The Kill

JUL 01 -

It was early evening in downtown New York. The December sun was pushed to a corner, and the city lights were flickering—like fireflies in a distant night—making the metropolitan seem an enigmatic and sophisticated paradise. It was fiercely cold; perhaps the coldest it had been in the year. But the chillness of night did not let the streets dry up. The city was moving where it had to move; everyone was racing against time.

It was just then that a young man in a black hood and blue jeans was seen on the streets. It was the time for him to begin his daily job—his business. He looked as if he were still in his adolescence; not quite fully grown. He wasn’t quite a man yet, but his body seemed to be built athletically.

Ramon’s face was only partially visible; half hiding behind a piece of cloth—a scarf he’d wrapped around the lower part of his face; perhaps to comfort himself with some warmth, or perhaps because it gave him some other advantage.

He looked frantic, yet controlled as he wandered steadily through the streets; his hands always inside his hood pockets. For a while, it seemed as if he didn’t have a proper place to reach or drop by or even any task to complete. His approach forward was very gradual. But Ramon was in the middle of executing his business; he had to keep his head focused.

He was sixteen, and it had been quite some time since he began doing odd jobs around the city. Almost unfittingly, even contrarily, Ramon had been a delightful student. Throughout his childhood, he had been a charming lad. It was on his twelfth birthday that things ‘turned rough’ almost abruptly.

“Ramon Alvarez, my baby boy,” said Antonio. “You’ve grown quite old, haven’t you?” Ramon gave his father a numb stare; this was a very rare family gathering.

“El tiempo es el mayor enemigo de una persona! You see my son… time is a person’s biggest enemy. It makes you grow, it turns you old. Time seizes a person’s childhood and makes him a man. You know what I’m talking about; a ‘macho’, and that’s what

every person wishes to be.” He could certainly feel the force with which his father spoke those words, but the stress in his father’s voice created a weird discomfort in his.

“You know what I’m talking about, eh?” his father’s voice now stiffer. “You have responsibilities now, and school is not where you’ll learn to fulfill them. You don’t need to fill your head with the bullshit they teach you for nothing. You need to learn how to move rocks, Ramon Alvarez, move rocks.” Antonio continued “In a few days, you’ll be moving away from Albuquerque to some distant city, some wonderland. There, my men will take care of you.”

Confused Ramon insisted, “But I don’t want to go there. I love going to school”.

“Shut up! Don’t teach me things. I’ve lived my life and know what’s good for you and what is not. And the decision I’ve made is final,” Antonio thrashed. “Keep this in mind; you’re a juvenile for now, and the cops know you ain’t worth arresting, so don’t be afraid of anything,” and then he got off. Ramon surely did not understand.

Antonio had been a drug-dealer for most of his life and had just come out of prison where he’d served a decade for a series of convictions. He was a Mexican immigrant; he’d lost his wife when Ramon was only two.

Ramon’s grandmother, who had brought him up in northern New Mexico, had passed away a few weeks after Antonio had been released from prison. So for him, Antonio was still no more than a stranger; a stranger he wished to know better. As a young boy who had never known paternal tenderness, Ramon was very curious about his father, and in a few days he was sent away from Albuquerque.

Eight pm and he was on 7th Avenue, Times Square; the noisy side of NY. It was a dense street he was standing on; certainly no one (except for the person who really wanted to find him) would be able to discern him from the heavy crowd he was part of.

A man in a long coat and a brown-shed hat approached him. “Mr Vondall specifically asked you to take care of this,” said the man.

“What do I have to do?”

“Lower East Side. He’s been called at 9 (to come with some files). It’s just a fraudulent title we made up for him. He’ll come in a red rain vest as always, as he’s been instructed. He belongs to the southern faction. We’ve trusted him for far too long for reasons that are far too wrong. You know what to do.”

Ramon nodded.

“Whether there is a file or not, it is his life you must guarantee.”

“And I will,” Ramon answered.

“Good. This is the first real task we’ve set out for you. You’re a brave kid, and you’re trustworthy. You’ve shown us your credentials. We surely see a future for you, and so do you. Don’t let us and yourself down.”

The two then separated. Ramon knew what he had to do.

Lower East Side. The place was a quiet junction of lanes, dismal and somber. After all, this was the place that had been set up for the clandestine meet. Silence enveloped the vicinity. Not a being who fit the description he’d been given had yet appeared. Yet, this was far from the worst time delay he could think of.

Fifteen minutes past nine, and a tall man with red rain vest, a cap and a briefcase appeared toward him from the western alley. The figure matched the description he’d been given. It had to be him. It was him. The man’s lower face was disguised by a dust-proof mask, only his eyes visible to the outside world.

Preoccupied, anxious and feeling strangely audacious, Ramon chose to remain in the shadows for a while before he eavesdropped on the man. He would soon be rewarded something marvelous; maybe even a proper position among Vondall’s men.

For now, Vondall’s enemy was his enemy, and Vondall’s traitor was his traitor. The very thought of what he would be awarded had already begun enthralling him.

This was the first real task set out for him. After four years of minor dealing for Vondall, his future looked good and he knew it.

The man seemed to be searching for someone, but only a grave silence met him. His silhouette was glowing like flashbulbs in Ramon’s eyes. He then decided to walk ahead. With his knife now open and in the air, Ramon approached the man stealthily.

He moved a couple of metres ahead, and with his left wrist

across the man’s throat, hit him with the knife on his lower abdomen. He had given the man no opportunity to react. The band bent forward on his knees and fell to the ground. A handsome kill!

“Whether there is a file or not, it is his life you must guarantee…” Ramon decided to take the briefcase. He rolled the body over and grasped the blood-soaked briefcase from the man’s arms.

The face of the lifeless was now open to the world to behold—blood and gore inscribed over his father’s belly. Antonio was dead and his son had just killed him. Ramon yelled in disbelief.

Directions:

Read the Following Carefully!

01:    Stories should be original, and must be balanced by i) Plot (beginning), ii) Narrative (middle), iii) Dialogues, and iv) Conclusion (proper ending)

02:    Entries must carry at least 1,050 and not more than 1,500 words

03:    Neat typing, correct spellings (UK English) and proper cases are essential in the texts

04:     Submissions must include the writer’s full name, present status and complete postal/contact/email addresses

05:     Entries must be sent to fictionpark@kantipur.com.np

Source: http://www.ekantipur.com/2012/07/01/saturday-features/the-kill/356435/