Chapter 1:
As the sun slowly levitates into view, enlightening the town and its roads with delicate light, tears falls from a man’s cheek onto his fading father’s beard, washing his entire forest of scraggly grey threads in a sea of darkness; the only other embodiments of the son’s incandescent rage being a disgusted smirk, his furious frown more rough than his father’s dilapidated mane and the rusty red of the dried blood covering his hands, arms, face - most of his exposed skin - being only slightly diluted with his eyes‘ salty excrement. He sits there hiding behind an alley’s dumpster, clinging tightly to his father’s fresh corpse, it’s final breath still leaking out, escaping with several pints of blood from the large gash stroked down his back by a vengeful murderer.
What reasons his best friend Ben would have for murdering his father, James might never know; what he does know, all too well now, is the need - not the “urge” or “impulse”, the need - to avenge his father’s death. What James does know is where Ben lives and where he might now want to live; what he does relish are the memories of his father, the wonderful man who raised him the best he could even in the worst times. What James does now know is the pain of losing his father, how hard it must’ve been for Ben to struggle through life with the passing of his mother having been a sudden catastrophe only weeks ago. What he does now cherish are the recollections of times when he could call Ben a friend, a best friend that would listen when he needed an emotional advisor in the form of a peer.
But whatever reasons Ben would have, whatever reasons Ben might claim for killing James’ father, didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Only revenge. James so blinded by the loss of his father; a cease to all of his father’s great achievements, even greater accomplishments no longer able to progress; he didn’t just lose his largest role model in life: the world lost a incredible intellectual of all sorts of occupations. But it’s all gone now, gone with his father’s final wind; nothing left of him but the flesh and bone being relentlessly ground to dust by Father Time and Mother Nature. Nothing left of James’ inner peace and tranquility or happy thoughts and memories. Just revenge. Ben, a friend? No. Ben, a target. James’ new agenda has only one checkbox, next to one goal: slaughtering Ben.
James had been there to witness his father’s brutal execution; on that practically vacant intersection between a sidewalk and an alleyway, neither the scene or anyone’s composure was pleasant. James stood calmly up in the apartment, not too excited about his laundry chores, with beautiful orchestral music on a low volume in the background and a nice view of several windows on the neighboring apartment building as well as a relatively clean yet hideous alleyway below. James’ father Mark had stayed with James in his apartment overnight just because they agreed to have some valuable time together watching a movie or two; then after a few hours of relaxed rest, Mark happily rolled from the couch to his clothes and gleefully strolled from the apartment to his company’s laboratory, just gliding along the sidewalk with smooth, peppy steps and an optimistic anxiety for the day’s forthcoming work as a biomedical engineer. James still stands above in his second story apartment, admiring the work of his favorite composer as he folds all of his various apparel and stares out his window - the one nearest to the street - at the sidewalk below, awaiting a final glimpse at his father for the morning. And just as his impatience was approaching its peak, he noticed a figure suddenly stumble into the alleyway, having been shoved into a corner formed by the other building and a large, metal trash container. Mark tumbles into that corner, quick to try and turn around; but he couldn’t react as strongly or quickly as Ben and his determination’s pinnacle. As James’ confusion quickly meets an apex, Ben raises his right fist, his knuckles white as snow having been clenched around a foot-long knife for so long. The sun’s glow bounces off of the blade, and for much less than a second, twinkles into James’ eye a flash of his father’s life and legacy. As Mark’s left shoulder received the tip of Ben’s blade, James’ felt inside him a fluster - a bitter wind to signal the last of a calm before a storm. He dropped the pair of underwear he was holding and burst downstairs as quickly as he could. He dashed around a few corners and down a few stairs, with as much gusto as an entire flock of marathoners, until he arrived near behind Ben. He stood solemnly, contemplating the righteousness of his decision and action, realizing new fears of perdition and purgatory; his blade slightly phased by it’s harsh encounter with one of Mark’s bones, not to mention it’s tip covered in a red so deeply vibrant, not even a fire truck can compare; his sense of a job well done quickly discovered to be an invalid one: this was his best friend’s father. It wasn’t fair or moral to take anyone’s life, much less that of a best friend’s parent - even if only for some much needed money. But it was too late - no apology can surmount death; no one’s regret can reinvigorate a dead body. There might not be escaping fate or destiny, but there certainly is escaping potential authoritative consequences, not to mention the potential vengeance of a former friend. James stands there, stunned by what has happened; petrified by the shock of losing his father to his closest possible friend. Words were not spoken, for words were useless. One was grievously guilty, one was fumingly furious. The only thing these best friends shared in this moment was hatred; hatred of themselves, each other, and the circumstance.
All to be found in the tragic dilemma is revenge and regret. One’s persistent pursuit of another’s pay; the quest - revenge on the remorseful - begins as a chase...
Chapter 2
Sweat flows and muscles pound, thoughts in flocks like the chaotic violence of a water's waves. You'd think of such a sound as a good, relaxing one; but as is always true, too much of a good thing is never good. Thoughts are necessary - if not recommended - sure, but when they attack you with such intensity, in such great numbers, they become disturbances; your demeanor and interactions become as static as your mind's processes. With such static flooding his head, James' thoughts find physical focus as they become emotional distractions; this time, recollections of his father deliver tears to his eyes as urges of unleashing unrestrained brutality leave him devastated beyond feeling anything other than his flesh trembling as his feet propel him to new success.
He runs. His pumping heart rolls rivers of viscous vitality through throbbing veins; a pulsing beat in his chest like the ticking tock of a clock. His skin rests under an ocean of sweat, his hair a sea of weeds bobbing every which way; these golden strands tangle as they float awash in waves of brine, like drones of crops as they move by the wind - such a powerful influence.
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