the boy with blood stains
A short story I wrote for the entry for this kalon, and won with. Covers the three parts of who he is, where he is, and why?
where they are
I was born in Romania, one of the most superstitious countries in the world - you can barely take a step without someone saying swearing you'll be dead by Christmas. Naturally, my birth had people swearing I'd be a crime boss by fifteen. Or be the next Dracula. But the first came first: and, if you know me, I tend to be set in my ways -- maybe too gullible -- and took that superstition as the truth and grew up believing that's just what I'm going to be.
My parents were rich, and we lived in a nice house, with cobblestone walls. My parents had me well-educated and made sure my media access was limited, so I could speak proper. Quietly, I think, our home was like Dracula's, but not yellow: that probably contributed to everything. The city is built close together, full of busy cars and busy people. In all of the bustle, there are corners tucked away; corners that I, curious and set at my destiny, made some new friends in alleyways.
The butcher shop was a place a few miles from my family home, a convenient place to work and strangely calming, with the bustle of tourists and holiday-goers and locals coming and going. They knew this butcher was the best in town; I smiled the kind of smile I give everyday to my men, and take their orders, and cut the meat.
My mafia's headquarters was in a out-of-the-way apartment building, no cameras, and sharp and sleek, but not flaunting too much money. Save that for the guns, and the guest rooms. I quite like it, ever since I was introduced.
But -- I suppose where I really am is still stuck in worn and familiar corridors of my childhood home, still locked into the same motion of this is what I'm going to be. That is, until...