abri_chan | Entries tagged with gangsta.

Despite its pains, I remember my childhood rather fondly. During holidays, wealthy patrons would take in orphans,—on the rest of the days, I would play until late. Erica loved to run,—sometimes we’d make a run from other kids.

I don’t consider myself unlucky. Ergastulum was well into the Peaceful Era—

—I understood happiness only in retrospect.

Each of us is born with limited potential,—I must have read it somewhere—perhaps we are born with a set amount of hope. We burn it through life, then look upon childhood with rosy spectacles. What you’ve overcome you can only hold tenderly,—there’s nothing to compare beginnings to, and anything is better than nothing.

The old maid used to say "mornings will tell you how the day will go", and you can tell what a child will grow into from the moment they are born. Would it then be best to not grow up at all?

The orphanage was designed in good taste; the rooms and halls were spacious, and the tall windows let in abundant light. It even had a courtyard at the back; the grass wasn’t always well-tended and ferns grew along the damp walls; but at least it was a place kids could play. A handful of oak trees broke the monotone greenery, and under one of them two little boys sat down.

“You can always come to the residence. They have better food,” the dark-haired boy said, patting his companion on the back. Delico pulled off more grass strands, shaking with silent anger. His fair complexion looked even paler in contrast to the red bruises on his cheeks, and his right eye was threatening to swell.

“Deli!” the approaching voice called out in concern. The little girl was done with errands, and ran all the way from West Gate to get back to her brother quick. She hardly minded running; her twilight makeup showed no fatigue, and she loved the wind on her face and how the world became a blend of colors. But presently she wore an expression of worry, as she stood in front of her split image.

“It's because you don't stand up for yourself!”

Yang opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated when Erica turned to him. He wasn't faring any better than Delico; there was dried blood running down his nose and a cut on his lip. The girl's eyes searched for a tag around his neck or lack of.

“Will you hurt him too?”

Delico shifted his gaze from one kid to the other, tears welling up in his eyes. He feared Erica's recklessness and her willingness to take on bigger bullies. Worick used to joke she bit off more than she could chew, not knowing that peculiarity would come back to haunt them one day.

“I’m not a coward!” Yang boasted. “These guys gang up on twilights, then scramble the moment someone tells a teacher.”

The girl dropped her hostility for the time being and knelt down in front of her brother, stroking his hair. Yang looked up through the tree branches at the clear summer sky, unsure of how to react to the familial display at his side.

“I’m Erica. And you’ve already met my brother Delico.—What is your name?”

“I’m—”

Yang couldn't positively recall where he was and what he was doing there. He looked around the room, but it didn’t help the lights were dim and the decor was unlike that of any restaurant in Ergastulum. A sudden headache crept up on him and he rested his elbows on the table, pressing against his temples with both hands.

“You alright?”

He slowly raised his head to meet the woman’s eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t—I don’t remember your name.”

She was sitting across from him and there was a gleam of amusement in her gaze. “I hear that a lot. Men can’t be bothered to complicate their lives.”

Yang shook his head in confusion. It was one thing to forget a name or even fake forgetfulness, but presently he was only sure of his growing headache. He tried to take in the woman’s features.

“Did we already order?”

“Uh-huh,” she answered, taking a roll from the bread basket on the table and placing it on her plate. His eyes caught sight of the wine bottle next to the basket. Did he drink too much? Was he blacking out because the wine had gone to his head?

“This is such an elegant place,” she spoke again after a long silence. “Worick said you needed some comforting, but do you really have no one? You seem sweet...”

Comforting? Yes, Worick had joked he needed to get laid because—his train of thought got derailed by a sharp throb around his skull. He tried to focus his eyes on the woman, gnawed by the suspicion that their surroundings kept getting darker and indistinct. He hadn’t noticed before how her hair was light in color.

“... you didn't have to take me to dinner, but it's nice—”

“I—I really can’t—there’s somewhere I need to be.” The certitude of those words scared him; where did he have to go? If only he could get rid of the headache…

He bent his head down, stammering an apology. “I'll cover the tab and a cab home. The rest you can bill to the Monroe residence; Worick knows how to find me. I just—I will find the waiter...” He abruptly stood up and staggered across the room full of shadowy figures.

“Will you abandon me once more?”

Yang turned towards the voice, stepping unwittingly on to a waiter’s way and causing the tray and all its content to crash on the ground.

He woke up on the floor having pulled the comforter down with him; his body heavy with the counterintuitive exhaustion that follows a very long sleep. He kept lying on his side with abandonment, eyes dilated and watching dust particles dance in the sunlight that crept beneath the bed. Like a child with spare time engrossed in mundane things.

“Yang? Yang!” The voice outside the door brought his world into focus. The carpeted floor had cushioned his fall, but offered no protection against the cool morning air and Yang shivered. There were hard knocks at the door and by the time he rose, the person on the other end was twisting the doorknob.

“Getting dressed!”

The battery of knocks ceased.

Yang sighed, annoyed by the guest's urgency but also relieved the terrible headache was now only a ghost memory. He flung the comforter on the bed and answered the door in the same t-shirt and pants he woke up in.

“I heard a thud and got worried—are you—Yang?” Her confident voice turned timid at the sight of blood draining from the man's face. She pushed her way into the room worried his legs would give in at any moment. “Maybe you should stay in bed for the day.”

Yang turned his back to her and walked across the room without a word. The woman shut the door and followed, ready to catch him by the shoulders if he swayed on his steps.

Sitting on the bed Yang tried to collect his thoughts. As he looked at the woman dressed in Monroe’s staple black suit, her softer but assertive features and smaller stature, there was no doubt in his mind as to who she was. The deep blue eyes and silvery blonde lashes were the same as her brother's, and Yang turned his head away that he may not see them.

“You're acting strange. Are you unwell? We can call Theo if you want.” The woman spoke in a matter-of-fact tone and reached for the desk phone next to the bed.

“No!” Yang retorted, grabbing her wrist with a swift gesture. In a split of a moment he let go, as if her material form burned like hot coal.

“Then explain what is going on.” She dragged the chair from under the desk and sat on it, watching him with folded arms.

“I got startled.”

“Is that really it?”

“Erica—truly, I'm fine. I know my room, the Monroe Residence. I know who I—we are. It’s just a bad dream.”

The little light passing through the shut curtains fell on her face and softened away its neutral expression, but if brooding or pity stirred underneath Yang couldn’t tell.

“What did you dream?”

“Some sort of blind dating event…”

A quiet chuckle graced her face. “Yeah, those can be pretty terrifying…”

Yang laughed at the response, his face slowly regaining color.

“Can you believe it? I made the waiter drop his tray!”

“You were brave! I wouldn’t dare show up.”

“Delico is not here, is he?”

Erica knitted her brows. “Yang, it’s been over ten years. You should know.” Her voice sounded weary and she spoke with a lowered gaze. “Sometimes I get haunted by what I said. He was weaker than me and if something happened—”

“Erica, I'm glad you’re here!” Yang broke in ardently. "I know; I'll go back to bed. I'm probably running a fever and don't make much sense. But I'm glad, truly glad.”

He propped the pillow up against the wall and dragged his feet on the mattress, pulling the comforter over them. “It's almost like you're sick-nursing,” he said sitting with his hands folded neatly on his lap, and looking straight at the wall before him, like a compliant child.

“Neither of us ever does that.”

“You never get injured.”

“No.”

He wondered what rank was etched on her tag.

Erica straightened up in the chair. “I still think we should talk to Diego and Theo. But for now I'll bring you food from the main hall. I can eat with you if you want.”

“You don't have to.”

“I want to! Plus recently I don't really like being there—the new recruit, Ivan—I hate how he looks at me; like he knows something I don’t, something I have no way of knowing. And his corny jokes aren’t even funny!”

Yang frowned in response. He was positive Ivan harbored no good intentions towards Erica but it was strange not to know how that thought came to be.

“It's fine as long as he doesn't cross me. I'm this family's best asset after all.”

She rose and went fast across the room, that Yang only managed a meek smile as she turned her head one last time before closing the door. Left alone in the dim room, he sank into the realization that the more time he spent inside this mirrored world the more it would begin to make sense, and submitted to the fear and relief that came with it.

I’ve come to believe everyone starts off as twins. But most of us murder our double while still in the womb. That's why we are born as incomplete halves.

“So you’re sure a doctor won’t help?”

Worick didn’t expect his morning to turn out like this. The plan was for him to sleep in, while Nic got groceries. Yet here he was, on the sofa, giving life advice to Yang.

“I told you. I wouldn’t know how to explain it.” The voice from the adjacent sofa came out exasperated, his coffee still untouched.

“You can try with me.”

Yang fell silent. In the pause that followed, Worick carefully regarded the younger man. Yang didn’t seem sick. But Diego was right that something felt off. Recalling the panicked call that woke him up, he knew Diego’s bet was on Worick’s way with words. Or people.

“Same dreams?”

Yang shook his head. Even as he asked, Worick knew dreams weren’t the problem. Everyone had bad dreams around there. The city was a sanctuary for throwouts and lunatics; everyone came with baggage. But he needed to get Yang talking. The tiniest crack, and he could slip right in.

“They come and go,” the dark-haired man continued. “It’s routine by now. Something I can live with.”

"Then why was Diego worried?"

Worick was pleased to see the other man fidget. His assumption had been right. Diego couldn’t have convinced someone as obstinate as Yang. Which meant, Yang came to see him on his own volition. He must have hoped Worick could make him talk, the blonde reasoned. The feeling wasn’t unfamiliar. Sometimes you desperately want to talk, but too much trouble follows, and you choose silence. But if one keeps poking...

“You know, I don’t care if you tell me or not,” Worick said, lounging on the sofa. “But I need something to report to Diego, or the man won’t get off my ass. You know how persistent he can be!” His voice thinned, his standard hysterics on the verge of flaring up. “He calls at 6 am. I’m in dreamland, and Nic won’t answer the phone. I’m exhausted from Friday work. There are no cigarettes. Diego is alarmed as if the residence was being attacked.” He slowed his pace, making sure to emit an audible sigh. “I swear, the only thing I can tolerate in the mornings is a woman’s voice.”

Yang decided he had had enough of the man’s theatrical blabbering. “One day I woke up, certain that I had murdered myself.”

Worick propped himself up. He hoped to God, if any fiber of faith remained in his being, that the coffee was weak, and it hadn't kicked in yet. The perplexed look made Yang repeat himself.

"I woke up one day, and—"

"I heard you. It's just," his bad eye had started to ache from the lack of sleep, and he couldn’t help but wince as he pressed his hand against it. “I have to ask. Are you a danger to yourself? Are you planning to hurt yourself in any way?”

“No—what?” Yang sounded hurt, almost indignant. Didn’t Worick know about his duties to the Monroe family? And what would Delico do if he lost another person?

“But you said you’d kill—”

“Not me! Well—me. Like another me.”

“A different you? Like a brother?” he motioned for the other man to continue. “Like Abel and Cain?”

Yang nodded. “But they’re both me,” he replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

Worick had become convinced that if Yang hadn’t lost his mind, he himself did. He knew Nic was deliberately taking longer, so the two men could talk, but he needed a cigarette badly. Part of him was getting irritated with Yang. Yet another part resented the first one, for feeling anger towards a man speaking with an open heart. After all, it must have taken courage to say such nonsense.

“And why would you murder this other Yang?” Worick asked, leaning forward.

“Survival, I suppose,” Yang said, staring into empty space, as if peering into past events. “If we were both born, we’d go for the same things. And if he were smarter or stronger than me, he’d take everything. So I had to off him, before he did the same to me.”

“Before you were born?”

Yang rubbed his neck, before facing the other man with a weary smile. “I find it incredible as well. But it’s an irrational belief I can’t seem to drop.” The first act of life was murder; he was convinced of it.

Worick was taken aback. He had known Delico and Yang since children. Of the two, Yang wasn’t the one to think deeply. He couldn’t afford to, for Delico’s sake and his own. It was Yang’s optimism that kept the duo afloat. Worick leaned back against the sofa, hands behind his head, and staring at the ceiling. He regretted being about to entertain Yang’s fantasies.

“Phagocytosis,—a way a cell can eat another cell,” he began, squinting as if physically browsing through the archives of his memory. “While unicellular organisms, like amoebas, do it mostly for food, it also happens in the human body. Most of the cells in your immune system can do it as a response to infection, or anything deemed an attack or waste. It is even theorized the engulfment of another cell gave rise to cells with distinct nuclei, like the ones that make complex life. Nutrition or threat, perhaps metamorphosis fuel, it seems survival may be running at the level of DNA.”

After a moment’s pause, he shifted his gaze to Yang, who was nodding for the other to continue.

“If this type of survival mechanism is ingrained into DNA, other human cells could do it too, in theory. There is some plausibility to the idea of a zygote consuming another. Unfortunately, we know enough about human embryology to know that doesn’t happen.—Biologically speaking, your scientific revelation is unlikely. Psychologically speaking, however—”

“Yes?” Yang broke in, disheartened that Worick’s conceptual curiosities had led to a dead end.

“Psychologically speaking,” the blonde’s lips curled into an impudent grin. “I think you need a good fuck—”

“Worick!”

“I can always suggest some books. You and Freud would get along fine.”

“I don't have time for your books!”

He knew of Worick’s quirks; the man could be helpful, but always on his own terms. Yet, Yang couldn’t help the flush on his face. He listened as the older man dumped information on him, in hopes of some clarity. Only to be told the intrusive thoughts taking hold of him were a byproduct of sexual frustration.

Although Worick was half-joking, he felt content the agitated behavior brought Yang closer to his usual lively self. He stood up to make another cup of coffee, asking if Yang wanted a fresh cup as well. Yang shook his head, grabbing the cold cup in front of him, and following the other man to the kitchen area downstairs. He didn’t like to sip on cold coffee, but it felt like a waste of hospitality to just throw the liquid away.

“All teasing aside,” Worick spoke, leaning against the kitchen counter. “I think the past is affecting you more than you want to admit. So you fantasize a stronger Yang could have changed the outcome. But believe me, there was nothing a kid could do.—I was there that day; I was the one to find you. Whoever did it was able to slip past the four fathers. To think that a mere child could have saved the day, when the most powerful adults couldn’t, is arrogant, don’t you think?”

Yang shrugged. He supposed Worick could be right, since he himself didn’t know what to make of his recent thoughts. “I’m not a hero, Worick. I only wished we could have saved Erica.”

“Delico is still around, isn’t he?”

Yang lowered his gaze. He knew there was no point in thinking about the past. But as long as nothing was known of Erica’s fate, he couldn’t give up hope.

“Is one not enough?”

It was more of a rhetorical comment; Worick already knew the answer. The two siblings had been like family to Yang. He suspected, at some point, the young man’s feelings for Delico had deepened into something more. But Delico didn’t seem to notice, and Yang never made a move. Perhaps, if Erica was around, Yang would extend that same kind of affection to her.

Yang finished the rest of his coffee in silence. Before Worick made a second attempt at their conversation, the upstairs door creaked open. Soon after, Nic appeared on the stairs, holding a paper grocery bag.

“Doesn’t he have perfect timing? Just as I was about to make more coffee,” Worick commented to Yang, moving away from the counter.

“Hi, Nic,” Yang greeted, getting a brisk nod in return.

Nic moved his eyes from one man to the other, trying to read the room. After placing the bag on the counter, he took out a carton of cigarettes, and handed it to Worick.

“I think I should head back to the residence,” Yang said, placing his empty cup in the sink.

He was about to turn on the faucet, when Nic stopped his hand, signing a quick “no”. It was the shorter man’s way of saying he’d take care of it later. In contrast to Worick, Nic wasn’t the talkative type; his words and signs always telegraphic. Precision was his talent, not only in fights. If Worick could generate as many words as needed to get his way, Nic, in contraposition, could compress all that needed to be said to its essence.

Worick tore the carton of cigarettes open. “I’ll walk you out.”

“Later, Nic,” Yang said with a smile.

Before the two men disappeared from his view, Nic gave Worick a questioning look. Worick dismissed it with a hand wave.

“You didn’t have to see me at the door,” Yang protested, as they left the apartment.

“I worry about you, Yang.” It wasn’t a lie; they were like brothers once. “Besides, Nic doesn’t let me smoke inside.”

“Well, if Diego asks—”

“I’ll make up something. Say hi to Delico for me.”

Yang nodded.

“I also wish we could have saved Erica,” Worick continued, lighting up a cigarette. “But you can’t chase ghosts, at the risk of losing real people. Delico needs you.”

Yang nodded a second time. Except that to him, Erica wasn’t a ghost. He had lost track of the number of times he would see Delico, and try to picture what Erica grew up to look like. Apparitions weren’t supposed to be of flesh and blood.

“Come see us sometime. Not just for deliveries. Nic too.”

Worick took a brief drag on his cigarette. “I’ll try, if things don’t get too hectic around here.”

Waving goodbye, Yang wondered what to do with his time. Diego had been too generous in giving him the entire day off.

Worick was sitting on the entrance stairs, smoking, as Nic walked past him. Yet the dark-haired man only acknowledged Worick’s presence after walking down the last step.

“You look like shit”, he signed, leaning against the wall.

Worick’s eyes narrowed. “Get off my ass, Nic. You know I didn’t sleep much.”

“Is he okay?”

To many, Nic came across as dispassionate. Those accustomed to him, however, knew of the kindness resurfacing from time to time. That too was scattered, never unnecessary. He had reasoned his presence would add nothing to the conversation Worick was to have with Yang. It could have even provided a diversion; someone Yang could turn to, if Worick pried too much. But now, he had no idea what the two men talked about, and only Worick to ask.

“Yang? Probably. How come you never ask how I’m doing?”

Nic crossed his arms. He wasn’t in the mood for teasing.

“I’m doing better, thanks to the cigarettes you got me.”

“NoT MinE.”

He had come across Delico at Granny Joel’s shop. The young man had been wandering around the area, before being pulled into what became a mixture of conversation and gossip. Nic had been his ticket out of the situation, but not before offering to pay for Worick’s cigarettes. Nic thought it was strange, but he wasn’t going to poke any further in front of the old woman. She had enough worries of her own.

When him and Nic were alone, Delico admitted it was a gesture of appreciation towards Worick, for frequently watching over the duo.

“It was Delico who asked Diego to call. No other way to help Yang.”

According to Delico, talking to Yang directly would only make Yang become better at hiding his anxieties. But Yang would have to at least consider Diego’s words. As words from a superior. An older family member.

“That boy,” Worick thought. “He tiptoes around the issue, and causes more trouble for everyone in the end.”

At this point, he didn't know whom to worry about. If something happened to Delico, it would decimate any peace of mind left in Yang. And if something happened to Yang—he was the glue that held Delico's sanity together.

“Where is he now?”

Nic shrugged. “Probably still wandering. Didn’t seem like he was busy.”

“Sightseeing? I didn’t know Ergastulum was a tourist attraction. But, maybe one day, it’ll have some historical significance—”

He dropped his musings, noticing Nic’s annoyed face.

“I told you he’ll be fine.”

“What did he tell you?”

Worick grinned in amusement. “Grumpy old Nic has a heart after all! I might get jealous.”

The words made Nic cringe. It's not that it mattered if a guy flirted with him. But he knew Worick's ways; he flirted to divert attention. Nic wasn't going to get any answers.

“I'll head to Theo's then,” he signed, dropping the conversation.

Worick nodded in acknowledgement.

“Asshole.”

“Just go, Nic. I need to think.”

Nic's gaze shifted from the man's lips to his eyes, his expression flat. For a moment their looks interlocked in silence.

Nic’s eyes were rarely still; having one less sensory door to the world forced the other senses to compensate. But now, motionless black irises were fixed upon blue ones, making Worick want to shrink from the memories they induced. He had come to know those same eyes in his childhood, wondering what the hell went on in the head of his dark-haired companion. Only he had been wrong to believe there was anything unscrutinizable about that look. It was instead, transparent, as if everything passed through it. Nothing could imprint upon it, and it reflected nothing back.

The philosopher’s nightmare was that of an abyss gazing back into you. But, as he learned from a young age, it is far more terrifying if nothing gazes back.

He supposed that’s what Delico meant when he said twilights were different from normals. To survive, they had to let the world pass through them. One entanglement and there’s less uncertainty about your behavior, location, or whole identity. In an antagonistic world, being perceived can be lethal.

For a moment Worick had forgotten he was no longer a child. And if adults aren’t immune to fear, they can always mask it. His amiable composure returned, a pungent remark on his tongue, but Nic had already turned his back. Worick watched the shorter man walk away, his stature getting smaller as he approached the corner of the street. Twenty-two years, and he still didn’t know what went on in Nic’s head. The man would be fine, then suddenly disappear into a different frequency. What set him off this time?

Nic handled people by tossing them into two categories: people he could tolerate, and those he couldn’t. He could tolerate Worick for the most part. But, at times, the man’s behavior would leave an aftertaste of disgust; its precipitate, cold and bitter, settling at the pit of his stomach; a feeling Nic could neither digest nor vomit. He would look at Worick and see the brat he met twenty-two years ago, who thought he knew better than everyone else. And because he knew best, it was imperative he had to save the day.

Feared and revered for his photographic memory, few people recognized Worick had a severe blindspot. The realization had caused Nic to detest the saying “put yourself in someone else’s shoes”. You can have a fish in water, or throw a man into water; but you cannot make a man into a fish, or a fish into a man. When Worick borrowed another person's shoes, all he could think about was how he—Worick would react under the circumstances. As if the problem was some pure mathematical abstraction, detangled from the mess and mud that's someone's identity.

He was looking to solve, not understand.

It was the curse of a gifted child; surrounded by dumb adults, you realize the world is backwards, and frustrating, and it needs to be fixed. In short, Worick developed a hero complex. He had to save the day. Even when there was no day to be saved. To his misapprehension, when most people talk, they are not looking for someone to solve their problems. The other is rather a mirror, a differently formed reflection to better understand oneself.

It disgusted Nic to no end. Did Worick really believe no one else could think? That it was his burden alone, as if every adult, past and present, were incompetent?

Nic didn't want to infringe upon Yang's privacy. Neither was it in his character to get actively involved. But Worick’s dismissal, as if there was nothing he could do, infuriated him. It stemmed from kindness, Nic knew. But martyrdom-reeking kindness could only end in cruelty for all parties involved. Martyrs must have had no focal point but God, Nic thought. Otherwise, it would be rather unkind, to have mortal ties suffer the price of something as vague as an ideal. While Worick may think there was no point in attachments, he ought to have realized the consequences of people gravitating towards him. He didn’t, and that was a contradiction Nic couldn’t make sense of.

He was annoyed to the point of developing a headache. At least he'd get to see Nina soon. Painkillers should be safe with his usual medication. Not that he cared, to Nina's discontent. Perhaps there were three categories, Nic thought. Nina was one of the people he liked.

The cigarette's body burned out, as Worick contemplated Nic's behavior. He threw its crumbling form away.

“What a waste,” he thought.

He struggled with the thought of smoking another one. His brain was trained to run on cigarettes and cheap coffee. But running through a whole pack, this early in the day, was a habit not worth gaining. He bit his thumb in frustration. Maybe he could catch on some sleep. Nic wasn't going to be back until late afternoon. And there wasn't anything to do.

Worick didn’t bother to change, as he threw himself down onto the bed. The window stood wide open, with the blinds closed, to keep the room dark. It was a warm afternoon, and a meek air current swept through the crowded alley, rocking the blinds into a gentle rhythm, occasionally coated by the sound of scraping against the wall. Worick rolled on his back. The sunlight leaked through the window in thin bands, casting glowing strips of white across the walls and the floor. It was one of those scenes that trick the mind into fabricating a déjà vu of good times. A nostalgia of having experienced comforting warmth, as if all was right in the world.

It could lull one to sleep, Worick thought. He felt tired, but his brain wouldn't stop ruminating.

He could almost picture what would happen when Yang met Delico, later that day. It came down to overwork, he’d say. Maybe jokingly jab at Delico for being reckless, and complain that put a burden on him. Yang was only half-lying, Worick knew. Delico did put a burden on him, inadvertently. While Delico was looking at Erica, Yang was looking at both. From the moment the trio’s paradise was raided, even after all searches were called off, the two boys, now men, persisted in their will to find Erica. And after hope was gone, they lived on the expectation of something to happen—anything.

Love wasn’t quite the right word, Worick thought. Yang wouldn’t allow himself to love one, because he could only love both. Whatever happiness there could be stood suspended between them, a trivial distance neither dared to cross. It must be hard, Worick thought, to have the person you care about the most at your side, and not be able to reach. Their youth spent in a bubble of expectation, mutually repelling each other to keep it from collapsing into itself.

Perhaps he had misunderstood Yang. Instead of fantasizing of a stronger self, he may have hoped there was one person that day, instead of two. If Erica and Delico blended into one from the start, and that one was spared or disappeared, would it have been easier for Yang to move on? Would the absolute lack of hope, the certainty of it, be more comforting than a concern split in two? That way, Yang wouldn't be caught with a foot in his past, as he experienced his present.

The blinds rattled against the window. Was he starting to think like Yang? A split self, the turmoil that comes with it, what was the point of that metaphysical nonsense? It was a headache even to philosophers, and Yang was bound to grow out of it.

Worick turned on his side. If Nic was still at the clinic, he could call Theo for some sleeping pills. Maybe even walk there himself, if sleep didn't come soon.

NOTES

Disclaimer: I'm not a biologist. These are simply musings of a math and CS person on biology. DNA is code, so in theory you can program a cell to do anything. Even eat itself or others. So take it for what could be, instead of what is.

Coming chapters are more novel-like.

Notes: An attempt at constructing a snippet of how Connie and Marco fell in love.
***

There must be something wrong with her, Connie thought, to bring the man responsible for her parents' deaths to their grave. Granny would be furious, and that would upset her health.

She thought of the old woman, the picture corner in her meager room, all the candles and prayers spent on saints, to guide the souls of those who were never coming back. The memory of her parents, of all the lives lost, the horror and death reverberating through the city’s unconsciousness up to that day. Their shared history, the city’s own existence offended by his very presence. His bunch were intruders, destroyers, and they weren’t welcome there.

She knew of all that, and yet—the truth was, she had grown tired.

Soon after the incident, Connie saw a child being walked through the ravaged city, his hands bound in a heavy wooden weight, like some vengeful Jesus down his Calvary procession. People would hurl and scream in his direction, and there were red smears across his face. Then for five years he disappeared from the public eye.

Luca Cristiano was a smart man, and he could tame the beast, rumors said. Worick thought he was just a kind man without a plan. Cristiano didn’t know what he was getting into, and any attempt to re-instill humanity would not produce long lasting loyalty on the kid’s side. The mercy of time trampled the symbol of a killer into a curiosity, and Spas emerged from his rehabilitation as Marco Adriano, second in command to the Cristiano family.

That was when Connie’s annoyances started. For the past two years, she would spot him all over town, their eyes meeting in silence, before moving on. Chance occurrences and places converged into expected locations, with Marco often wandering around granny’s house. He harbored no twisted intentions, and she could tell, by his distraught demeanor, and the way his eyes would sink at the harshness of her gaze. Their involuntary game unfolded like clockwork; Marco couldn’t find the courage to apologise, and would shrink into the same corner or backstreet he appeared from, exacerbating Connie’s mood by the day.

She grew terribly tired—of the lack of resolution that was their relationship. They weren’t exactly strangers, and she couldn’t stand loose ties.

He held a bunch of flowers for two consecutive days, waiting at the familiar corner. She found him lost in thoughts on the second day, sitting on the outside stairs of the building, and staring absently at the ground. In Connie’s mind, Marco Adriano was a coward. Unaware of her presence, Marco shivered as he looked up, his eyes wide with surprise. She had taken a faulty move in their unspoken game, and it exhausted all the strength in his body to counter. Turns out Marco was truly a coward.

He had wanted to pay respect to Connie's parents, but had been too afraid to visit their grave on the day of their deaths. Hoping for a cruel miracle, he returned the next day, entertaining the futility of finding the right words to say, even though he couldn't for years. The barrier between them crossed, silence reigned once again. Marco said nothing as he followed her angry strides across the town, as if he had no right to even mumble, after all the trouble he had brought on her.

The books Marco had read ascribed a tender veneer to the macabreness of death, flowery prose smoothing its painful edges. Humans coped through aesthetics, erecting bridges of meaning and cultivating gardens of eternal repose, over the black, bottomless pit they didn’t dare look into. Cypresses and fig-trees in courtyards, roadsides of wild flowers, wet soft grass under one’s feet—an evergreeness of immortality. The common graveyard at the outskirts of Ergastulum laid barren in comparison; the grass was dull, and the wind rarely blew through the stubborn shrubs growing in spots.

Connie's parents shared a tombstone. At least normals had claims to a spot, and a name upon it, Marco thought. Twilights were buried in groups, all over the place, and one could be walking or living over their corpses, unknowingly. There was nothing poetic about death, and he knew, as its harbinger. He used to have nightmares, of the dead crawling out of open graves to swallow him whole. It was lucky and unfair that he was alive. Yet, it pained him to think of Connie amongst them, she who was so kind towards someone like him. After all those years, did she still think she was better off dead?

Lost in thoughts, he didn’t hear Connie ask for the flowers, her hand extended towards him. She put about half on the grave, returning the rest to Marco. He didn't object as he held the flowers, puzzled by the young woman's behavior.

“You know—I hate hot days like this,” she said, her voice exhausted by the oppressive summer heat. The sun was scorching, and there were no clouds in sight. “Your paycheck should be enough to buy a drink or two.”

***

Back at Bastard, Galahad was stupefied at the odd pair walking through the door. Loretta ran to Marco, locking the man into a warm hug. He flung his arm to the side, to keep the flowers from getting crushed.

“Would you look at it! Just like dad’s,” she twirled around to reveal her new burberry overalls, sharing the same pattern as her father’s suit.

The girl’s cheerfulness drew a wide smile from Marco, his eyes glimmering with tenderness. Connie was surprised to see Marco smile. When they first met, she couldn’t even read his face, from the amount of blood smeared on it. The only other mood she knew were his guilt-ridden expressions, as if he alone was suffering the death of God.

Galahad joined Loretta at greeting the duo, shocked but nonetheless delighted to see Connie. He wanted to learn more about how she and granny Joel were doing, but understood Marco needed her full attention. No one, outside of the Cristianos, interacted with Marco. He placed a glass of juice and a cup of coffee on the bar’s counter, then took his leave, pulling Loretta with him. The girl kept bugging about her father’s recent mission, wondering why he wasn’t back yet.

The place was officially closed until the evening, making Marco and Connie the only two customers. For a while, each kept shifting their stare between their drink and the shelves of bottles and glasses behind the counter, sitting uncomfortably on the high stools. Marco tore the packet of sugar with shaking hands.

“Why did you want me to keep them?” he asked, nodding towards the flowers resting on the countertop.

“The dead have no need for flowers, Marco Adriano,” she tightened her grip on the glass, finally looking at him. “That’s what they call you now, isn’t it?”

Marco didn’t know what to make of her placid gaze.

“I—I read it was a gesture—” he spoke in a frightened tone, stumbling over his words. “I didn’t mean to offend… Miss Constance—”

“Connie.”

“Connie,” he sighed.

Day after day, year after year, he had polished and rehearsed his speech. But no words came out, because deep in his heart he knew he had no right to speak. To Connie, he looked like the embodiment of unrest.

“I thought I’d never want to see you—after what you did to me—to us, to this city. I can’t forgive you, but I don’t hate you anymore.”

Marco covered his face with both hands in resignation. She was kind to the point of cruelty.

“I think you are a coward,” she continued in a tired voice, almost bored.

“I know.”

Connie couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t even look at her! Why was he, granny—why was everyone in this city a hostage to the past?

“At least look me in the eye when I talk,” she said, and Marco obliged, his face white with desperation.

“I was angry, and sad, and terrified. For nights on end, I obsessed over what it would be like, for my parents to still be around. I felt so lost—And then I realized how pointless it all was. All that mattered was what was left behind. The dead are just that—dead.”

Her glassy eyes betrayed her steady composure. She looked back at the shelves, sipping on juice after a moment’s pause. The silence between them relapsed.

“I have caused you a lot of distress,” he said, grazing the flower stems. “You will no longer see me if that's what you wish. But, I am happy—that you are alive.”

“Marco Adriano, you are a coward, and dull.”

He smiled.

“And you're the most amazing person I know. I'm glad I met you.”

Connie sprung to her feet, and clutched the flowers. Their conversation became too irksome, she thought, as she stomped towards the door. She turned abruptly around, finding Marco standing with a serene look on his face.

“You think you can come here and destroy, then act like nothing happened the moment someone is nice to you? You're part of us now! You'll soon find out how hard it is for the living.”

She spoke with an angry ring in her voice, clenching her fists. Marco remained unfazed as Connie walked out. It was as if, suddenly, he was able to see the light through the haze that was his life.

He almost spat his coffee, feeling Galahad's pat on his back.

“So you finally made a friend,” the bigger man said grinning, his voice full and resonant.

“You think so?”

“She takes from her parents. The Raveaus are often too honest, but they're good people.”

Marco nodded. Perhaps the city had succeeded in consuming him, reconstructing a new man from chewed-up pieces. He didn’t choose belongingness as much as it was thrust upon him, but there was nothing he could do to change that.

***

“You still can’t get it right?”

There was visible annoyance in Connie’s face as she stepped into the young man’s view. She had explained the shortcut to granny’s place three times by now, and he still managed to drift in random directions. It was impressive how disoriented Marco could get.

He beamed at the sound of her voice, watching the young woman with amusement.

“It’s not funny, Marco. I always have to come and pick you up. How can you fight for the Cristianos, if you can’t even find your way?”

He nodded, unable to suppress his smile. “Indeed. I would be lost—without you.”