Nearly endless drifting.

How a boy becomes a bullet, a shield and a man's gun.

Chapter Two:

Nearly endless drifting.

Years passed and the boy had grown. At fourteen he was caught somewhere between being a boy and a man. Not old enough to flee or fight back but still too old to do anything and get away with it.

           His mother, on the other hand, instinctively shunned him. She started to do so after leaving the hospital by filing for a death certificate, ignoring the fact that Doren was alive. Not long after this she erected a grave bearing his name. The grave was marked by the figure of a fallen angel with a cross piercing its heart.

           Every year on Doren’s birthday, she would sit in front of the dying angel cutting into her wrist with the sharp dagger-shaped cross on her rosary. Then, she would smear the blood on the angel’s heart. Patiently, she would flip her lighter open and heat the silver cross. Her hands would shake as the cross became hot.

Her mind would wander causing her eyes to glaze over until the cross burned her fingers. Then, when the cross was hot enough to melt flesh, she would press it to her broken skin cauterizing and scarring the place where the small cuts used to be.

As the pain subsided, she would watch the blood drip down to Doren’s name. Her eyes closely followed the trail of blood as a small haunting smile crept across her face. Then, she would suddenly stir. As if awakened from a dream, she always stood up and walked away a cold stare, unfeeling and uncaring.

Instead it was his father, Don Vassago who taught him everything. If only he hadn't done so through power driven absolutism, Doren would live guilt-free. Of course, life never follows that kind of course. What actually happens is nothing like what anyone else imagines.

Any father would be all too proud to have a son. But Doren's father, didn't care about the child's gender. His only concern was in relation to whether or not Doren could do as asked without question. In order to achieve this he forced Doren to live with the constant threat of death if he ever failed.

Of all the things to tell a son, Doren's father reminded him of this the most: “Every man fears his own kind of death. Every boy fears all deaths and dying. When you come to kill me one day, I won't be afraid. But be reminded that you're a boy and I am a man. When I fight, I won't hold back. I will look you in the eyes and take your life back.”

These words and many other actions made the “Gift” become cruel. He learned to suffer, knowing only the harshness imposed on him by the act being alive; not even living. Through this suffering he understood that very few choices were his to make.

At the same time, the boy grew into a tall young man with thick black hair and sad brown eyes. His skin was the color of olives lightly dusted with cinnamon. His body was trim and fairly muscular with a square hairless face and a pronounced jaw. His hands were large with clean, trimmed nails and thick callouses on his palms.

          He wasn't the type to care about looks but his father made it clear that looks and power go hand in hand. The Don could not look like a common thug and neither could his son. As the Don's Trigger, he needed to be swift, clear, and unwavering. All who crossed him needed to know the price they were to pay. It was on Doren's sixth birthday that his father set out to turn him into a cold blooded young man.

           After explaining the worth of Doren's life with one simple word; nothing. The true nature of the man became clear. He was as much a father as a business man making an investment. In Doren, he found the perfect one. And so on the morning of Doren's sixth birthday as the sun slowly leaked into his room, he was pulled out of bed.

          His father stood over him, looking down with a sinister smile. His gold tooth, a canine, was barely visible as he pulled Doren up by his hair and yelled: “Stand up, you piece of s**t. Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”

         Doren looked up at the father he once, mistakenly admired. “What's going on,” Doren asked in a low sleepy voice. He closed his eyes rubbing them hard with the back of his small hands. “Get moving!” His father pushed him forward.

         Doren trudged forward in compliance, followed by his father barely two steps behind. There was no way for him to know that his family was unlike everyone else. They weren't concerned with Doren, just his purpose. And so the day began with Doren's father shoving him into the bathroom, turning on the cold water and pushing him under the shower head.

         Cold, wet and thoroughly confused, Doren turned to his father, “Why?”

“It's so you know your place. Your life is mine to do with as I please,” he replied with a wry laugh. “You're my bullet, my shield and my gun. Got it?”

         “What,” Doren cringed. His simple question hung in the air and thickened the tension. Doren's father pulled him out of the shower and pushed him out of the bathroom. “Let's go,” his father growled. “Move it!”

          Doren reluctantly walked down the hall. He could feel the cold tile sucking away the small amount of heat he was able to conserve through feet. He shivered and sneezed. In response to Doren's very natural reaction, Don Vassago grabbed Doren's shoulder, turned him around and smacked him with the backside of his hand. Doren put his hand up to his cheek. The sting made him feel like crying but he held back.

          He refused to cry in front of his father, especially now. It was not the time to cry or show weakness. There was no telling what his father would do. The one thing that was certain was that it would be bad.

          Lost in his thoughts, Doren didn't notice that they had arrived and stopped in front of a dark brown door. It was when his father jiggled the handle as he turned the key that Doren snapped back to reality. The door opened to a dimly lit room with scattered clouds of cigarette smoke floating to the ceiling. In the center there was a slow moving figure. From the doorway Doren couldn't make out what the man said but it was followed by a breathy moan.

         Doren's eyes widened. When he heard screams in the night he always assumed they came from his mother or that he was having strange dreams. Now, he knew all the screams he had ever heard were real. They all came from this dark little room somewhere in the house. His breaths became heavy and staggered. His body shook as he tried to make sense of it all. Doren knew his father was a businessman. He had taught him to be ruthless in business but was this what he had meant?

          In a matter of seconds, Doren had been pushed past the doorway and stood over the slow moving figure, which he could now tell was a very badly injured man. He wanted to look away and ask his father what was going on. He needed to stop this, whatever it was. As he opened his mouth to speak the smell of urine and blood mingled with his wetness made him fall to his knees and vomit.

          The once quiet room filled with laughter as Doren hacked and coughed trying to keep himself from a second round of vomit. Then someone he couldn't see spoke: “No offense Don Vassago but I thought you had a son. What the hell is this?” The man took a drag of his cigarette and let out a dry coughing laugh.

          Don Vassago turned to Doren making eye contact for the first time that morning. Don Vassago's eyes were frozen little daggers on a square face drizzled with facial hair and topped with a strong thin nose. “Defy me and die. Prove that you are your father's son,” Don Vassago spoke in a steady, eerily calm voice. “Take this and do what must be done,” he added taking a butterfly knife out of his pocket and tossing it to Doren.

            Doren caught the knife but couldn't catch his breath. His father had taught him self defense; not offense. “What do I do,” Doren's head shook slightly as he asked. His father smiled, proudly displaying his gold tooth. “Kill him or I'll kill you!” his father yelled with a laugh.

            “I can't. I can't.” Doren replied between heavy breaths. He held the closed knife in his shaking right hand. Don Vassago responded by reaching out to the nearest man with slightly wiggling outstretched fingers. The man turned to his right hip and removed a gun, which he gently placed on Don Vassago's hand. Doren swallowed hard, was his father serious?

          Don Vassago turned the gun toward Doren, cocking it for emphasis. “KILL HIM OR I WILL KILL YOU.” His words were slow and heavy. His face made it clear he was serious. “But dad,” Doren attempted. “I'm your boss! Not YOUR father,” Don Vassago yelled in a somber voice. The room was suddenly quiet.

         Doren’s stare grew cold. He slowly opened the butterfly knife, cutting his thumb as he tried to keep a steady hand. He shifted his weight to his heels frozen in fear before prostrating himself in front of his father. “Please. I don't want to,” Doren begged.

        Don Vassago shot into the ceiling. When the shot rang out, Doren lost control of his body. He could feel warm wetness move down his leg as he steadied himself. He didn't feel hurt but there was no way to be sure he hadn't been shot. He slowly sat up looking for signs of change. Nothing. The butterfly knife in his hand felt heavy as he turned to the bleeding man.

        “I'm sorry.” The words escaped his lips as he forced his hand forward pushing the knife's blade into the man's gut. The man tried to shield himself but Doren continued. He wanted to stop but he didn't want to die. The thought made him vomit on the man. He continued to stab. It was when the man stopped moving and Doren was soaked in blood that someone intervened.

          Doren was pulled away. His shaking wet body was taken to the bathroom and disrobed. He was pushed into a warm shower and left alone. Slowly his mind came back to him and he felt the sting of small cuts on his fingers. The droplets of water amplified the reality of what he had just done.

          From that day on, the boy who woke each morning did hate his father and did plan to kill him. What he didn't plan for was the nightmares and waking to constant reminders of the past. Every time he dreamt of his first nameless victim he was reminded that he couldn't escape the past or change it.

         The boy who suffered in the past would live in his dreams and a young ruthless man would awaken in his place. At fourteen it became clear that his slow, sickening descent into a cold blooded young man had started on his sixth birthday and never stopped. This haunting memory was reserved for his birthday and mornings (like today) when he woke up to the sound of an envelope being slipped under his door.

       Each time he knew he would never be a child again. The boy whose ignorance blissfully protected him was gone. The boy who killed a man remained.He woke up day after day to take his place as the bullet, the shield and Don Vassago's gun. Needless to say Don Vassago liked to pull the trigger and Luis Antonio de Caona was next.