THE REBIRTH

PART I: Beginnings.

I have a secret I can never tell. We all do, we all have a treasure trove of unsaid events that shame us into holding them inside. They snake their way in, toy with you and taunt you until you cannot fathom why you ever did what you did or said what you said. They have the power to twist you into their own ugliness. In truth, a person’s strength is a measure of their ability to live with their secrets. In this sense, I am a modern day Hercules.

It is said that a person is nothing more than the sum of their own actions; they are a culmination of consequences. A person can be simplified and reduced to nothing more than a mirror, a reflection of typical social ills. I am just such a representation but my category is cast in shadow. You could label me, you could hook a tag around my toe, stamp a claim on my forehead, but it would not be true, not fully anyway. I hold my secrets close. I have always taken pride in my ability to blend into the shadows.

My home is the night, right now, the city I dwell in is held firmly in the grasp of darkness. The stars are lost behind the clouds that hurl ferocious raindrops into the earth like they had some kind of vendetta against it. They strike stone, they strike metal and glass, it doesn’t matter, as every drop hits and erupts like crystal shattering into a thousand pieces. In my eyes, the sky is bleeding across the entire city; it bleeds over me as I huddle in this grotty doorway.

I shiver and pull the lapels of my coat up around my cheeks, thrust my hands into my pockets. Rhythmically, I shift my weight from foot to foot, I am dancing alone.

The sky sees everything, it sees what we are, watches as we go about cultivating secrets and using them to destroy lives. It watches me; it has seen me with and without my mask. The sky knows my plight, understands my purpose and my need. It knows this and so it weeps.

A secret; when I was nine I strangled a cat and tossed it in the woods. It was my cat and I hated it, resented its horrible face, its detestable little existence. So I put it down and I was so ashamed I hid the deed, told my mum he had run away. I couldn’t cope with the memory and I tried to forget. This guilt I carried was the only thing that kept me from tipping into oblivion, but that is not the way of things now.

The air is fresh, pure, I breath it in and it’s like I am taking my first breath. The oxygen rushes into my lungs and they welcome it, they bathe in it and I feel alive. I take another breath, fill my lungs to capacity and then expel the air in a fogged cloud. I watch it drift off into the night, spiralling upwards in between the two high rise blocks that flank either side of me. My life, flying away; it’s like a piece of me given back to the world.

The time is a little after eleven, I am waiting, patiently. I have always been patient, my past life in school spent waiting for my life to begin and allowing me to hone my skill, strengthen my determination. I look down the alley, listen intently but hear nothing but the rain and the distant rumblings of late night traffic. Above me I can hear someone’s radio, and I can hear the faintest murmurings of chatter coming from a dozen different rooms. This sound is an amalgamation of tedium and I wait further.

Guilt is a funny emotion. It is the driving force behind many a secret. Without it there is no way to discern between right and wrong. It is God’s greatest weapon; it is the hold he has over us. A person is only emotionally capable of handling what their guilt will allow them to. To an extent we all have our limitations, it’s just some of us have a higher tolerance than others. We use this to gauge levels of evil and levels of goodness. This is the spectrum by which we measure ourselves, punish and reward.

Me, I am different, I am switched on, and I am activated. What I mean, I will never tell. This is my big secret.

I rub my face and it feels like I am peeling away a layer of skin. The rain has soaked through my clothing and as I shift my feet I can feel water squelching from my socks. I shiver, feel a light breeze lash at my face and bite at my cheeks. I hope it will not be much longer, hope I will not have to go home empty handed again. I need an answer; I need a trail to follow.

Two years ago I had a little medical problem. It was a common one, a familiar one usually of little consequence, but for me it was the turning point in my sequence of events. This condition concerned my vermiform appendix. Vermiform is a Latin term and means, ‘worm shaped’. An appropriate term, I feel, for the insignificant lump of meat connected to the cecum. It is a little worm we are told we can do without, a piece of us evolution deemed defunct. It seems to serve no purpose and in that lie we have trust. I know better.

I had developed a dull and visceral pain in my stomach, a common symptom of appendicitis. My doctor referred me to a specialist and I was told I was to have my appendix removed. There was a clinic that had only just recently opened and I was referred there, examined and pencilled in for an operation to be performed by a doctor Fleuriciam, an odd name pronounced Flew-reach-him. I could never get it right and he often looked at me with disdain as I struggled with it.

The operation was, of course, a success, Dr Fleuriciam telling me I had done well and he was very pleased with the results. I accepted this as it was, why wouldn’t I right, and I was in hospital for a few days to recover. My life was saved, I thought, even though I was never in danger.

It is argued that the appendix is nothing more than the left-over’s of an appendage once functional in a distant ancestor. The most probable use, given its location, was in the digestive process back in a time when people were predominantly herbivorous. But as we evolved and our diet changed, its usefulness, its effectiveness waned and it was replaced by something more effective. Yet still it remains, still it has the power to kill when infected. Perhaps evolution is not as efficient as it seems leaving this possible death threat behind, or, as I can attest to, there is something more to it...there is a secret.

A figure approaches me, his shoulders hunched against the rain, His footsteps echo in the stone; they splash the puddles that decorate the ground. I watch him intently, try to get a read on him, and try to anticipate his intent.

He comes up next to me and I can make out his face beneath his trucker cap. His facial skin is a mess of lines, stress and time scribbling over his eyes, cheeks and forehead. Clumps of greying hair sneak out around the edges of his cap and stubble sprouts unevenly along his jaw. His nose is squint, his eyes lost in shadow and he smells of unwashed clothing and body odour.

Looking me up and down, he speaks in a dull whisper. “Are you the guy?”

I angle my body so I face him; we are two silhouettes in the rain as it slashes the world into pieces. My hands remain in my pockets, my fingers coil around a solid wooden handle. Inside my head I begin to count. In response to his question I nod.

“It wasn’t a good idea meeting in the open like this, it’s not safe,” his eyes dart nervously in their sockets. His unease is palpable and I can understand why, tracking this guy down had not been easy. A man who does not want to be found always has his reasons and they are rarely positive.

I try to offer him some form of comfort. “Relax,” I say while looking around the alley, “there is no one watching, no one around. Well, no one that cares anyway. Did you bring what I asked?”

He hesitates, looks at me with suspicion. “I’ve heard a lot about you my friend.”

“All good I hope,” I say, knowing full well that it probably isn’t.

He laughs, splutters and coughs like he is trying to hack up his lungs. He composes himself. “Yes well, depends on your point of view I guess. You get things done, that’s what I hear, don’t have much time for the consequences.”

“We are all just a collection of consequences, no point dwelling on a jigsaw that will never make sense. “

“Yeah, whatever the hell that means.”

I laugh, I doubt there is a single person who could comprehend the absurdity inside my head but then I am one of a kind, I am a species long since defunct.

He says, “If anyone finds out I gave you this,” his finger slashes over his throat, “I’ll be punching my ticket out of here, and it wont be pleasant. Discretion is divine here Christian, there are a lot of people looking for you too, a lot of, shall we say, bastards you don’t want to mess with.”

I feel my nose clogging up, sniff hard and decide it would be best to hurry things along and get out of the rain. “I know the type.” I say.

“I bet you do, recognise your own and all that right.”

“They are not my own, there is no one like me.”

He looks at me with doubt in his eyes. “That’s what all the pretty wannabes say and you know what, they’re all alike so what makes them so special? What makes you so goddamn unique?”

I sigh, tense my eyes and hold out my hand. With a sly smile he reaches inside his trench coat and pulls out a file, slaps it into my waiting hand. The paper is wet, the type inside beginning to run. I leaf through the pages while I speak. “I’m different because I was not born like you or anybody else in this world. I was created by a man, a very determined man with a dream and the knowledge to make that dream a reality. I am nothing more than the ambition of another made flesh. I am a consequence of somebody else’s life.”

He looks confused and says, “You speak a lot of crap my friend.”

“Maybe or perhaps your limited mind is unable to comprehend. You don’t strike me as a hoarder of thoughts.” I stop and stare at a photo in the file. It’s of a man I recognise, a man I could call father if I so wished. My finger comes to his face, trails down his figure. The photo shows him emerging from a limousine outside of a grand looking hotel. “Where is this,” I ask pointing at the photo.

He looks. “That’s the Wuthering Hotel. It’s on the outskirts of town. Very plush, it's not for the likes of us.”

I ignore the fact he just tried to lump us into the same category. “And when was this taken?”

“About three days ago, I think.”

“Be sure,” I urge.

He mulls it over, chews his fingernail, “Yeah, two nights ago.”

I sigh, close the file and hug it under my left arm. My right hand delves back into my coat pocket, feels a comforting weight. “So is it two nights ago or three days?”

“Two nights ago, like I said. That guy rarely stays in one place for too long.”

“So I have found,” I say ruefully. “Does this file contain everything you know?”

“That it does. I even added some of my own musings and opinions to boot, at no extra charge,” he clicks his finger and points at me, winks. I don’t get it. “And moving onto payment...”

I force a smile. “Of course...” My hand grips tight and my muscles flex. My arm moves in a slashing movement and I bring his payment across his throat. The warmth of his blood splatters my face as it geysers from his neck in an arterial shower. He stands upright for a few seconds, gagging and wide eyed, and then he is on the ground, the rain washing his blood across the ground.

These secrets of ours, these truths that will shame us to hell, I have so many.

I look at my source, he’s still dying, and the light in his eyes is nothing more than a glimmer giving way to darkness. I step over him and take off down the alley. I forget him already. Like I said, I am free from guilt, but I am not yet free from my secrets. I won’t be, not until I find this man, not until I find my father. I cannot be free until I find Dr Fleuriciam and get my answers.