The Outcast MC - Reaper # 1

Chapter 1

I observe the people rushing on the sidewalks down below, wondering why they are there, where they're headed, and where they come from. Do they have fulfilling jobs or merely work to pay the rent? Do they endure day after day at a job they despise? Are they out because nobody awaits them at home, or do they lack urgency due to a somber atmosphere?

Tonight, a cool breeze wafts from the roof as I prepare to step onto the balcony. The view must be breathtaking, yet I remain fixated on the beckoning sidewalk. If it softly whispered my name when I started descending, it now clamors like a siren, its hypnotic melody captivating my senses.

Who are these people? Could there be a serial killer lurking among them? A medical student on the brink of discovering a breakthrough vaccine? If I were to leap and collide with a passerby, would I save lives or hinder scientific progress, while leaving a grieving family and traumatizing countless pedestrians, police officers, and paramedics?

Sniffling, I avert my gaze and shift my focus to the interior of the apartment after shattering a window.

The police investigators and forensic team have come and gone, leaving behind a chaotic scene. I survey the shattered frames on the ground, None of him, he wasn't self-absorbed enough to photograph himself and display it on his walls. However, I stumble upon a childhood picture of us amidst the wreckage. Swiftly, I remove it from the frame and slip it into my jacket's inner pocket. I wander through the apartment, examining his living space, catching glimpses of the books strewn across the floor. Whoever ransacked the place sought something, but I know they failed. A quick visit to his room yields no further insight; his wardrobe has been emptied, and I observe the discarded clothing, deducing his evolving fashion sense from retro 80s jeans and t-shirts to a more contemporary style of trousers and shirts. I abandon further search; everything has been restored to its place. Stealthily, I depart as I arrived, through the balcony, ascending to the roof.

It has been a long time since I last saw my brother. He vanished when he turned eighteen, and I was just fourteen. Our parents had tragically perished in a car accident. Though adversity should have brought us closer, it only pushed us apart. While I found solace with my maternal grandparents, he disappeared, reemerging in my life on the day of my high school graduation. Frankly, I have no idea what he expected. A warm reunion? Embraces? For four years, he had been absent from my life. Eventually, I was the one who departed. University was not my path. I found a job and threw myself into it.

When he first contacted me, I dismissed it as spam. We hadn't spoken, and the call was hidden, so I chose not to answer. Now, I repeatedly listen to the message he left me, cherishing the sound of his voice as the sole connection to my family. It has been nearly six years since I last spoke to my grandparents; it's not that we are estranged, but time slipped away, and I always claimed to be short on it. At least, that's the excuse I gave them—I simply didn't want to face them. I suppose one day, when they are gone too, when I have no family left, I will regret it.

My brother's message was a cryptic treasure hunt. Deciphering it took time, mostly because I hadn't been attentive until I learned of his sudden death through the media. It was then that I really listened to his message for the first time, just before entering his apartment.

Back at home, I listen to the message on repeat, but I can't make sense of what he's telling me. Anger consumes me, directed at him, at myself, but mostly at him.

"Did you really have to speak to me in code?" I grumble, staring at my phone. Did he really expect me to decipher it? We are strangers to each other, no longer the young girl of fourteen he abandoned. I am now twenty-eight, unfamiliar with his life, his musical preferences, favorite movies, literature, or even his culinary inclinations. I don't even know if he had a family of his own—a wife, a husband, or children. All I have discovered thus far is that he worked as a journalist and that he departed suddenly. The absence of photographs hints at the void that pervaded his life; like me, he never started a family.