1 - The Hooded

Closed the diary, he looked up. Saw the lake flowing in front of him. The sun that shone far away from him, radiated the rays that glittered the surges of the water and were reflected from the surface to glow the several questions in his eyes and diffusing into the void created in his heart after reading that diary. He was sitting on a boulder in a pebbly beach, beside a long coat. A torn shirt and a pair of torn trousers, he wore a filthy sweater. The shaggy mane of hair and the messy existence of that child described the lack of sympathy and care in the hearts of mankind. From his appearance, it was evident that the well looking coat was definitely not his and that diary definitely belonged to that coat. The diary he just read quivered his mind and soul.

“Hey prince?”

Those sudden words scared him as they dragged him back to the reality from the ruminations he was wandering in. He looked at him. He was a fine-looking young guy wearing a police uniform. He was quite wet. Actually soaked with water. The black bulletproof vest he wore, was visible as the shirt was unbuttoned.

“Can I have my diary back? You can keep the coat.”

             He gave him the diary and with extreme joy and happiness out bursting inside him the kid asked him,

“Are you alive?”

The youngster grabbed his diary and was surprised by this quite awkward question. He felt his heartbeat and replied casually,

(Chuckles) “No! Walkin’ dead…Just to save the funeral expenses, you know!” and then he walked away.

 

                         The mighty sun, ailed. Bleeding a feeble orange light that staggered through the fields and hills, striving to enlighten but that poor light, just casted a trivial influence. Dark and dense clouds were marching all over the sky. The day wailed as the night was knocking at the door of dusk. The fields fluttered in the whispers of a cold breeze. Another day was breathing its last. A boy came running in the field. Wounded, but running. Panting, but running. Exhausted, but running. Carrying a gun in his right hand, He was shot in the left shoulder. He was a in a pathetic state. The mud splashed under his steps as he ran. Splash after splash. Abruptly after some splashes he crashed real bad. He was done. His blood was shedding and was becoming a part of the mud. Merely a stain, his blood was just at waste. Then came the distant shouts. Men with dogs. Those violent shouts were searching. Searching for him. That vicious smell of the trouble justified the frightful desperation in the bloody red lines of the wide open eyes of that innocent boy. That anxiety persuaded him to get up quickly. But he stumbled, as he was clenched in the fist of fatigue. And fell again. Then, abruptly he saw him. The Hooded. Standing still, a few steps away from him. Quiet. Those heavy breaths of the boy and the hissing of the wind were the only rebels against the awkward silence. Those shuddering lips and dripping eyes of the boy were pitiable. But the grim stood there, staring at him, debilitating him, injecting all the stress and fear in him. Owing to his affliction and agony, all of a sudden, the boy opened the face of the gun towards his sweaty forehead and with a loud blow, the last drop of tear glided over his dirty cheek and the heavy breaths vanished. The light was no more. The hissing of the careless wind continued.

An eight year old boy giggled in the back seat of a car that was swiftly rushing through a driveway. He and his parents were enjoying the dearest happy moments. Bursts of laughter. Gaiety was dancing in the woods around the road which were glittering in the candid colors of the evening. The chirps of the birds adorned the guffaws of the little Zaigham. Abruptly there was a high screeching sound of tyres and then an earth shattering blow. The boy’s vision started twisting. Twisted a few times and before he could apprehend what was happening, he was out of the car and banged on the road. Badly ailed. He weakly opened his eyes. Saw his car crashed into a strong tree. His eyes closed. But he forcefully opened them. He saw his father on the driving seat of the car. Dead. But couldn't recognize him because of the red color which he was now wearing. And the blurriness that was prevailing in his sight. He saw a full size Dodge Ram Van that had slammed their moment of peace. His eyes closed again. He wanted to see more. He wanted to see his mother. He piled up his energy and once again opened his eyes. Through the blurry vision, he saw a man's boot that just stepped in front of his face. Couldn't see more. A moment later a hand reached for his hair and pulled his face upwards. He could not see his face as his eyes got closed again. He then felt a blow on his head as the hand let his head go which struck against the ground. For a moment he lay unconscious. Maybe he wasn’t. As he could hear the cries of his mother. Those desperate cries. But still he couldn't open his eyes. Because of lack of energy or maybe lack of guts. The scene was poisoned by the harassment of his mother who was fighting a losing battle. The next time he opened his eyes, he could hardly see his mother who was aching with pain, depending upon the iota of breaths for the continuation of her life and her son's tranquility. A group of men were hauling her over the road towards their van. Then they vanished along with the moans of his mother. The juvenile saw the trees around him. The dark trees. Striving to hide the helpless family from the eyes of public. So that no one would help them. Those grim trees. The chirps of the birds. It seemed that they didn't want anyone to listen their cries. The monotonous colors of the worst evening mocked the little boy lying in the pool of blood. Tottering over a thin thread somewhere between life and death.

“Lets go Zaighum” she said as she rushed towards the dining table to pick up her breakfast.

“Where?” he asked in surprise.

“School. C’mon”

With a big smile enriched with enthusiasm inside his tight fists which he held closer to his chest, he replied, “Nat! It’s holiday!”

“No, today’s music competition in school and I am playing today.” She replied with crinkles on her forehead indicating nervousness.

He thought for a while and then wearing the same smile and with same enthusiasm and same gesture, he said, “As I said, its holiday!”

Although he had to go to the school after that for her moral support as she insisted and so he canceled his plans with Leo. He too went to the school for supporting her.

After a few minutes of their arrival at school, Natalia hurried to Zaighum

“Zaighum! There’s a new problem.” She was really tensed.

“The judge died?” he said with an excitement in his eyes that seemed more like a hope.

“Shut up! I can’t find my guitar.” She replied as she looked around the backstage.

“Maybe you forgot to bring it.”

“No, it can’t be.” she said with determination.

“Nat! We should look for it then.” said Leo.

Then they started to search the whole school and started asking different people about it. When she couldn’t find it, Leo advised her to call Dad and ask if she had forgotten it at home.

“Hey! My guitar’s home. Leo went to bring it. I wonder how it got home. I am sure I brought it here” she said to Zaighum who was now talking to a girl in the corridor. Actually flirting.

“It got nervous so ran back home, I guess”, he said as he pretended to be quite serious.

 After the death of his parents, he was adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Clark. They were actually his uncle and auntie. It had been ten years since that accident. But now he lived his life to the fullest. He was happy. Apparently. Natalia and her brother Leo were his cousins. The three of them led a cheerful friendship with a strong, pure bond between their hearts. That gave him strength to conquer the visions he had in lone. The nightmares that haunted his nights, that boot, those cries, the helplessness, those unshed tears gradually vanished. He found a reason to live. This family was now his world. This world or maybe something else gave him the power to lead a beautiful life. That didn’t matter. Nobody ever cared for the mysterious times of his loneliness. Actually nobody ever noticed the time of his secrecy. All everybody saw was the jolly and naughty behavior of his charming personality.

"Aunt Alexandra entered the room as Atticus..." his voice gradually fainted after a sudden audible start of “To Kill A Mocking Bird”, interrupting her as she was telling her one of her girly experiences with an incredible interest. As a matter of fact he was just wanted to show her that he is not paying any attention to whatever she is saying. It was the millionth time he did this to tease her. Made her furious, the wicked smile he wore while neglecting her. Bits of embarrassment and the sparks of fury in her hazel eyes, that expression and those dimples, all latched onto her face at a time and that face, there was nothing prettier than that, never would be.

She entered into her room hastily and slammed the door behind her. She was clearly upset by his rude attitude towards her. She went straight to her bed and lie down. Replayed the scene in her mind many times, pondered upon the firm and furious replies she could give to him. It was bitter cold outside. Maybe that aided to lower the heat of her anger. She got up, took off her woolen coat and hanged it gently on a stand. A very decent room that was. That sweet scent and the warmth one could feel in that room while walking bare footed on that fluffy black carpet was addictive. And her presence adorned that room. She picked up her laptop and came back in her bed and put herself under a warm blue blanket. The aggravating cold outside could not ruin a single pinch of preciousness of that room. As she was working on her laptop, a curved dark black hair continuously dangled upon her left cheek reaching out for her lower lip. She repeatedly adjusted it behind her ear by her forefinger but that was a stubborn piece of hair or maybe an innocent one that just got addicted to the slight touch of her lip. Her guitar beside her bed, her trophies and awards on the shelf upfront, the comics, novels, poetry beneath. All these things and all the other lucky commodities of that room watched her silently. It seemed that everything was stunned as they stared at her. The beauty they were witnessing was enough to bring them to life.

A few miles from the city, there was a huge ground. There, in that ground, was an abandoned mansion. The freezing mist of the bitter cold season had twined around everything. A broken, worn out exhaust fan was the only remaining resident of that deserted building. Scar-faced walls were the only, that witnessed the afflictions of the place. Spider webs, dirt and filth were the only, that were there to accompany.

 A chair was present in the middle of the mansion with a man on it. His hand and feet tied with the arms and feet of the chair badly with a barbwire. The moonlight of the distant moon that penetrated through the broken wings of the exhaust fan realized him that only the moon is eyeing him and that imagination killed him from the inside. The man couldn't move a bit because if he did, he was tormented by the barbwire wound around his arms and legs. That man cried and shouted for help due to the frustration and vexation that pinched him as the scant air filled with terror made him suffocate. He moaned at the top of his lungs. The anguish he felt, was eating him alive

 "Shhh!"

 A voice he heard. Then came the sound of footsteps. Each footstep hammered his heart. He would have preferred the pain he felt rather than facing him. As the sound got louder, the darkness shaped itself into a black cloak. It was him. The Hooded. Chewing a gum. As he saw the crying man, enveloped with the cold, shuddering, he smiled.

 "I ain't gonna hurt ya’, you are doing that yourself, Sir!"

 The innocent man, his eyes wide open filled with fear. And as he stared him, the dark smoke of pessimism diffused into his eyes. In a wretched state, he was witnessing his worst nightmare. Shivering.

 He cried, " Let me go. I have done nothing wrong. I'm innocent. I have to take care of my daughter. She won't make it without me. She needs me." (Sobs) "Please" He urged with desperation, "Please let me go. Take everythin' I have. Please. Let me...”, he burst into tears and sobbed.

  All this time as the innocent man begged for his life, the grim stood there blowing bubbles and didn't take a blind bit of notice.

 "You can go. I am not stopping you, Sir."

  The man got a hold of himself as he sensed a little hope of life.

 "But the wire?” he stopped crying.

 "You yourself has wound that wire around you n’ your life, Sir! You yourself can unwind it. Not me." he said as he chewed the gum.

  The innocent man made a clamorous cry.

  "What have you become lately, Sir? A clerk? Right?" (Chuckles) This is the life you are begging for? This is what you call life? Sir don't you get it? What you deserve, you snatch. We live in a society of corrupts." he said. "Think. Be free. Live. “he whispered and wearing a smile he disappeared.

   The man there struggled. Shouted. As long as he could. Having no idea of what just happened. Actually, he was not thinking about that at all. All he wanted was to go home. As he closed his eyes, a tear came out and poked him into dreams. When he woke up, he was on the chair, in the study room of his home feeling the fresh air of the fan above. Running peacefully. Those free breaths he took, drugged him. That killing dread was no more in the silence. It vanished leaving behind calmness and peace. He cried as he breathed. He could feel the air he inhaled. He felt the beats of a satisfied heart in his chest. He never actually felt any breath before that . In fact no one does unless and until every single breath becomes an utmost desire. Days past. The air he breathed every day, radiated the whispers of the hooded which glided, making a tread to his heart, fighting and oppressing the objections in his head. Within no time he found himself free when he completely entangled himself in those three dangerous words “Think. Be Free. Live".  The next night he picked up a dagger from his kitchen and went out. Within a week, he replaced his late boss. He now was the new boss. The reputed boss.

Author's Note

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