The ContractA Story by Alyssa JensenA 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.” © 2016 Alyssa JensenReviews
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4 Reviews Added on October 20, 2016 Last Updated on October 20, 2016 Author
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