Caliber

Cherries

Crimson lipstick, curled blonde bob, beige suite: the typical charismatic businesswoman.

The usual target, the usual death…

…but somehow I knew this would be different.

Her lips parted and uttered one sentence:

“I have a proposal for you, petit garcon.”

I let hopeless curiosity get the best of me.

Then all hell started to break loose in an unforgiving deathly vengeance.

I woke up suddenly, pain shooting up my back partly from the sudden motion and partly because of the cold concrete floor. Sometime in the night, I knew I fell from the bed but never really bothered climbing back up.

Alright, calm down… I told myself as I steadied my breathing.

Just another dream… Only it really wasn’t—it’s a relic of a memory I utterly detested. I looked around and felt slight panic from the enclosed surroundings I wasn’t really used to. The fact that there were windows already made my throat dry. After all, we were conditioned since childhood to sleep somewhere less vulnerable to bullets and break-ins. The dim lights coming from the lamp posts outside crept in the blinds of my windows, enough for me to see the wall clock hanging near it. I closed my eyes and started to collect myself.

I am Demitri Bastogne, nineteen years of age. I have a twin brother, Donovan, younger by a few minutes. His eyes are gray, and mine are blue. Both of us have dark hair.

I glanced at the wall clock: it’s 3 in the morning. I stood up and looked at the small nearby bookshelf. I’m in the apartment. There’s nothing wrong. I sighed. I opened a desk drawer and drank a pill. Then before going out, I made sure everything was pretty much in place.

At age 10 we were trained within inhumane circumstances and were conditioned to carry out justice without second thought. We were faced with hunger, sleepless nights, and something close to insanity because of fear.

But we survived.

 We endured and now live through what was taught to us: to execute tasks without making any lose ends.

I walked out to the shabby carpeted hall of the apartment. A few feet away from me, to the right side, Donovan’s door was wide open. As always, it looked like “organized chaos” as he described it. I continued walking as I reached the connected kitchen and living room, with a counter separating the sofas from the stoves. I guess Donovan isn’t around…

The door suddenly burst open, Donovan gasping and putting down a paper bag on the counter. He walked past me and plopped down the sofa.

“Mind throwing me a cold bottle of anything there?” he said.

I wanted to throw him a bottle of embalming fluid so he can mistake it for water so I could see what would happen; but there wasn’t any. Oh well. I walked to the fridge and threw him a can of Italian Soda instead.

“Thanks, man.” He placed its cool surface on his forehead and exhaled satisfyingly. As I was setting up the coffee machine, he sat up abruptly. “Oh yeah, I got some Sato Nishiki cherries over there.” He pointed at the bag he dropped down a while ago.

I raised an eyebrow. Are you trying to kill me? I mouthed and said in sign language.

“Aw, right! I thought it was strawberries you’re allergic to… Haha! Oh, well, we have those allergy shots anyway so you won’t die from eating a 5 dollar immaculately-tasting cherry.” He went back down the couch, chuckling.

Yes, strawberries can kill me as well, Donovan…

I just sighed. I threw away the unused coffee filter I was holding and unplugged the machine. I turned around and walked back to the gray corners of my room. Then I shut the door.

I am Demitri Bastogne and I’ve been mute for as long as I can remember.