The Contract

A short piece about character's knowing they are in a story.

Lights. Fluorescent lights. They flickered against the gray slabs of brick. Shadows edged his vision. Where the hell was he? Steel bands gripped the flesh around his wrist and ankles, the friction causing his skin to shred. Inside of his mind, memories broke across his limbic system.

            The doorbell, a cup of steaming, lemongrass tea, and…

            Pain. His head hurt. God, did it hurt. Pressing and pressing, the pressure built.

            There was a sign… what did it say? Prose. Prose Avenue. His street. His storybook house, wife gone, children in bed, and the doorbell… It kept ringing. Ringing in his ears. He inhaled through his teeth with a sharp hiss. The ringing grew.

            “And so he awakens.” The voice was slow, gravelly, rising like tidal waves. A figure formed in front of him. A face loomed above his body. Caucasian, chiseled jaw, eyes the gray-brown of wet pavement, a slight curve to his thin lips. “Did you sleep comfortably?” The figure glanced at the risen, steel table that the victim laid on. “I suppose not.”

            The voice. It reminded him… it reminded him of a doorbell. The ringing. The lemongrass tea, scent overwhelming his nose, burning in his eyes, and darkness, a falling blanket of night. His children in bed, his wife gone, his storybook house, a ringing doorbell…

            The memories collided.

            Eyes widening, the man flailed, abdomen expanding, limbs struggling against their barriers. He knew what this was, who the man was. The frozen mask on the man’s face said it all. The Vostok.

             “Ah, there he is,” the Vostok’s handsome face glittered. He wore a pressed suit, black with importance, threaded with wealth. And when the victim tried to cry out, the Vostok only chuckled and shook his head. “Mr. Robinson, Darnell, if I may call you that, I must ask you to refrain from struggling. We wouldn’t want our play date to end, would we?”

            It was then that the light glittered off of a blade, the edge crusty with dried blood. The Vostok twirled his knife lovingly, tenderly, and ran the edge along his milk drop cheekbones. Darnell choked against the fabric stuffed inside of his mouth, jaw aching and stretched.

            “You’ve been naughty, Darnell,” the Vostok trailed his knife along his victim’s arm, digging ever so slightly, withdrawing just a touch of crimson liquid. “Talking to the FBI, compiling evidence against my client…” The blade stopped when it reached the crook between Darnell’s neck and shoulder. Leaning closer, lips brushing his victim’s ear, the Vostok breathed, “You broke your contract with Mr. Marcello, and so, he made a new contract with me.”

            Darnell shook, vibrated with terror, adrenaline cascading throughout his body, breaking against his veins. Warm fluid pooled between his legs; a scream burrowed up his throat, but it was caught behind the fabric, and came out as a meek whimper. His children in bed, his wife gone, his family… His family. Biting onto the fabric, Darnell grunted, pounding his head against the table, moving side to side, fingers clenching, toes curling, but there was no escape.

            Removing the soggy gag from his victim’s cracked and bleeding lips, the Vostok wrinkled his nose in disgust. Words tumbled from Darnell’s mouth with no end and no beginning, “Are they alright? My family? I won’t talk, I swear it; I swear it, please. Please! Tell Marcello that I’ll continue givin’ him money; tell ‘em that I won’t speak… Just please, don’t kill me, please.” He broke off into a sob that dragged out from his chest and splintered in the air.

            The Vostok smoothed out the cuffs on his suit jacket and frowned. “You know the penalty, Darnell. You pay the money; Marcello provides the protection. You break the contract, and, well,” the Vostok’s full lips tilted upward, teeth glinting in the light, “I get to break you.”

            This made no sense; this couldn’t happen. Darnell had lived his whole life, whole life doing nothing but good. Taking care of his family, giving them protection, food, and shelter… he paid his taxes, he tried to stop the mob from overtaking the street that his store was on, and yet, here he was, the main character, about to die. This couldn’t be how it ended, how his story ended.

            “Usually I prefer Ice Man,” the Vostok gazed fondly at the knife cradled in his hand, clean and filed fingernails dragging along the edge, flicking off the blood as they went. “But I like you, Darnell, I really do. This is nothing personal. Just business, really.” Setting the knife onto a marble table that contained all sorts of horrifying tools, the Vostok reached inside of his jacket and pulled out a sleek handgun.

            “Any last words, Darnell? I’m positive Marcello would appreciate an apology. Perhaps then he won’t kill your family?”

            “This can’t be it,” were the first words that burst out of Darnell, laced with desperation. He knew this was the end, the finale to his story; he could feel it in the tension of his bones. “You can’t kill me,” he pleaded, “I’m the main character.”

            The Vostok sighed and placed the barrel of the gun against Darnell’s sweating temple. “It’s about time you learned, Darnell. There are no main characters; this isn’t a story. We are people, this is life, and one day, one day soon, the world will still spin without us.”

            Though his finger remained on the trigger, the Vostok lowered the gun with a glossy grin. “But unlike stories and characters, life and people? They’re unpredictable.” 

Reviews

[Rini]

Hey great work, the element of unpredictability that you added in the end itself explained everything , just the conversation between 2 people told the harsh realities and the lethal implications of breach of contract.

[Hebe]

wow...I started to sweat under the collar myself....great imagery. ..kept you on the edge!
....what happened next!! :)

[HeyJadeXO]

Love it Alyssa ! great work

[Neal S]

Again. I really like this as well. You're style reminds me of William Gibson. Each line specific and poetic in its own way. Very nice!