bullshit. You know that.” A tear streamed down her face, but under the shroud the boy could not see it.

The boy didn’t have any reply after that. He had spent so much time hyping up this moment for himself, and now there was nothing. What could he say? What was there to say? At some point the rain began to fall just a bit harder, hard enough that both of them, who had worn jackets due to the cold weather, put their hoodies up to stop the pit-pattering of the rain from getting on them. A useless exercise, to a certain extent. But after all – what now?

Finally, the boy spoke back up.

“I guess… since you trusted this whole thing with me, maybe this would be the good time to tell the secret I kept from you, wouldn’t it? To make things fair.”

She looked over at him, faint curiosity glowing from her eyes yet suffocated by her traumatized indifference. Thought she looked him in the eyes, he could not tell she had been crying. Rain and tears look the same. He continued anyway.

“I already told you I had social anxiety. You know that. Hell, everyone knows that. But, back then... they told me something else in the diagnosis. They wanted to address my apathy, since that’s not common among people with social phobia… and he told me – they told me – that I also was antisocial. They called me a medically-defined psychopath.”

She looked at him like she wasn’t even surprised. He went on.

“They told me I had to get special treatment for that… that I had to go to a facility to get help. I knew what they meant by that, so I ran. I told them that I needed to go to the bathroom, and just walked out of there. They tried to contact me on my phone, but I blocked the number. I mean… what else was I going to do? I knew I was different, I could just never pinpoint it. I told you that countless times. And yet that whole thing was such a long time ago, but I can’t help thinking about how… how it…”

He looked out upon city lights and sounds off in the distance. The hotel roof was far from the downtown center, yet the faint dim of activity still held its place within the symptoms. After taking a brie moment of contemplation, the boy’s story reached its finale.

“It makes sense. All of it. That’s the real reason I’ve had so much trouble with others. Why I’ve had so much trouble with you, and with your friends, and with… with everyone. I was thinking, a couple of nights ago, back about Bluesnake Lake… and I can honestly say I’ve never really felt that about anyone else. That… level of compassion. I’ve always hated everyone. Just hate. Hate, hate, hate. But that was never the same with you. That’s why I’ve known you for so long, and we’ve been friends for… That’s, I mean, that’s it.”

He looked on the face of his companion for some sort of equally passionate reply, but there was none. At some point her hand had slipped out of his and she began to thumb nervously in her lap. She looked down below to the floor of the hotel, where during this speech a Latino man had begun to sweep up some beer vomit from the parking lot. But make no mistake – she had listened. She heard everything.

“Well?” The boy asked, masking the desperate strain he felt. The girl finally spoke up.

“Well, what?”

“Well, I mean, don’t you have something to say?” The boy accidentally choked, and it became apparent his tone was out of frustration, even though he meant to hide it like so many times before.

“I… I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what you want to hear.”

“I just want to hear… what you felt. I want to know your reaction. I don’t care what it is, I just… want something. Anything. Please.”

But she didn’t respond.

“You… you remember Bluesnake Lake, right?”

No response.

“You do, don’t you? Late during the night I’d leave my cabin with the guys and sneak into yours. We’d hide under the covers and just… read. We had to keep our voices down, and I remember… I remember we almost got caught because we were laughing so hard, and one of the aides came by the hall to see what the hell was going on. It was one of the most frightening moments of my life-” he laughed “-and it seemed like one of yours too. Anyway, we’d do that for an hour or so, then I’d get back up and sneak back to my cabin. But on the last night, one of us had the idea – I think it was you – to go down to the docks to watch the stars. But the docks were closed, so we just went to the shore instead. We slept together on the shore that night. I woke up that morning and you had your head on my chest, and I had my arm around you, and I realized for the first time… for the first time ever… that I didn’t have any regrets about our friendship anymore. I didn’t regret always knowing you but never quite getting anywhere with it. I didn’t regret the fact you always seemed to choose other friends over me. I didn’t regret the fact that in middle school I fell in love with you but you were busy with other guys. Everything just felt… felt right. And I felt at peace.”

Of course she remembered Bluesnake Lake. But she didn’t feel the same way. She did remember it… and in a lot of ways she did look back fondly on the experience… but none of that meant anything anymore. Because now the girl had understood the real reason he responded to her text that morning.

So that’s why when he asked if she remembered any of it, she shook her head, and his heart was broken.

“Fine. I just…” The boy now didn’t bother hiding his frustration with the girl. Tears merged with the rain, for both of them. “...I just, just, whatever. I don’t… Fine. I don’t have anything else to say. I’m sorry. I don’t. I… hope you feel better.”

He got up and went back down the service stairway, and the girl was alone again. Under her breath, she mentioned something harshly about men – “They’re all the same.” But it wasn’t men she was thinking about.

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Twitter: @CodexofAegis
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Old World Blues

There’s a saying back from where I’m from – Old World Blues.

It’s used to describe a person who’s so stuck within the past that they can’t seem to see through anything else. I remember that’s what I was thinking about that summer morning. The Old World Blues.

I opened up the shop early, not out of necessity or desire but simply out of convenience. When I drove down that morning I had just happen to arrive a few minutes early, and instead of waiting it out I felt I should just open it up instead.

Private detective work doesn’t get too many customers – at least not on a daily basis. Standard investigations usually last two to three months, padded by small moments of hiatus in between. This was one of them. My last investigation – with which I can’t recall the details of – had ended a few days before. Now, I sat, waiting, thinking about those Old World Blues.

It was two minutes before the office usually opened that I heard a knock. The sound scared me, because I had grown so accustomed to later day calls – not early morning visits – that I forgot about the possibility. I had expected it to be some delivery man ready to give me a package that had been coming a few days late. What I ended up getting wasn’t that at all.

The woman at the other end of the door was clearly in some mix of distress and depression. I thought her to be on the older side, though that could’ve just been due to the stress in her eyes. It was clear that she didn’t choose me first – she had seen a couple of other agencies and all of them had declined. I’ve seen that look of desperation before. It worried me – most of the time when I’m not the first call it’s because they asked for too much, which is usually much more than I myself can handle. And yet the woman had a sort of urgency to her, and urgency that lead me to want to at least humor her in case.

“You’re here a bit early.” I told her, pointing to the Business Hours sign out front.

“Oh, I’m sorry… It looked like the lights were on.”

“Well they’re certainly on now,” I beckoned her, “Come on in.”

Either of us had barely gotten seated when she began her story. From the beige letter bag she had at her side she pulled out a folder, slightly worn, with the slightest dab of a coffee stain on its front center and filled to the brim with what I could only assume she was about to tell me.

“Listen, I’ve contacted a lot of place about this, but… My daughter is missing – she has been for a long time, you see – And I just-”

“Cold case?”

She stuttered. “W-what?”

“Has the official investigation ceased?”

“I mean, yes, but-”

“Sorry, I don’t follow through with cold cases.”

Already I could see her frustration boiling back up once more. She knew exactly what I meant – she had heard it many times before. But she was hoping I wouldn’t have said the same. Now, I did; and she came back to that ever present state. “What? Why?”

I got out my cigarette holder from amongst a pile of old scans, pulling out a very specific card – the only yellow one in the bunch, an old aged Japanese Musumi. They had always given me an age in heated negotiations. And so I lit it.“They’re dead ends. Nothing anyone can do about it. That’s just the painful truth.”

“Could you just… just listen to what I have to say? Please?”

The Musumi always works. Always did work, I should say… but Old World Blues was still on the mind. I struggled to resist the force that had already overtaken me. Following her up, giving her more hope – it was a mistake. But I couldn’t help it. The air was too thick with the scent of cigarette smoke and mystery. I had thought about my own life… the own mysteries I had experienced, as well as the closures I hadn’t. I decided it was time to break the rules.

“Alright, give me the foundations.”

Her eyes perked up. She was never able to convince anyone else. She began: “We were on a trip… we stopped, at a hotel not too far from here, just the two of us. There wasn’t anyone else there, not from what I could see. We got our room together, got ready and went to bed. Last thing I said to her before I dozed off… she was playing with her tablet, and I told her to get to bed or else she’d be tired in the morning. She nodded to me, and I turned and fell asleep. The next morning...”

“She was gone?”

“Yes. Out of nowhere. Tablet and everything was still there. The bed looked fine too… looked like she had just gotten out of bed and never came back.” The nameless woman began to quiver to herself under the recalling of events passed.

“Did you not hear anything during the night? Like her getting out of bed, anything?”

“I heard the bed ricket – her getting out of bed, I think – but nothing else.” The guilt that weighed her down was clear. I felt a tinge of sympathy; but I had seen and heard of many worse cases before, and my empathetic thought had been sanded down by so many years of hearing the same dreadful things over and over again.

“Did you hear the door open or close?”

“No. I heard nothing.”

“And what did the official investigation come up with?”

“That she must have wandered off during the night, or worse… someone got her. I… I just want to see my daughter again, that’s all.” I could feel the mood dampening even lower. She began to shed a tear.

“How long ago did this happen?”

“Not… not long. Almost exactly five days since.”

I thought about it. I thought about the case, and about the mother, and about her missing daughter. I’ve been brought people wanting closure before. Even I myself have felt the pain of not knowing the end of a story. Perhaps that was what brought me into thinking about the Old World Blues that morning in the first place. It was either luck or fate for that women, for in the first time of my entire investigative career, I sat down and decided to accept a cold case request.

“Oh, thank you sir! Thank you so much.”

I shrugged it off, pretending it had less meaning to me than it actually did. “Don’t mention it. I’ll get on it soon.”

I watched her slowly leave her seat, leaving some trepidation behind her, and move silently towards the exit. But right before she turned the brass knob, I recalled one case that I could get closure to.

“What is your name?”

She turned back to me, her panicked hair created a shadow that guised true meaning in her face. “Maria. Maria Cartwell. My daughter’s name is Susie Cartwell.”

No one else came that entire day. No one else needed to. I grabbed the stained portfolio she had left on my desk and flipped it open. It turned out to be a mistake, for the first thing I laid eyes upon was Susie’s smiling face. A smiling face that, perhaps at the time, was meant to have joyful meaning. Meant to be relaxing and peaceful, to calm one that was feeling particularly neurotic. But the context had changed now. For what I now saw in the young daughter’s face now was a beckoning. A plea. Save my mother, she told me. Save my mother, for I am already dead. But if you cannot save her… then at the very least, go and save yourself.

[END OF EPISODE 1]

---

Twitter: @CodexofAegis
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Saturn Devouring his Son

The reason is because the painting was hung up right inside Richard's office. It wasn't the actual piece of course, though if he really wished it he could easily procure the money to obtain the original. Still, he liked the picture. Really liked it. Where all others obtained a sense of fear and anxiety from it, Mr. Richard felt calmed. By intimidating the others who entered the room it aided him. He prayed it would aid him tonight.

There was the expected knock. Richard opened it an out came the expected son. The two of them sat down across from each other on Richard's old mahogany table. The following conversation occurred:

“My son.”

“My father.”

A short period of silence.

“So you know why I'm here, correct?”

The father didn't answer.

“You know why I'm here, correct?”

“I have the idea.”

“I... I... I, listen, I talked about it to Marilyn. In full detail. Now I'm not saying you're lying to me, but you should-”

“I know exactly why you're here. There, I said it. I know exactly why you're here.”

“I'm of age now.”

“Yes.”

“I am the eldest.”

“Yes.”

“So, I am wishing to make the transaction now. To make it easier for us both, down the road.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“This isn't a negotiation father. This isn't a deal – hell, it isn't even a wager. This is set in stone. You promised me this a long time ago, and I've come to take-”

“I'm not giving it to you.”

“So you're going back on promise?”

“That's not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about? 'Cause I'm beginning to have a hard time-”

“When I wrote your inheritance, I declared that I would only give you it if I knew for sure you were going to be something worthwhile and do something successful with it.”

“Oh, god, please. Don't go down this route. Don't do this.”

“At the time, it seemed like nothing. Of course you were going to get the money. That's why I was so hopeful about it, that's why, at the time, it may have seemed like a promise to you-”

“It was a promise.”

“It was a promise that you'd get it if you followed the conditions. Now, I was certain you were going to be successful, but... do you even remember how I became who I am-”

“Even? What's that supposed to mean?”

“Do you know who I am? I am a deal maker. I have gotten schinded by a lot of people who I otherwise thought were really great business partners. I know how to make contracts. I've been doing this for fourty years. Fourty fucking years. I made my clam business when I was a little fuckin' hoodwink Albanian immigrant in the middle of chink town.”

“It wasn't even a business...”

“Oh, huh? Really? It wasn't? You say that like you've got some authority. Please, please – if you – if you at all have any expertise in business, or entrepreneurship, or … hell, I'll allow anything. Anything at all. Listen all your fucking accomplishments out, right here. Just spell them out to me.”

“I wrote a book.”

“No you didn't. No you fucking didn't. You didn't write shit. You said you were going to write a book and you didn't write shit. Waste of fucking talent.”

“I did write- no, now hold on. Don't you speak like that to me.”

“What? What? You're my son, not the other way around. I can say what I-”

“Don't. Speak.”

“Haha, what? Whatya fuckin' doing? Are you threatening me right now?”

“I made my own fucking fortune without you. I lived my own god damn life without you. While you were busy fuckin' two-cent Bolivian daddy's girls twenty years younger than you who probably felt like having your ancient wood was worse than rape but they did it for the money... while you were doing that... I was establishing a community. I have a fuckin' community of people coming after me, looking after me, caring about what I say, because I wrote that book. What, what you think someone cares about what you have to say? Like actually, genuinely cares? The fuckin' shareholders are just dealing with your shit by this point because they can't force you to resign since you're the piece of stubborn shit you are. And don't even get me started... don't even get me started on Tony and Lewis... ha ha, if you think Tony and Lewis like you, then you really are fuckin' delusional.”

“Well I'm certainly sure that Lewis has done a lot more in his short life than you have in your miserable one.”

“Miserable? Oh no, my life isn't miserable. It's just when I have to talk to you. When I have to talk to you it feels like Hell has invaded the land of the living.”

“I... can't... do this, not right now. Fuck this, I'm getting a drink.”

“How does it feel?”

“I said I'm getting a drink.”

“Don't walk away from me, I'm not done until I have my money.”

“I'm only walking to the alcohol cabinet, calm the fuck down.”

A short silence.

“Alright, alright. Listen, we can make a deal.”

“Yes, we can make a deal. You give me all the money I deserve.”

“No.”

“Fuck you.”

“I am not giving you one point five million dollars. But I'm willing to go a bit lower than that.”

“Oh, so when I first walk in you're adamant that you're not giving shit. Then I knock you down a few pegs and you say you're willing to negotiate?”

“I'm giving you a fair deal, don't talk shit.”

“Yes, and my fair deal is the million. The one that is owed to me. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Then we don't have a deal.”

A quick silence.

“Jesus, the fuck are you-”

“Listen. Listen to me. I am done playing around, alright? You come – look at me – look here, at me – I am done with the fucking deals. I am done with you. I am not standing here all damn... LOOK at me.”

“Good fucking Christ, were you trying to hit me? Calm the fuck-- AH GOD, JESUS.”

Silence.

More silence.

The door is shut.

Heavy breathing.

“What have I done.”

The painting is taken down.

Some minor scuffling.

A vault is opened.

“For the better.”

The door is opened.

The door is closed.

Montague Family House

And so he lay, writhing on the floor.

The daughter could barely comprehend what had transpired. She knew she walked in with the boy a few moments before – that the two of them were laughing all the way up the stairs to the family house. She knew that, once she had open the door, her father had been waiting. She knew that her father said something, but wasn't exactly sure what it was. And now the father held the pistol in his right hand; and there lay her partner, writhing on the floor.

She screamed. It was her first instinct. Her second was to run to the phone to call the police. Her father held her back, trying to get her to stay calm. She slapped him, and while he was dazed ran for the phone anyway. She had barely gotten on the line with the responder when her father pulled the cord on the phone and ended the call. All this time, the daughter's boyfriend lay lying, writhing on the floor.

Now a vengeful fury built up in her. She pushed the father away, calling him terrible things at the top of her lungs. Perhaps he deserved it, perhaps not. After all, none of us know exactly why he shot the boy. Not even the daughter knows why. All we know is that he stays laying, writing on the bloody floor.

It was at this point that the daughter had given up all hope. She, much like the boy, collapsed to the ground, crying in a neat corner of the room. Her father did not bother counseling her. Instead, he looked toward the cause of this commotion; the boy, who no longer was writing, but lay motionless. Motionless on the bloody floor.

Writing Prompt Challenge -- Prompt 4

Welcome to this week's Writing Prompt challenge!

Today’s prompt is: You are a teenager with the ability to measure how "Dangerous" people are on a scale from 1 to 10 just by looking at them. A normal child would be a 1, while a trained man with an assault rifle might be a 7. Today, you notice the unassuming new kid at school measures a 10.

I've had this gift for awhile now.

I can't exactly pinpoint where it started, mostly because I didn't really believe it fully until a few years ago. It's not a literal numeric scale, but I like to refer to it as such for sake of implicity.

Basically, I can tell how much of a threat people are.

It's the same instinctual feeling we all have, that feeling of protecting your loved ones, except a few differences. First of all, its not just people who threaten my family, it's everyone. Second of all, it's always right.

I've tried looking at myself in the mirror to determine which one I was a number of times, but each time I got some result from 1-10, never straight. My mother is a 2 when around me or the family, but a 5 when around strangers. I took that this followed her sharp wit and unfortunate beginnings, as she could be quite a tough and intimidating woman when she needed to be.

My boyfriend, Pierce, is a straight 3. Don't see how, though – he honestly wouldn't even hurt a butterfly if he had to. I guess that it was something he kept in the back of his brain just in case the need arose, just like my mother. The rest of my friends are around 2-4, and the most “dangerous” man I've ever met is my principal who had a 6, likely due to his ex-army experience.

He was the most dangerous man. Until Wednesday.

The second the kid walked out of his parent's sedan I was already getting bad vibes. On the outside, he looked pretty damn normal: glasses, waved back blond hair, and a red polo. He practically didn't have any muscle. But as he got closer to the school, and to me, I began feeling worse and worse until the number finally came to me.

“Ten.”

“What?” My boyfriend asked it from my side. Besides my mother, he was the only one who knew about – and believed – my ability.

“That kid over there. He's a ten.” I pointed to the person in question.

“How? He doesn't look threatening at all.”

“I don't know, but I want to find out.”

And so I did, or at least tried to. He was a grade above me, so besides passing each other in the hall once, in which I saw nothing, I didn't really get to see what was up. I decided to wait until it was after school to get Pierce to spy with me.

We hid behind a bush, getting quite a lot of suspicious looks, but fortunately the man himself didn't notice.

It seemed still that he was entirely normal, and I was about to call it out until Pierce whispered to me in a shocked voice.

“Look, his hand!”

It wasn't much – not much for those paying attention to notice – but it was obvious. The kid's hand was on fire.

Instead of reacting to it in the way of, well, having your hand being on fire, he instead simply patted it down with his other hand until it was gone. It was at the moment that it clicked.

“He has a power, too.”

“Of what? Setting his hand on fire?”

“It explains the ten, doesn't it?”

That night I got to thinking how many more of us their could be out there. It's clear his power is much stronger than mine, so perhaps there is a whole group of people whose powers range from large to small. Maybe like me, the person doesn't believe they have the power. Or maybe, they simply haven't figured out what it is yet.


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Writing Prompt Challenge -- Prompt 3

Welcome to this week's Writing Prompt challenge!

This prompt is:You are legally allowed to commit murder once, but you must fill out the proper paperwork and your proposed victim will be notified of your intentions

The afternoon began pretty normal for me.

I had just gotten off work, parking the car in place when I got out and noticed an envelope sticking out of the mailbox. Of course I had assumed that it was just another piece of mail, so I brought it inside and sat it down on the table. It was only once inside that my heart quaked upon the realization of what the letter was.

DEPARTMENT OF HUMAN OVERPOPULATION RESOURCES

For Mr. Ryan Schaffer

LETTER OF PURGE NOTICE

I guess I never thought too hard on the idea that anyone could want me dead.

But once I read the message, it was obvious; my brother.

I had always overshadowed him. He always believed that our parents cared about me much more than him, and that I had more friends, more relationships, et cetera. I had always tried to reason with him – that it wasn't true, that there was plenty of times that people cared about him just as much as they did me.

By the time we graduated high school, he went somewhere else and none of us had ever heard from him again. I always felt pity for him, but now I had no choice. The hunt started on 5 minutes from when I finished the letter. I had to defend myself.

I did mostly what I remembered from the advice the surviving defenders of the hunt had given in various interviews and internet posts – I boarded up the door, the windows, got my pistol, and headed upstairs.

It was quiet for a while. I had locked myself in my bedroom and had waited for what seemed like an eternity until I heard a load scratching noise in the backdoor. At this moment my body shut down in fear, as I realized the mistake that I made.

I had only barred ONE door – the front one. I had totally forgotten about the backside of the house, save the windows. I kept my gun close as a soft thud continued from the backdoor, through the house, and up the stairs.

Finally, it stopped.

My hands were shaking now, pointing the gun at the door in front of me. With a loud crack the axe made a whole in the door. And another. And another. And another.

Finally the door burst opened, and I shot.


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Writing Prompt Challenge -- Prompt 2

Welcome to this week's Writing Prompt challenge!

This prompt is:

Serial killer has been monitoring his next victim's movements for months. She is a loner and the perfect target. One day she disappears and nobody notices but him.

What I do is an art. An art that takes time, work, and dedication.

Why most people look down upon it is no wonder, and that's not my issue. I'm not hear to tell you what I do is a good thing, and that the public has misguided you. I was born with the taste of blood: from the start of my days the idea of pain, of blood spilling, it all calmed me. The only time I felt truly alive was depriving that of others.

But the best part was never the victim, it was what came after. The pain of the friends and families. Of wanting justice to be done, but it was just out of reach. You see, my method is different. There is no motive, no gimmick. I don't write cryptic letters to the police, or target specific people. What I have is something else entirely.

It's an algorithm – a distinct one at that. It was fortunate that I was born into a family as wealthy as mine, or else I wouldn't be able to do what I do. I fly around the world you see; as each target is different. An old Mongolian stable-master to a newborn from Ohio – there's no difference. We're all the same in the end, as I am not specific in who I kill. All that matters is someone must die.

I've been among you for awhile now. No one has been able to find me. You may be next, but who knows – it all lies within the cards.

Samantha was one of the ones the cards picked. She was fresh out of high school – no real known friends or family, but known to delve into the gothic. I'm used to high-pressure situations, but its always good to have a laid back kill like this. 5 foot 8, long dark brown hair, goes to the neighborhood university, listens to metal, goes on a walk every Sunday, from 7 AM to a quarter after.

But why should I tell you this? Doesn't writing this down lead to a weak point? To being caught and crucified? You are right, but these are peculiar times: as I think someone might have gotten to her before me.

There's a lot more to her routine, but the reason I pointed out the Sunday walks was that was when I first noticed. 3 months had passed; it was almost time for the killing. However, I waited, and she never came out. I assumed she may have gone out earlier than normal, so I waited some more. By the time I next checked the clock it was 9 AM, and Samantha was no where to be seen. My heart started racing.

I decided to check the house – I had before while she was out for her classes, so I knew the rooms very well. For the most part, it goes well – with the exception of an Ontario trip when the teenage daughter of my target had been present. Besides a switch of victims, the trip did fairly decently. But this was different – now I had been going into the house with the full expectation that there may be someone there. I thought about the different situations I may be faced with, but in the end it was pointless. I had to go in. I had to find her.

But I couldn't. The house was not stirred. I checked her bedroom and the blankets were disturbed but otherwise no different. The shoes, keys, everything all in its right place.

I have seen this sort of scene before. I have caused it many times.

Someone took Samantha before me. No one takes my prey – whoever they are, I will find them. Rarely am I motivated to kill a certain target, but this is different. Much different. 


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Scenario in an Orlando Apartment

And so I sat, feigning interest for months old copies of Newsweek while I tried my best to distance myself as much as possible from the dramatic stage show unfolding before my eyes.

“God, I swear if I have to hear her voice again, I'm going to have a fucking hernia.”

“Please, just give her a chance, okay? She really wants to talk to you. Nothing is going to be solved if you keep ignoring her like this.”

Tansen's a good friend of mine. I trust him. I never knew Michelle well, but the horror stories that Tansen had told me about her sub rosa after they had broke up painted a very monstrous, clingy picture.

My sister was the one holding the phone. She was sentimental, sympathetic, sensitive – I feel like she could relate to Michelle in a way me and Tansen could not.

“Alright, fine, give me the phone. I'll handle this.”

The second he got the phone, he turned it on speaker. The slightly distorted sound of a sobbing young girl was picked up in return.

“T-tansen?”

“Fuck off.”

Tansen promptly ended the call, and handed it back to my sister. “See? Solved.”

My sister let out a genuine sigh of frustration, then turned towards me.

“Alex, could you please get Tansen to do something before Michelle does something drastic?”

I threw down the November 2012 Newsweek issue and aggressively defended myself. “Hold on, I am not involved in this. If Michelle does end up following through and killing herself, right now I am devoid of all responsibility. And I would rather it stay that way.”

“God, you are both so-” She was stopped by the phone ringing again, and picked it up. “Hey, sorry about that. No no no, don't. He's just... He's just being...”

Tansen. Who had moved into the kitchen, yelled to us so his voice could be heard: “Tell her to fuck off!”

My sister took some time to cover the phone's microphone to yell back in reply – “Tanny, shut up! I swear to god!”

After this point I had tapped out. The room continued to fill with hysteria until a single apexical moment occurred – a loud boom had come from the speaker of the phone, and my sister had jumped, screamed, and in a kickstart of nerve threw the phone across the room before beginning to hyperventilate and repeating the words “Oh no” and “Oh fuck” over and over again, in no distinct patten.

Upon hearing my sister, Tansen reentered the room. “Oh calm down. She's probably faking it.”

“Oh my god Tansen, shut the fuck up. I swear to god I will KILL you.”

Tansen tried reaching for the phone, but my sister got a nearby pillow and started swinging it at Tanny at full strength, all the while still crying. At that point I put my foot down and said enough.

“No. That's it. Fuck this. I have other stuff I need to get done this week, and this does NOT concern me. Go get someone else to do it.”

If either of them had said something, or even acknowledged what I said, I had no idea – the instant I had finished I stormed through the front door and out to my car.

Its been three days, and I haven't heard from either since the incident.


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Gone

One could say that at some point in the process a little recognition lost was a little recognition gained – but that was no longer the case. The man now had nothing, was nothing, felt nothing, believed nothing, saw nothing, and heard nothing. It is incredible to think – that at one point, a man could have such an important purpose in this world only to be simply cast off by another, younger generation as someone without meaning. Who this man is, is not important. You would have not heard of him, and likely the only reason you would be interested in knowing is seeing if you recognized the name. Sure, he was a major figure, but this was a long time ago in a very distant place. Even though he had changed history, history had not kept him in the record books.

What may be a valid question to ask, however, is where the man was now. Certainly he was long dead, but no one exactly knows where his body is. It had not been received by any cemetery, and the last of those who knew him lost contact with him long ago. I am not one of those men. I never knew who this unsung legend was until very recently in my life. Indeed, in many ways I am not qualified to write this long awaited eulogy, but I feel as though it must be done. 

There is something about this man. Something in which I can connect with, and something I think everyone can connect with, in our own special way. It is not uncommon to fear being forgotten. It is not uncommon to fear being gone. I, too, have this fear. A fear of turning into this man – a fear that, though I may do something great, I could be forgotten the second public ideology changes hands.

Indeed, sometimes a little recognition lost is a little recognition gained. Sometimes one must make a hard decision everyone at the time may despise, to help those in the future. Sometimes one must sacrifice individuality to help the community. Sometimes those who are hated the most are the ones who saved the world. But those who play by this rule walk a thin line. And one day, eventually, all recognition is lost, and nothing is gained. And no one is remembered. And the world stays the same.


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Cycles

“Hey, you alright?”

“Fine, I'm... I'm j-just fine.”

“Good, good. Yeah, the first time is always a bit rough, but you'll learn to get used to it.”

Perhaps “a bit rough” was a considerable understatement, if the chunks of old pork and the pool of straight vomit that came from the rookie had anything to say. But the “get used to it”? No, that was just fine. The rookie himself would learn soon enough that a job this dirty has a noticeable touch of negativity associated with it, a negativity that, in order to pull of this job perfectly, would need to be saved for a later time at a later date – or even better, not at all.

The other man – I'd call him a veteran, but that would be a sin – sat placidly in the opposite corner, making sure the rookie's excrements wouldn't reach his mousse boots. This annoyed the rookie to a point that could not be described on paper, but for the sake of good will he kept his mouth shut.

As for the job, it had been cleaned up fairly well by this point. The job a crime, the crime a murder – something I'm sure you picked up on your own, but for the sake of our audience who needs a little guidance, I'll put in a few words and paint a picture; a flash, a bang, a fountain of blood. You see, a picture has never hurt anyone, but a gun sure has. At least a man with a gun. But when the man with a gun has no motivation besides a vague promise of money and a chance to be something bigger than himself, he gets a little woozy. So please take this: don't insult the guy who has done something you've never tried.

The man in mousse began to pick the other up from the ground due to the status of time. Though despite what the rookie said only moments ago, it seemed that his physical state deemed the opposite: the thousand yard stare and the thousand ton clench.

“What? Something wrong?”

And despite the fact that this was only the simplest of variations to something that was also said only moments ago, this time the rookie opened up. His hands – that momentarily stopped clenching, yet still continuing the shake – made their way to his shirt pocket, and it was from there that out came a simple polaroid.

“This was in her pocket.”

The man took it, and smiled. This was a picture of a man of unknown origin, and a woman that once was. Perhaps not as exciting or colorful as the other image, but interesting nonetheless.

“Well, young love. It happens, don't worry.”

“Check the back.”

The back he checked, and unfortunately it lead to his hypothesis being incorrect; for instead of “boyfriend”, it read “brother”.

Some tend to forget that, just as there is a circle of life, that there is a circle of death – and this circle of death lies inside one of the greatest human imperfections. Some people chase the killer's of their loved ones to the tips of the earth – others beg, and whine, and cry, and wait for something to be done while things never change. But few can recognize that neither of these paths lead to anything better, and though the man holding the picture was wise, nor experienced, nor even that intelligent, he knew this simple fact.

But the rookie had already chosen his path, even as he was meant to be the destination. The gun was cocked once again, the man heard it loud and clear – and to make it even more obvious, it was pointed right at him as he looked up.

“Listen, I know your frustrated. I was too, but right now you just need to listen to me.”

What's the similarity between a cranky child and a man with a gun? Neither one can be reasoned with.

By the time the man realized his mistake, it was too late. Too little had been put into thought, and too much pressure had been put into the trigger. Just like a circle, it happened all over again.

A flash.

A bang.

A fountain of blood.

But this wasn't the blood of the man. To confirm this, he looked at himself and found it to be true; but it was only until he looked at the rookie that once was, that realized exactly what had happened.

Impressively, the rookie had stopped the cycle in the way no one else had thought of. Indeed, he stopped the infamous circle of death, and although the feelings of the brother to this situation is debatable, it seemed that this time it worked out for the good of the whole.

But let's not forget: this is a job.

The cycle would continue as it always had, and although the rookie put a stop in the gear, it is a gear that has an engineering failure. Would the gears ever stop turning? Perhaps not. Perhaps just like there must always be a cycle of life, there will always be a cycle of death.


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Twitter: @CodexofAegis
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Guardians of Enthia -- Chapter V

An Eyrican we all know by now slugged and slooped as his dreary eyes looked onward toward the castle of his king. His senses were temporarily excited when he heard the boards of the watchtower creak, but ceased once he heard the voice belonging to it.

“Alistair?”

“No, the other one.”

The figure had finally climbed its way to the top of the tower along with Yui; a bald man with a red beard and a glass eye that seemed that it was once the target of an agile blade.

“Ah! Your his brother, is you not?”

“Yup, that's right.”

“Heh, probably out on his suspension because of his little trip to the prostitute house. Damned bug, that one is.”

“At least we can agree on something.”

“I was the one that reported to Monty you see, wanted to get him what he deserved, yeah?”

“I take that back, I hate you too.”

The two did not talk up until a peculiar incident only a few minutes later, in which a strikingly black figure seemed to make its way to the castle.

“Eh, Hrong,” the older Staav began, “you see that guy come in?”

“Y-yeah?”

“King doesn't have anybody on his place today, does he?”

“N-...”

Upon their sudden revelation, the two brought their weapons and hurried down the tower towards the castle.

Inside, the court was in session; ironically about cutting the city guard. King Heirut sat at his throne in the center of it all, clearly bored from the talks of the officials.

Hrong and Yui let out a cry to get the officials out of the building, while they looked for the one in black. It was when Heirut himself however began to make his leave, that a figure appeared out of the dust with a bow ready.

“King!”

The bow's twine was released, its arrow striking the Eyrican that got in the way. The figure itself, realizing its failure, disappeared once more.

Yui moved towards his fallen comrade, noticing that the arrow had hit it's accidental mark sharply. Hrong was already dead.


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Hinterkaifeck

There is a time in a man's life where he should look upon his sins, and ask forgiveness of those he had sinned against.

Hryoan Dravstei could not.

After the waking memory of waking, and of getting dressed, taking a shower, sitting down for breakfast, and then dosing off from lack of sleep, he could not begin to think of a situation in which he could get from there to being leaned against the rough oak, a pocket knife in his hand, and the body of a young woman with her blood spilled on the snow in front of him, as he was now.

And so in his horrid panic he could not think of what case he would have of forgiving, as the blonde, lifeless head that stared into him he did not recognize, nor the pocket knife, nor the rough oak that he leaned against.

Hryoan, who henceforth shall be known as Hry for simplicity, got up from the seated position and in his shock dropped the knife from his hand. Upon hitting the white ground, the knife disrupted the blank slate by adding a splatter of red to the canvas. This did not help Hry in calming his nerves.

He looked about him. Trees, bushes, all of which he could not recognize. To his north east the ground began a steady increase of height, and so in decision he decided to run towards the elevation in the Earth.

But his running did not last long, as he once again stopped to realize that the knife was not the only painter. No, for now the very shoes which he ran with left dots of a harsher fate across his path. Seeing as normal holes were better than death holes, he took off his boots and left them behind, hoping no one who came would have the ingenuity to follow the path of a different color.

As it had turned out though, taking off shoes in at approximately negative twenty degrees did not help the human body. Poor Hry! By the time he got at the top of the hill, he was desperately hoping for there to be some sign of civilization. Whether due to a good fate, a good god, or just a writer's sake of convenience, there lay a diner near the long road that connected city and city. Besides that, there was nothing but the same forest he had been traveling to this point.

In the interest of time he made it to that diner, which in every step closer seemed more and more appetizing. Although it was only as he entered the door he recalled that state that he had been in only moments ago, and how during this, the count of inventory only tallied one bloody knife, one unfortunate soul, and a pair of soles that needed desperate cleaning. No where on this inventory at the time, or indeed now, included money.

However the owner, noticing his current state, weakened to him; much so that it only took a few minutes of pleading for her to finally allow the man a meal.

It seemed as though this would be the first break he would get in his journey to figure out what happened, he sat eagerly to a meal of steak and eggs. Unfortunately, there would be no journey – as only minutes after he had begun to indulge the door rang, followed by the footsteps of two police officers.


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