Weekend Hunting

Hidden in shadows behind an open closet door, I stood with my back against the wall holding its smooth copper handle to my right. It was such a simple hiding place I thought; no one would think of looking behind here, they would just assume it was a door that was left open. After studying the door, with its simple designs and patterns, I turned my head to the left through the crack near the doors hinges. I could make out old desks and rickety chairs. On top of the desks was a mess of papers and newsprint articles scattered carelessly around. The old building began to tremble as an A-train roared past on steel rails. My attention turned to the holler of satisfied pleasure as my nostrils picked up the scent of sweat and cigarettes. The man I was waiting for was in a little office about 10 feet away. The office itself, as a symbol of higher authority, was cut off from the rest of the room. This guy obviously has some power here.

"Money's on the table. I'll see you next week Trixie," the man in the room said. As I saw him through the dirty office window with his cocky facial expression and slick black hair, he began to reach down and pull something up, probably his pants. But graciously the wall prevented me from confirming this. After that, he began to comb his already combed hair and all the while I took into notice the gold sparkle of the ring on his left hand. I hate men like that.

"Can't next week. I gotta take my kid to the dentist," said Trixie. She had sort of an 80's hairstyle. It looked almost like a nimbus cloud as each dry curly strand reached for the skies. Her pink eye shadow and sparkling top seemed purposely equipped to draw attention away from her menacing face. With cheeks sucked up and eyes sunken in, it's hard to believe anyone would go for her or even pay money. I smirked and thought; she isn't at all like her.

My left leg was beginning to strain, due to the fact that I have been standing perfectly still like this for nearly an hour and a half. But ignoring the pain, I began calculating when she would leave and when I should make my move. Though I had only the crack of the door to see my surroundings, the creak of the far left floorboard to the right of the printer told me she was about to exit. Sure enough I heard the slam of the metal door and waited five minutes; that's how long it takes to go down stairs, outside, and out of hearing range. He was fiddling with his tie now, grinning to himself. The man turned off the light office light which left only the street lamp outside as the only source of light, which was all I needed. After grabbing his briefcase and coat, he locked his office up. It's time, I told myself.

With my left hand, I slowly pushed the door away from me and extended my right arm out front. As the shadow from the door deceased and -the light shone brilliantly on my Clock nine-millimeter, I couldn't help but feel the intensity of this moment. Me, standing there fully erect, powerful, pointing at him the tool of his demise. In total shock, he dropped his belongings and cautiously stepped back. The street lamp behind him caused his appearance to transform into a dark figure. This would be like doing a righteous deed striking down this demon. He stared at me with sweat dripping down his temple as if he knew this day would come. For a spit second, I had pictured me in his place. How it would feel to see that little insignificant black hole that had the power to end life.

The man opened his mouth, then closed it obviously thinking of something to say, maybe a plea for mercy. He would get none from me. Instead, he cleared his throat and composed himself in a business-like manner.

"Well, this must be about the money," he began. "I'm prepared to triple anything that was offered, plus my word of forgetting this ever happened," he said. I could see his tremors receding gradually. He was becoming more comfortable about the situation. Still I stood there, pointing the gun at him staring into his eyes, two black heartless pits. It was very interesting how his facial expression was tying to mimic concern and tenderness. "Now," he said, turning to the left and looking at his watch, showing me that I was no longer a threat. "When would you like the-," he dropped to the floor sideways coughing like a cat with a hairball caught in its throat, except this hairball was a bullet. I could see the wisps of smoke slither up from the hole of my homemade silencer.

His legs were squirming now, and I could hear his silent whimpers. I walked slowly towards him and saw the result of the bullet wound. It was a ghastly thing. He was clutching his throat as if to prevent the blood from squirting out, but it would not stop the dark endless flow. With eyes bulging, he lay there gaping at the ceiling as if looking at Heaven itself. Bringing my gun down, I shot two rounds into his head. All at once, he was still and lifeless, except for the blood oozing out of his skull. From my trench coat, I brought out a yellow envelope and dropped it on the floor besides him. "Demon's don't go to Heaven." I whispered as I turned around and left.

It took me approximately a half an hour to reach a safe distance away from the Timely News Building. I stopped by a pay phone and dialed my client's number on the cold metal digit pad. Someone had picked up, but the line was silent. With a deeper than usual tone I said, "This is Amarant; It's done. I'll pick up the package at Pathway Street Subway Station next to the brown trashcan at 5:45 A.M.," and hung up hearing the clang of my quarters being registered by the pay phone.

It was a masterful plan. At 5:55 A.M., I stood in an overly crowded subway car full of night shift workers. Each of their faces was marked with fatigue and depression. I wanted to pinch my nose from the smell of musk and oil until I heard, "This train will now be arriving at Pathway Street Subway Station, please use caution upon exiting," from a rusted tin box that was supposedly the speaker. As the subway car screeched to a stop, I knew that this car would be directly in front of the brown trashcan, like I planned. The whole station was instantly flooded by the mass of people seeking their way out as the doors slid open. And sure enough, squeezing through the crowd, I saw the briefcase in its splendid glory. Cleverly I dropped my brown trench coat on top of it, unseen and not followed.

* * *

Resting my palms on the cushioned armrest and relaxing my entire body over the plump seat of the Avalon train, I felt at peace. The view outside my window began to rush past me as the train started to accelerate. As I rested my head on the cool glass, the side of my face felt the icy condensation building up. My focus changed from the constant blur of the scenery, to my reflection on the window. How ragged I looked, I told myself as I began to feel each pin prick of my three day old beard. I gazed into my dark eyes, which were baggy from lack of sleep. Sometimes I questioned if it was normal for them to be so dark, almost black. It was like staring into two empty voids. And my hair, just as black, was spiked like dozen's of razor sharp knives. Though my skin complexion was fair, I was looking paler than usual. I smiled, wondering what she would think of me in this state, probably very filthy. Turning away from my image, I checked my watch: 6:17 A.M. "I hate Monday's," I drowsily said as I drifted asleep, briefcase securely in my arms.

Red, green, yellow, pink, swirling distorted images painted the air. All was silent in my head. Only the sweet smell of distress and pain lingered. With eyes closed, I stood over a lifeless mound with my head veered upward. I felt nothing, not even the throbbing of my hands.

"Sir, Sir...SIR!" yelled the conductor to my left. I awoke in shivers as I felt for my briefcase. "This is your stop. Uh, are you all right?" The conductor said in a concerned manner. I was staring at my hands, two pieces if the puzzle, as I like to call them. Deep scars ran horizontal on both of my palms from the middle of my thumb and index finger, to where my pinky begins. When I put my hands together, pinky to pinky, it looks like two frowning eyes gawking at me. "Sir?" the conductor questioned. Shaking off my grogginess, I looked up at him. He was decked out in a nicely pressed navy blue jacket and pants. Looking almost dumbfounded as he scratched his dirty blonde hair, he projected a sort of/ want to help feeling.

"I'm fine. Why do you ask?" I replied.

The conductor turned away from me as if in an awkward position. "Well, it's that you're crying. Just wanted to know if everything's o.k."

I quickly began wiping my eyes saying, "Umm, it's a medical condition, can't sleep without tearing." Embarrassed, I gathered my things and as fast I could, marched off the train.

"Crap, I'm going to be late!" I said desperately as I looked at my watch, then at the road. It was 7"37 A.M. and I was racing down the streets in my 1971 Chevell. My hands gripped tight the leather steering wheel as I sped around a corner at 50 mph. Panic gnawed at my feet as I began to press the accelerator harder and harder, 'til I was going 75 mph up a 35 mph slope. Like racing up to the skies on a roller coaster, my heart skipped a beat landing on the hard black street pavement. I could hear my engine roar in protest like a furious lion as I whipped it chanting, "faster, faster!" Five minutes later I saw my final destination with its one level, red bricked depressed glory. This is how to be a good person, be mature because you are the future, take your hat off, keep your chin up; dreams are but a fingertip away. These thoughts seem to resonate out of the very walls of this building. As if it were so tangible that you could taste the chastisement in the air. Quickly I parked, slammed my car door, and jetted into the double doors down the hallway to my first period class.

*  *  *

Exasperated, I stood with my eyes locked on Mrs. Corn who was sitting behind her neat metal desk. I imagined how she must have seen me through her coke bottle lenses at that moment, disgusting and pleading. Her wrinkled skin and weary eyes screamed; I am old! But the way she kept her hair and clothes, stylish, up to date, told the story of a woman who was not ready to conform to the lifestyle of seniority. She yawned, putting her bony hands over her mouth studying me. I was staring at her intensely now, sweat building up in my brows. She knew what I wanted. And she also knew that if I had one more late that I would fail her class. This had turned into a telekinetic battle fought with our eyes and movements. With my back straight and chin up, I was hoping for a proud, deserving look. Then at that instant her eyes softened and she began to chuckle quietly.

"Oh Sebastian, I don't know how you do it," she said, laughing out loud. She took a deep breath now, "that was nice... I guess I'll have to excuse you since you at the main office. Here's the application you requested." As she handed the white pamphlet I said, "Thank you," under my breath. I turned around and started heading for my desk. The teacher added, "One more thing. Please try to get here on time."

"Alright," I said. Excitably I scanned the front page and saw to my satisfaction the words, Bringle Dale Police Academy. I immediately printed my name: Sebastian Dyne. It took me about the whole class period to fill out everything, but I don't care, this is what I've been waiting for.

Period three came by and Mr. Fern commenced the class with a very interesting topic. "Well class," he began, his thick mustache bending and curving as he moved his mouth. "While driving at 6:30 in the morning to school," "6:30! I don't start getting ready 'til 7:20," interrupted a student.

"As I was saying, I usually listen to the news on the radio, for traffic reasons. Sometimes they have other things that happened early in the morning. This morning particularly had some news that peaked my interest. They said that earlier today a janitor  found the body of... whatever his name is, that's not the point. Next to his dead body they found an envelope with information about all the crimes and embezzlement he committed. Now here's the kicker." He said enthusiastically. His bald head and plaid ruffled shirt gave him the appearance of a woodsman. "They say that with all that information, they could have put him to death, three times!" He stopped to let it soak in. "Now here's what's gonna cook your noodle. Even though this guy was really bad, even though he had some power and most likely could have gotten off bail, was it right to kill him? I mean, does anyone have the right to be judge and jury?

I had my answer planned out and was about to speak, but a hand in the front right row shot up. Alicia?" Mr. Fern gestured.

"It's wrong to kill people. That's that," she said as if it was the simplest question.

Immediately I brought up my hand, ready to put her in her place. "No, you're the one that's wrong. That man was a bad guy and anyone with a rep like that deserves to die." I gave a cocky smirk, daring her to top that. She swung her head around in a dramatic manner, like something you would see on Charlie's Angels.

"What? No one deserves to die, that's why they have jails," she rebounded.

"Oh, and I guess you forgot that they also have lethal injections. It's the same thing, whether they die inside or outside of prison. But I'll you one thing. Killing a criminal on the outside is much more justified than doing it through a system that doesn't work." I could see fumes rise out of her like out of her like an erupting volcano.

"Are you stupid or something!" she retorted. "Killing them on the outside? Justified? It's totally ludicrous! Killing the criminal only puts the killer on the same level as the one he's killing. And if he's on the same level as the criminal, how does he have the right to commit the act? She was crossing her arms now, awaiting my reply.

"Look," I told her. "The fact is that the world is better off without these people ruining our lives." At that the bell rung and class was finally over, but we were still glaring at each other and the whole class was attentively watching.

"Oookay," Mr. Fern said. He was clasping his hands together, firmly pleased with today's debate. "Well, wasn't that interesting? See you all tomorrow." And that was the end of it. She stubbornly snatched up her books and left with a "humph!"

"Women nowadays," I said out loud hoping she would hear, "So hard-headed." Not like her, she would understand, I thought. I think I'll visit her today, my silent angel.

*  *  *

White walls, white ceilings, white floors, I always hated places like this, but at least the color matches her heart, and I find it so fitting for a goddess. Walking slowly to her bed, I moved along the white plastic bed rail to her hand. It was delicate and feeble, pale against the afternoon sunshine. Continuing on, I ran my fingers through her long wild ruby curls. Such beautiful hair, I thought. I touched her face, skin so soft like the supple feathers of a dove. Yes, this is my angel, my tainted angel, for all over her frail body was countless of scars, though blessedly faded by time. I gazed at her perfection, her magnificence, as she took each hush of a breath, ever continuing her eternal slumber. "You of all people would understand me," I said as I moved a strand of hair from her face. I remained with her past the red anguish of the dying sun, 'til the moon cast down its iridescent light on her, making her glow in the dim night. "I have to go take care of another demon," I spoke softly, kissing her hand. As I went to the door and opened it, I looked back at her saying, "Farewell, my silent angel," then left in sorrow.

                                                                *  *  *

Night coursed through the windows of my Chevell. Its rubber wheel seemed to rub smoothly against the slick black road. Driving past little offices, odd sized building, penetrating skyscrapers, and pitiful food stands, one could tell this was the business district of the city. Bright lights ran over the black reflective tint of my car. I was heading to my next mission. This guy didn't have the horrid crimes of the others, but still was enough to be considered a demon. At the next right, past the small mound of dirt and metal they call a park, I turned into the underground parking lot of an office building. The building itself was mediocre, the normal white tied job. I was prepared with all the essentials. Trusty Clock nine with silencer, lock pick, basic knowledge of the layout of the building (only because I investigated it the other day), a clean shave, and of course, a yellow envelope containing the dirty history of my hit (which I researched myself). Ascending the stairs as quickly as possible, I searched the premises for his office. It was late, probably 10:00 P.M., but my observations told me he was a night owl.

I could see him grapping hot copies of whatever, from the printer that was to the left of his office. He wore a light blue button down shirt with its sleeves rolled up and black slacks. His messy hair emanated a shine of brownish back. I was hiding beside the hallway corner loading my Glock nine with utmost care. When finished, I stepped swiftly out towards him and pointed my gun forward. This time my tool didn't shine brilliantly, but caught the still dull illumination of the dimmed light fixture above. Sensing my presence, he turned around and did so in the oddest manner, calmly. My hit looked at me with soft brown eyes, his mouth appeared to form a smile, yet it was as flat as ever. It seemed like minutes that we stared at each other, each gaze communicating in it's own way. Mine was of determination, strength. His was a questioning look, still so calm. We could have continued this little charade even longer, until we were interrupted. Out came a small figure from his office and to my horror, its tiny legs toddled to the man with the blue shirt. Its small hands began to tug on the man's slacks, looking up questioningly with soft brown eyes. No older than four did this dirty blonde headed boy looked, clad with little kaki shorts and a plaid button down shirt with its sleeves in a mess, as if he tried to roll them up them up too. The little boy whispered, "Papa?"

The man replied, "Yes, Gabriel?"

"What's wong?"

"Nothing, my son." The man bent down and while softly pinching the child's plump cheeks, gave him a tender kiss on his forehead saying, "I love you forever."

The boy responded, "I love fooever."

"Now go to my office and don't come out 'til I say so," the man said, pointing to the door.

At that pristine moment....I felt like a mother tight roping over a pool of ravenous alligators, holding a stranger's baby.

* * *

Racing through the down pouring streets in searing agony, my gun in the passenger seat still fully loaded, I was no longer remembering the little boy. I was the little boy. My left cheek burned as I felt the red hand mark still hot. She was there with her short wild ruby curls. All I saw, as I huddled close to her chest, was a necklace dangling by her neck. It was a blue necklace with little angel wings on its sides. I always liked that necklace, but now I thought of nothing else except the pound, pound, pound, I heard and felt through her body. She was shaking madly as her tears fell on my cheeks, mixing with my own tears. Materializing out of the shadows behind her, two terrifying hands grasped her neck and sent her sprawling on the floor. He gaped at me with crazed eyes, his face a dark shadow upon my memory. Then with ferocious strength he pounded his black leather boot in my chest, I could feel the rubber sole imprinting into my skin. I let out great gasps, trying to catch my breath as he turned to her. She was on her knees now and I saw the horror in her face. Desperately she scrambled up towards me, but was netted by his thick fingers and dragged across the room away from me, toes getting burned from trying to clench the rug. In his mad state he picked her up and threw her into the overly sized mirror she had put up to make the room seem bigger.

Crack, screamed the mirror as she made impact. The shards of the mirror fell like chimes as every piece, each its own knife, sliced her delicate skin. As if he could give a more final sentence than the taking of a woman's beauty, he stomped her head in with the most thrilled expression. After that he plopped right into his old rocking chair and began to watch television as if nothing happened, laughing away at the show. At that moment something had broke in me and I was aware if nothing else as hot tears streamed down my face. Not as I dragged my feet towards her on the blood stained carpet. Not as I picked up a long jagged piece of mirror next to her. Not as I felt its razor-sharp edges penetrating my palms as I clenched that piece with both of my hands. Not as I brought the piece above my head and drove down into his skull with all my might. I could not hear his shrieks as he shook into convulsions, knocking over the T.V. Soon all was still except the random twitching of his leg and the little spurts of blood from his wound. The television that was knocked to the floor was still on, which caused thousands of pieces of mirror on her to reflect its rays upward. At that moment, as I looked up with broken eyes, I knew only three things. That he would never hurt us again, that she was gone from me forever, and that the ceiling never looked so beautiful.