A town.

Bustling with life over bright wood healthily smiling in the Sun. There were mats of pots and pans, and there were different types of food laid out for sale in little jars. Mostly, it was people, shouting, bumping, ignoring the little figure panting, desperately searching with eyes of black and green for a support. Suddenly the crowds scream and the bustling die down and give way to the macho and commanding deep growling. The crowds parted and became very silent as the lackeys by the leader whipped the silver thin barrels gripped by a handle, and with the movement of a trained finger, a heart would be seized. All that remained of the crowd was a young tanned child. The leader smirked.

The Black Rip.

Run, the leaves said.

Run, the people gave him weird glances.

Run! The dust flecks rose from their position from the ground and poked at his scrawny legs of stick and skin.

Run! The Wind blew past and howled in his ears. It swept his feet up and turned him in the other direction, and then he ran. He ran and ran and ran. Behind him, he could hear the pattering of shiny black protected by soft rubber bouncing behind him marking pursuit. He heard something else as well; a sharp clattering, ringing in his ear, cleanly slicing through the muffled sounds of chase. It sounded inviting. It lured his hand to a belt he wore, and he touched the clean and stoic blades of waiting metal. He cringed.

I do not want to go back.

I do not want to go back...


He did not want to kill again. He did not like the warm liquid that tasted bland yet powerful. His eyes squeezed shut at the wide cries of a rough voice rocketing towards the sky. But he wanted to live... He needed to save someone important... And so, his instincts kicked in, and brought out the fiery conquistador in him. He totally lost control. He whipped around and skillfully drew out the little knifes, before expertly leaping off the ground and out of the way of black bullets. He landed gracefully amidst the crowd of hooligans. As they prepared their deadly guns, he took the chance to slide his knives gently, but with the precision of an artist, into the tight grip of the pursuers, not enough to severe, yet enough to draw blood. As their grip loosened, he scooped the guns out gracefully and flung them to a place far away, probably into the roof of a house. As their cries of pain rang out, he cringed. The leader swung out his bleeding hand, and all at once, the lackeys growled and lunged at the small tanned figure. He closed his eyes, and began fighting them off. His arms swung in an arc with the sharp ends of the knives drawing a quick semicircle of white in the Sun, tainted with red drops screaming in agony, writhing onto the floor and falling to their miserable deaths as little flat drops of sticky maroon. At some points, he punctured the knives straight into toned hard bodies- those who have yet to realize his wrath, those who kept coming back in miserable attempts like that of a desperate dog. They were no more than dogs anyway.

As the injured retreated, and the dead fell, the bloodied boy opened his eyes, now a sadistic green gleaming with menace, and turned his gaze towards the cringing leader. The leader cursed, before turning tail and walking off in an attempt to be dignified. The bloodied figure slipped his knives back into his belt, and limped for an alley.

There, in the dark, he thought of his training session with his Japanese senior. They were standing in a forest of pink trees- Sakura, were they not? Their pink petals fluttered down daintily like petite dancers, and landed gently on the ground, unmoving and lifeless, yet warm, like a mother who died protecting her child. The pink petals always reminded him of his mother- the only one who stuck by him, the only one who sent him to school, the only one who sung to him... And the only one he had cried upon killing. She was gone. Disappeared by his own bloodied hands. Yet, despite the memories, the Sakura made him feel nice. They were a constant reminder that- although he knew this could not be true- his mother did not hate him. His Japanese senior had known this, and brought him here to do his practice.

" Training sounds very sad," He used to say and pat the small boy's head, every time he asked why it was not referred to as training. Then they would proceed to do exercises.

" Follow their flow." His commanding but gentle voice echoed far away in the tiny Spaniard's mind. He was standing amidst thick dark trunks holding his knives, panting and puffing amidst the dancing pink petals. His senior was standing majestically on a trunk of a cut away tree, not panting, not sweating.

"How to do that?" Antonio had inquired curiously while sipping some tea. Old Man had remembered to put in some sugar cubes for him, for that he was glad.

" Just follow their flow," The Japanese man would say, and ruffle Antonio's hair, " Don't you hear them calling out to you? Just concentrate well, relax, and listen carefully." He would then stand up, and start to walk towards nowhere in particular. " Everything in the world has a breathe of its own. Once you concentrate enough, you can hear them. Then comes finding their pattern, and then you will be able to grasp their flow. This will tell you many things." He would then ponder for a while for something to use as an example. He would pick out one of the elements of nature and start telling Antonio what he found out from them. Those were the only memories that could compete those with his mother.

He was now in a field of sunflowers, crouched over a sleeping figure, his arm wrapped around the older man's waist, his other arm supporting a limp neck rigid from cold. His senior had been killed-murdered- by his own colleagues. The pretty sunflowers were no longer a vibrant yellow- they were drooping grey in the clouds hung tightly over the skies. They grinned wickedly and crooked their red leaves at Antonio. He heard clearly, his anguished scream, running far through the blackened yellow, tearing past the green crying red. That day he remembered; his beloved Old Man's face shone with soft white when the little light the clouds allowed tossed themselves and anchored to the grieving duo. The young face used to be youthful, but weary with age. Now, however, it was no longer a mask to hide the old; it was really just the face of a sleeping teen, peacefully bathing in the neutral peace.

He was free.



No longer made to kill.

He buried his senior under the Sakura trees that they both loved so much.

Good night, que se duerma usted.

The 'WHEE-OOH WHEE- OOH' of approaching justice bearers burst forth and crept cautiously towards the little escapee. He pulled back from his memories and broke through the surface of nostalgia and pain, attacked by a wave of heat coursing through his tired body. He heard the commanding wailing of the police sirens, and knew that he must run. As the frantic sirens blared louder, he gingerly rose, and climbed along the red brick walls.

Ok, so that's it. The longest first chapter I wrote. I really think I am getting sick in the head because first I write tragedy, now I write murder.

Que Se Duerma Usted is Spanish for ' You fall asleep' or 'Good night'.

In later chapters, if you squint you might notice that it is related to the Class 10 Delinquent School series.

Enough of the crappy Author Notes, and just read and review. Do read my other stories too.

Most importantly.


Even though I know I won't resist the urge to post a new chapter regardless of review or not...