Blacksheep

I

It was raining steadily onto the streets of the city. Clouds, burnt black like charcoal, poured their endless contents into the world of men. These streets were as black as the clouds that hung overhead, but not even this endless torrent of water could clean the city of its smoke, of its dirt, of its filth. Nothing could remove it, for it was there when the streets were made, out of the smoke of fire, out of the sweat of its maker, and it will be there when it all falls back down to dust, back to the dirt from whence it came. But the end has not come to this world of men, for they still walk along these streets, amongst these buildings, minding one's business and ignoring all others. Some are pure, a white speck upon this charcoal drawing, yet most are dark, filled with the corruption of the city that surrounds them. While the pure attempt to sweep away the filth that is sewn deeply in the threads of this city, it is ultimately a futile calling, for the evils of men are hidden well in the shadows of this city.

A faint splashing sound echoed throughout the empty streets, almost inaudible due to the deafening rumble of the intense rain, and the unending torrent of horns from the nearby traffic. A young man, not yet seventeen, was running through the rain and black concrete, seemingly without direction. His mouth was moving with small mutterings, but whatever he was saying was lost within the rumbling of the heavy rain. He was wearing a ruddy white shirt that clung to his thin body, a white shirt that was stained by the unmistakable mark of splattered blood. These stains enveloped his entire body, ranging from small dots of red to large wells of crimson, and even the unending rainfall from above failed to wash away the blood of another.

The young man suddenly turned to climb a small brick stairwell that lead to small complex of apartments above. These apartments were incredibly old; they were the first buildings to be made when the city was first established as a trading town. They were now a large part of the city's history, and thus were incredibly expensive, so much that only the historically elite now dwelled in them. The rich could be found anywhere, it seems. The young man quickly climbed the set of stairs, tall and narrow and wedged between two low brick walls. He came to a small, yet heavy, oak door that stood at the top of the stairwell, and he reached for the copper door handle. It was locked, as expected. No one in their right mind would leave their door unlocked in a neighborhood like this. The boy frantically reached into his back pocket and procured a set of keys. Attached to the keys was a small porcelain figure that served as a keychain. It was of a small, blue bird.

The young man's frenzy ended, quite suddenly, at the sight of the small stone carving. He stared at the blue bird, taking in its fine details, its small etchings. He watched intently as the lightly polished surface let off a luminous glow. Muddled thoughts and clouded memories started to flow through his disquieted mind, memories that were shattered at once, as soon as the boy noticed the small spot of black that adorned the bird's tiny beak. It was blood, the same blood that now stained the boy's clothes and skin. The young man closed his eyes tightly, trying to scatter the newly formed congregation of thought, as he grabbed the only key that was chained to the bird. He jammed the key into the keyhole, putting the entire weight of his body onto the old oak door. It gave away quite easily, loudly slamming into the wall that stood behind it.

The boy staggered inside, and resumed his tortured and inhuman mutterings. A small light turned on from within the apartment, as the figure of a tall, brown-haired middle-aged woman appeared before the boy. She stared groggily at the young man, quite startled, and yet still numb from the deep sleep she was just awoken from. She stared at the young man, trying to discern his identity from within her tired mind. It all came at once.

"...Daniel?" she said quietly, her confusion obvious. Daniel stumbled forward and quickly embraced the woman, as tears forcefully flowed down his pale face. His mutterings were now quite audible.

"Never again...never again...never again..."

II

Smoke. Cigarette smoke to be sure. That's all I could see and smell, that suffocating smell of a cigarette that's not your own. This choking mist burned my eyes and singed my throat, but I pressed on into the bar, closing the door behind me, closing off the crisp night air that it held back, until I could no longer taste its purity. Now all I could taste was the smoke, but it wasn't long until I realized that it no longer choked my shallow breaths. The sickening taste left as quickly as it appeared, and it seemed that I had become accustomed to these clouds of ash. Maybe it's because I was a smoker once, a long time ago. I don't know why I decided to quit, I guess I just finally realized that it did far more harm than good. Either way, I could no longer feel the smoke's overbearing presence, and I now could pretend that it was never there in the first place. I guess I should be grateful, now I could focus on the job.

My eyes wandered around the room, the upper tier of a two-floored bar. I had come in through the back entrance, a heavy oak door that stood at the top of a small iron-wrought flight of stairs that hung on the side of the old city architecture. The stairs were old and rusted, barely used compared to the large front entrance, two large doors hinged side by side. By the looks of the place, it seemed that even the front entrance was scarcely used, and that this bar, reminiscent of the speakeasies of America's past, was soon coming to an end. Time-worm tables lined the upper floor, and as I looked down over the balcony, I saw the same tables, accompanied by an endless row of booths forever stained with thing only God knows, and etched with words, from the wise to the obscene, of men long gone. Old sports jerseys hang on the wall behind a pane of glass, each of them signed by some old sports legend, some know world-wide, but most known only to the bar owner and his residents. I sighed and shook my head at the knowledge that soon, this will all be gone. Even though I knew that there were countless other bars the same as this, with their own heroes and epitaphs, my heart fell. Decades of layered dust, raucous laughter, muddled tears, and ageless tales have all compounded into this shadow of a tavern, and soon this mix of oak and memories will fade away, never to be known again. But it seems that there will be one more tale to occur within these walls, but this tale is not one of sports and champions, but one of crime and revenge, and somehow, I've gotten myself into the thick of it.

My eyes fell upon the lone person sitting in this antiquated loft. He was sitting down, tending to a glass of what appeared to be gin and tonic, complete with ice and lime. Next to the glass was an ashtray, filled to the brim with cigarettes long smoked and finished. Apparently he was the source of all this smoke, not that it mattered. He was facing away from me, but I could tell who he was. After all these years, I could still tell that he was my brother. It was his deep auburn hair gave him away. I could still remember it after all these years.

As I took a step towards Nicholas, that was my brother's name, the old wooden boards creaked beneath my feet. Nick quickly turned around to see the source of the sound. As cautious as always, I see. A look of confusion, then astonishing disbelief flowed over his face, as he stood up from his chair, and took a step towards me.

"Daniel…" He paused for a moment, making sure he wasn't seeing things. I don't blame him. "I didn't think you would show."

"Yeah." I said softly. Even I didn't believe I was actually here.

Nicholas stood there, staring at me for a while, taking me in, my features, my expression, everything that he missed in these fourteen years apart. I did the same. "So…I guess this means you've forgiven me.

I looked down, and stared at the aged wood that made up the floor, supporting us from the bar below. I knew Nick would ask about that. The truth is, I haven't really forgiven them for dropping me off with my aunt and leaving me to go…wherever, and I'm still angry about it, but…as I see it, you've only got one family, and if they need my help, then by God I'll help them.

"No, it doesn't." I said sternly. Nick backed off when he heard this, but I continued, "When I heard your voice for the first time in fourteen years, I was angry, real angry…but then I thought, I was young, and father knew that I didn't have what it takes to be part of the family, part of the Polito name. I was twelve for God's sake, I couldn't be going around with you, especially with the things you guys were doing…and after mom died…I…I was in no position to go with you. And while I'm still angry…you need my help…and that's what family is all about, isn't it?"

Nick stared at me for a while, seemingly in disbelief. Then a slight, sincere smile flashed across his face. "Yeah…I guess that's true. I'm glad you could make it, brother." He took a step closer to me. He seemed to be a little less anxious. "So…how have things been? For you, I mean?"

I shrugged " Life with Aunt Stella has been pretty good. I got through school just fine, and now I'm working. I even plan on going to college next year…so things have been alright." I gave a slight smile, as a sign of proof that my life's been fine these last fourteen years. Nick's eyes, however, widened in surprise, and then closed again.

"Aunt…Stella, eh?" Nick said slowly, in an almost questioning way.

"Yeah…you haven't forgotten your own aunt's name, have you?" I said, jokingly.

He stared at me for a while longer, eyes barely open, like he was thinking hard about something. He then shook his head, and put on a similar smile, "Nah…of course not. I remember ol' Stella. It's been too long." Nick paused, his eyes looking down in thought, "So that's what's kept you busy for all these years. I guess I'll have to tell you what I've been doing all this time, but I'll leave that 'till later. We have some more important things to do…" His words trailed off as he slowly walked towards the edge of the balcony, not even making a sound on the aged warped wood. I looked back down to the lower floor, and noticed something different about the back wall. Instead of the sports memorabilia that covered that rest of the room, the entire middle wall was covered top to bottom with old movie posters, all original prints, by the looks of it. I was always a huge movie fan, especially of the classics. Mom was an old beauty of the silver screen, and she used to tell me stories of all the old movies she starred in. These were the times with Mom I remember most, and I guess her stories just rubbed off on me.

My gaze fell downward, to the floor below. Tending to the bar was the owner. A man in his fifties, he was lifelessly washing a large glass mug at the sink, his large, ruddy hands methodically scrubbing away. I couldn't see him that well, as the balcony I was on was built on top of the bar, but it was apparent that his failing business had affected him greatly. I looked beyond the bar to the rows of tables and booths that lined the walls. All of them were empty, no surprise, except for one. Two occupants filled a circular booth at the corner of the room, a man and a woman. They were talking to each other, seemingly oblivious to the two of us. The man had a simple beer bubbling in front of him, golden, yet unremarkable, much like the man himself. He was thin, perhaps a little too thin, with a messy old sports jacket that clung tightly to his small frame. He had black hair that grew a little too long in the back. By the looks of it, he was making the most of the conversation, with her simply nodding and laughing in response to his many comments. My first impression was of him was that he was a sort of a trickster, a seedy type of guy who talked too much, but was pretty tame otherwise. The woman, however, was another story.

She was a small, petite blonde that appeared to be in her mid-twenties. Her pale blue eyes glowed from within the murk and shadows of the booth she was sitting in. A fragile glass of champagne dangled innocently between her fingertips, reflecting the light of her eyes and of the surrounding atmosphere. She was discordant with the dusty bar, and with her dishevelled companion. Still, the smile on her face suggested that she was enjoying her time with the trickster. The sly vagrant and the young girl. An odd couple, to say the least. I guess that's just how it goes.

"There she is." Nick said, in a whisper. "That's the one." So, she was our target, the whole point of the job.

"Who's the other guy?" I asked, matching Nick's whisper. It was a pretty obvious question, I admit.

"I don't know. It doesn't matter." He turned away from the railing and stared directly at me, his once light demeanour now replaced with a dead seriousness. A seriousness I haven't seen since…

"She had to die. She killed him." I blinked, and Nick was fourteen again. He stared at me with a dead seriousness.

"What?" I said, not believing my eyes. I blinked again, and Nick had aged fourteen years.

"I said, you stay up here and watch the boyfriend, and make sure he doesn't try anything." He continued his stare. "Are you ok?"

I nodded, shaking away the previous discrepancy of time. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Here, you'll need this." He reached into his jacket pocket, and silently pulled out a handgun from within it's folds. I didn't know what brand or type it was. He discreetly handed it to me. I felt the cool, rough, black metal of the pistol dangle innocently between my fingers.

"Do you know how to use it?" Nick asked. I nodded. Oddly enough, I did. I don't even remember the last time I held a gun, let alone where I learned to use one. Yet, the motions were firmly ingrained in my mind.

"Alright, here we go. Remember, once I take care of her, go downstairs the back way, and get into the car, into the driver's seat. And if the boyfriend tries anything…shoot him." A cold wave shuddered across my body. I knew I had to expect something like this but…all I could hope for is that he doesn't try anything.

Nick slowly made his way down the ancient stairwell to the ground floor, and casually walked over to the booth that the couple were sitting at. He started to talk to them, and although his voice was too low to hear, I could tell that by their reaction that it was all just small talk. Then it started.

Nick whipped out the gun he was hiding in his coat, and in one stroke, smashed the woman in the head with the grip of his pistol. Her head fell lifelessly to the table, but I could tell by where he hit her that she was still alive. The trickster stared at his fallen girl in shock, seemingly unable to move. His entire body began to shudder in fear.

"Hey, what the hell are you doing?" A rough voice called out from behind the bar. Nick whipped around to face the bartender. He pointed his gun at him. I couldn't see the bartender at this angle, so I couldn't tell his reaction.

"I'm sorry about this." Nick said, casually. He then shot the bartender two times, one shot right after the other. I couldn't see it, but I heard it. The thick, sickening sound of his body hitting the floor. It seems he would die before his tavern would. I then looked at Nick. The serious look on his face was gone, now replaced with an emotionless stare. He had just killed a man in cold blood. An innocent man…Nick didn't tell me this would happen. This wasn't part of the job…I had no more time to think about it, however, as I looked back up to the vagrant. His hand was in his coat. Within it, I could see the glimmer of the cold, black metal. This was it. He was doing exactly what I didn't want him to do. He was trying something. And I had to do something about it. I raised the gun that Nick gave me to arm's length, and pointed it at the trickster. I rubbed my finger around the trigger, becoming intimate with every groove, every edge. I took a deep breath. I closed my eyes.

"Never again…never again…never again…"

I opened my eyes. Something within me stopped me from shooting, so I did the next best thing. "Nick! Behind you!" I screamed. The trickster, startled by my voice, took a desperate shot at my brother.  Nick wheeled around just in time to get out of the way of the lethal shot, and the bullet that was meant for his heart instead nicked the lower part of his torso. A fan of blood splattered across the floor as the bullet grazed deep across his skin and hit the wall behind the bar. Nick faltered slightly at the immense pain of his wound, but the adrenaline flowing through his veins forced him on. Nick aimed at the vagrant, who was frozen in fear and seemingly unable to move. He was completely silent, none of his words could help him now. Nick shot a single bullet at the trickster, piercing his forehead, and splattering the old movie posters behind him with a sea of blood. His head fell back into the crimson, his eyes lifeless.

Nick stood there for a few moments, his breath strenuous. He then collapsed to one knee, the pain of his injury apparent. If only I had shot the vagrant…he would've been fine…

"Danny! Get down here!" Nick yelled up to me. I stood there, frozen in shock for a few seconds, before I ran down the stairs to help Nick.

"Nick! I'm sorry…I…" I stuttered, bending down to help him.

"It doesn't matter!" Nick said in between breaths. "Just pick her up and bring her to the car in the back. Put her in the backseat. I'll be with you in a second."

"Can you walk?"

"Yeah. I'll be fine. Just go." I nodded, and walked over to blood-splattered booth, where the woman and her dead partner lay. I reached over and carefully picked up the girl. I stared at her face. Despite the small trickle of blood that flowed from the wound on her head, there was a calm serenity on her face, as if none of this had ever happened. In her mind right now, there was no strange, auburn-haired man who knocked her unconscious, or brutally killed her boyfriend. There was only the musty atmosphere of the bar, the rich velvet of her friend's voice, and the shimmer of champagne. I carefully made my way to the back door, before giving one last glance to the scene behind me. Only moments ago this place was just an old sport's bar that held the ghosts of the past, and as I stared at the still bodies of the old bartender and the young trickster, I realized that it was a place of fond memories no longer. Now it was a blood-stained slaughterhouse.

I looked back towards the old oak door, and made my way to the crisp chill of the midnight air. I could finally breathe again. Not wanting to be seen with an unconscious woman, I quickly made my way through the dark, iron dusted back alley to the car I came here in. It was a jet-black 1978 Ford Mustang, a good eight years old. I opened up the back seat door and carefully placed the girl in the back seat. I walked up to the front door and opened it, sitting down in the driver's seat. I rested my head and my arms on the steering wheel, taking a moment to rest and think. I closed my eyes. What will happen now? Is Nick coming back? Where will we go if he does? Where will I go if he doesn't?

Just then, Nick violently opened up the passenger door, waking me from my thoughts. He fell into his seat, trying not to put any extra pressure on his wound, which he had bandaged up with what looked to be a dish towel from the tavern. "Drive!" he commanded. I fiddled around for my keys, before placing the right one into the ignition, and backing up the car onto the streets beyond. I looked back to Nick. He was tending to his wound, which was starting to bleed through the white washcloth onto the upholstery.

"Are you ok?" I said, feebly. It was my fault that he was like this.

"Yeah…I'll be fine." He said, breathing deeply. He didn't seem to have any anger in his voice.

"So…where are we going?" I asked. He hadn't yet told me where we were supposed to go once we get the girl. His response sent a chill up my spine.

"Home, Danny. We're going back home."

III

The low creaking sound of the thin kitchen door echoed amongst the empty halls, as the small form of a young boy slowly crept onto the ceramic tile. He looked across the room to see a weary middle-aged woman sitting at the plastic kitchen table. It was his mother. She was staring soulfully at a small picture album that was laid out in front of her. The sound of the boy slamming the door behind him awoke her from her chance, pulling her glance from the album up to her son. As she saw her son meander towards her, her bleak expression slowly turned into a weak smile.

"Oh, Daniel!" she said, greeting her son. "You know you're not supposed to slam doors." The little boy nodded innocently, slightly ashamed of his indiscretion. His mother's weak smile blossomed into a warm grin. "Oh well, no harm done. Come here for a second, I want to show you something." Daniel hopped up onto his mother's lap, and stared at the picture album she held in her hands. Inside where old, fraying photographs, stained brown with age. Every one of them were in black and white.

"This was from when I was a young girl, Daniel. A long time ago." Daniel studied the photographs intently. They were photos of his mother, alright. She was much, much younger, a woman in her early twenties. In each of them she was with people Daniel has never seen before. Men, women, all her age, some younger, some older. Many, many different faces. In each photo was someone new. It seemed that his mother knew a lot of people when she was young. The only constant in this album was her mother, and while each photo was blurred with age, the smile and joy on her face was clear. In each photo, the world was her oyster. She was nothing like she was now.

Still, a piece from her younger years still stood within her older self, hidden, repressed. It almost never showed itself, but during times like this, in times of deep and joyful nostalgia, it blossomed. "These were from when I was a big star in Hollywood." She said, turning the pages of the album in quick succession until she turned to the right set of photographs. They were a set of promotional stills, photos taken during filming to advertise for the movie. There she was, serious, yet playful, seductive. A tight satin dress and fur shawl tightly wound about her body, as she smiled and stared longingly into the male lead's dark eyes. In reality, she was just simply a young B-movie actress from the 1950's, but in this photograph, she was in the 1920's. She was a vixen, a seductress, a criminal. But now, she was just a broken housewife, too scared to express her emotions.

Daniel's mother flipped to other pages of the album. All of them were pretty much similar, it seemed the only role she played in her short career was crime movie seductresses. Yet they brought her joy all the same. "I really played a lot of these crime movies, didn't I Daniel? Some people would call it typecasting, but actually I really loved these crime movies. The smoke, the lights, the intrigue, the intensity of crimes hidden in the shadows, all of it excited me, it made me feel alive. Filming these movies was one of the best times of my life." she whispered, her words and consciousness drifting off to another time. She quickly closed her eyes and shook her feelings away turning her child.

      "I guess I'll have to tell you all about them, but we'll have to leave that for another time. I have supper to make…" She said as she stood up, leaving Daniel to look through the album himself. As Daniel's scanning eyes moved from the picture to picture, he began to frown in confusion. Something was missing.

"Daddy?" he said, just loud enough to be heard. Daniel looked down at the photo book, then looked back at his mother questioningly. Her smile faltered somewhat, as she looked Daniel in the eyes sympathetically. "No, daddy isn't in any of the those photos, these were taken before I met your father…" she said, trailing off as she ran her fingers through her son's hair. In truth, she had no photos of her husband to speak of.