Beneath the Moon

He never believed it would end up this way.
 
What was it that he’d been fighting for all this while? The pain that he had clung to desperately, the suffering he had endured so he could stretch and reach out for the dazzling sky. He could almost touch it.
 
A hard fist-punch rattled and cracked the glass window pane. He clenched his fingers tightly as he watched the red blood seep from the slowly visible cuts. He shifted his gaze to the distorted reflection on the cracked glass. Messy brown bangs covered one side of the reflected face. Sharp, dark eyes that had once glinted with firm determination were now dim and dull, void of feeling. The face of the expensive silver wristwatch had cracked, and was stained with red.
 
=========
 
“The x-ray results are out, Mr. Conrad.” The white lab coat clad doctor said with a sigh as he dropped the white document folder on the table and rubbed his temples, avoiding the man’s intense look.

“What? Then? Tell me.”

The doctor hesitated, but then cleared his throat and opened the folder, flipping through the pages. “The cancerous cells have spread to your lungs and intestines. If this had been detected earlier, an operation could have been done to remove them. However….- ah,  I am sorry.”

He slammed his fist onto the table, startling the doctor who dropped the folder. The contents scattered on the floor.

He loomed over the doctor, his brown business suit making him an intimidating presence and shouted, “You were not paid to say sorry! You’re here to diagnose and cure, aren’t you? Just assign an operation and remove the cells. I don’t care how much money it takes. I can get them to promote you; professor, the head of hospital, or I can fund your research. Yes, yes, I’ll fund your research; I’ll make you rich, just ---!”

“It’s no use, sir!” The doctor cut him off. “You know what it is, you’ve had the same results from four different hospitals. I’m sorry, but I cannot change the results.” The doctor choked on his words but regained his composure, stood up and stared him straight in the eye.

“You have one month. Please use this time wisely. Sir.”

 
=========
 
“One month, he says that so easily.” He said bitterly, out loud. “Damnit!”
 
Just by his word, everything I’ve worked for ends simply like this. Putting your all into something, and just as you manage to touch it with your fingertips, it all comes crashing down on you? Is this what life is supposed to be?
 
 
***
 
 
The silver moon crept from behind large, shadowy clouds into the dark night sky, casting her dim light timidly. The cracked window pane caught and refracted the light unevenly, causing gloomy shadows to jump in the faintly lighted darkness.
 
Suddenly, the clouds loomed overhead, threatening to swallow the moon. Run, she did try to, but the dark clouds were too quick, too much- they engulfed her and every trace of light disappeared from the window pane.
 
He groaned as his chest began to throb the usual midnight pain. Rolling onto his side, he used his palm to support his face from sinking into the horribly soft pillow and suffocating and squeezing his eyes shut, forced himself to drown in the sea of black.
 
 
Conrad, my dear baby boy Conrad. My one precious gift from the gods. You look beautiful just the way you are. A long haired woman telling the little boy with the happy face as she stroked his hair.
 
A shrill scream.
 
You’re a devil! Who are you! I never borne you, you’re not mine, you deformed ugly creature! I lost him because of you, I lost everything because of you! A long haired woman slapping the little boy with the frightened look.
 
Why?
 
Conrad is different from us. He is not one of us. Small kids leering and kicking at the little boy huddled in the corner.
 
Conrad, you will never make it out there. You’re a useless nephew. Earn your stay, you lazy boy! A sneering old man whipping the little boy with the blank eyes.
 
Alone.
 
You will take over my place as head of our group because you’re my only kin. Everyone will be looking down on you just like we all did. Prove yourself worthy. Earn your stay, boy. A sickly old man in his death bed telling the boy with the shadowed smile.
 
Prove it.
 
Nooo! Mr. Conrad, spare us!
 
I’m sorry, I’ll return the money in time Mr. Conrad so ---!
 
Please, I’d do anything, don’t harm my children!
 
You’re heartless, Conrad. But you have a deal.
 
You’re moving up the ladder fast, ruthless Conrad, by not sparing people’s feelings nor any of your own. How detestably admirable.
 
You’re the devil, Conrad.
 
The man with the cruel smirk in the business suit, looking down those who looked down on him before.
 
The hands of rotten flesh, the shadowy hands seeking vengeance, the bloodied hands scrambling for the man. Reaching out to engulf the man in his bloody sin. Circling around his neck, his arms, his legs. Smothering, stifling, strangling.
 
You’re alone.
 
 
He jerked up, gasping for breath as beads of sweat trickled down his face. His dark eyes were wide open with terror. His chest felt as though it was being ripped apart. He could hardly breathe. His trembling hand reached up and shakily traced the long thin scars left by that woman when he was the little boy in that dream of the past.
 
I don’t want to die.
 
It was dark. His footsteps echoed through the still, silent corridor. His mind was blank. He only knew he had to get away from those hands pulling him down. He quickened his pace, taking in short breaths. Dreams were only dreams, but this felt real. He could feel the hands behind him, stretching for a chance to trip him, to swallow him. He began to run blindly, his hand reaching out in the darkness, to grasp the secure pillar that wasn’t there.
 
It’s frightening to be alone.
 
Suddenly, a loud crash from behind an ajar door to his right startled him. The hands disappeared. Faint light crept out through the opening, casting tall shadows on the wall.
 
He looked in.
 
There was someone lying on the floor.
 
Hair of shining gold, framing a milky white face that was straining as white long-sleeved arms tried to lift the body off the floor. Suddenly, clear, sky blue eyes glanced up at the door.
 
He stepped back into the shadows, and away from the piercing glance. He saw it was a boy, a young boy who struggled to lift his body from the floor again, half crawling to the bed post. He wondered why.
 
The thin, white fingers curled tightly around the metal-gray bed post. His arms shook slightly as he exerted his fragile strength, pulling himself up to the bed.
 
He stole a glance, and gasped. His hand covered his mouth as his eyes widened.
 
The pant legs looked crumpled, flat- empty. The boy had no legs.
 
He stepped back in horror.
 
The sky-blue eyes caught him and stared, pinning him to the ground. The blue eyes widened, Surprise. Shock. Stunned. And then the eyes crinkled with a radiating smile, the arms stretched out in a welcome.
 
He stepped in.
 
The room had two empty beds. The boy’s was at the far end, beside the window. He strode past and stopped in front of the bed with a cool glance. The boy was watching him with innocent wonder.
 
He cleared his throat uncomfortably, not knowing what to say. The boy cocked his head to one side, and then understanding, he lifted a white finger and pointed at the chair beside the bed. He smiled again.
 
He was dazzled by the smile. He followed the finger, and sat on the chair. The boy was looking at him again. He was compelled to speak.
 
“How can you smile like that when you’re in that shape?” He asked bluntly, as was his way.
 
The boy’s smile never faltered, his sky blue eyes never blinked.
 
He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Who are you?” He couldn’t say sorry for what he had asked before; the words wouldn’t come out.
 
The boy held the dark-eyed stare a moment more. He put a small white finger to his pale lips, and appeared to be thinking. Then, his eyes widened happily and he broke off the stare, leaning towards his bedside table. He pulled open the drawer, and started rummaging through its contents.
 
He took this opportunity to scrutinize the pale being before him. The slightly messy golden hair reached the nape of his neck, the tips curling inwards. The boy had his back to him, and he noted the loose-fitting white shirt. The boy looked thin and fragile. A thought suddenly struck him, and he hesitantly gazed, tracing the boy’s spine all the way down.
 
He could see the shape of the boy’s thighs, barely, he was so thin. But then... the pant legs laid useless, crumpled, flat on the bed. Empty.
 
He couldn’t tear his eyes away. He had seen plenty of missing joints on his job; he was one of them, those who ordered the joints of people who couldn’t pay their debts to be cut off, for the black market. He had worked all these years hardening his heart to cruelty. No, it wasn’t the missing joints that shocked him.
 
Surrounded by a world of hate, anger and fear, he couldn’t understand that radiant smile.
 
A cold touch jolted him. The boy’s face was barely inches from his, the sky blue eyes searching his dark ones concernedly. His white fingers touched the side of his cheek, cold as they were. The fingers dropped and held up a small sketchbook, open to a crisp white page.
 
A stick figure drawing had a hand out in a wave. John was scrawled childishly beside the figure.
 
He looked up at the boy. “… John?”
 
John nodded vigorously, looking very pleased with himself.
 
“Oh.” He looked around uncomfortably, not knowing what to do now, not knowing what to say next. His wandering eyes spotted worn-out brown peeking out from under the white pillow John was using as support. His hand reached to pull it out, a worn-out brown notebook.
 
“This is…--!”
 
He gasped at the sudden pain that shot through his arm. Blunt fingernails dug into his skin as the notebook was snatched out of his grasp.
 
John hugged the book tightly to his chest, with a look of terror in his sky-blue eyes but which glared defiantly at him. His fingernails were stained red.
 
“It’s a secret… huh.” He looked down at the three long scratches on his arm. “Don’t worry. It’s safe.” He leaned closer, staring down the blue eyes that had changed from terror to surprise, before touching a finger to the pale forehead. “I won’t ask what it is if you don’t ask who am I. Deal?”
 
John hesitated a moment before a smile brightened his face and he nodded happily.
 
Just seeing that smile made him warm inside. He’d seen plenty of smiles before, with deceit, greed, venomous desires hiding behind them… but this was the first time he saw a smile that was simply that.
 
A warm, genuine smile. 
 
 
~*~
 
 
He visited the boy every day. He brought toys, expensive handmade toys and other gifts. Anything to make his John happy. He loved that smile. It seemed more dazzling now than the sky he had reached out before. It was his sun.
 
John never uttered a word. He was always with his radiant smile, the frightful terror of the first night gone.
 
Every day, he learned something new about John. John is 16, said the stick figure, pointing at itself proudly on the white page of the sketchbook on the first day. John likes you smiling, proclaimed the stick figure, hugging a big smiley face the next day.
 
Slowly, the little messages went from happy to sad news. John’s parents left John alone, said the sad stick figure. John always wonders why?
 
The radiant smile never left John’s face as he drew the little sketches. His blue eyes smiled with him. A small tear rolled down his cheek.
 
John’s parents were killed, said the angry stick figure with a large butcher knife.
 
John is alone. John is scared.
 
He plucked the pencil out of the pale fingers and gently took the sketchbook from John. He took a moment to scribble on a blank page, as John watched the pencil curiously.
 
Conrad is here for John, said the red flower. You’re my Little Prince, the flower whispered as it embraced the stick figure.
 
John plucked the pencil out of his grasp and drew the outline of a heart above them.
 
John loves Flower.
 
 
~*~
 
 
“Four more days, Conrad. You have four more days.” The pathetic response to his plea for lengthening his life.
 
 
~*~
 
 
He knew it had to come. He just never realized how fast one month had passed. How could he tell John?
 
He walked through the same dark corridor as he had done one month ago. His hand pressed against the wall, supporting him. He broke out into a sweat as every few paces drained his energy. He drew in short breaths, making sure he wouldn’t cough.
 
He didn’t want John to see him this way, this pathetic state he was in.
 
Faint sounds of the clock striking 12 midnight drifted to his ears, but he barely paid attention.
 
Ever since that night, he had never visited John at night. It was always afternoons. John had requested that favor of him.
 
But today, he had to go back on that promise. He had to see John.
 
The door was ajar, he saw, as he neared it. His hand was on the doorknob; he was about to push it open when he heard muffled cries. They were barely cries, just sounds gurgled from the throat.
 
He peeped through the crack.
 
John was sitting upright by the edge of the bed. IV tubes were connected from his arms to the plastic bags hung above, all 5 of them. Or was it 6? He couldn’t be sure.
 
John had his eyes squeezed shut; he was pulling out the tubes! He pulled one free; the tube twisted and wiggled in the air, sprinkling blood drops in the air. The second one sprang free from broken skin, and twisted about as much as the first.
 
With each successful pull, John’s face scrunched into a look of agony. His mouth was wide open; he would’ve screamed if he could, he would’ve screamed piercingly if he could. But he couldn’t, and he tore at the wounds in his wrist helplessly.
 
He saw enough. He burst into the room; he forcefully dragged the hand away from the wounds. He hugged his John tightly, as he heard the silent agonized screams, as the fingers scratched his back, tore at his arms, bit into his shoulders. He tried to whisper reassuringly into John’s ear.
 
Don’t do this. Don’t do this. Why are you doing this?
 
It only seemed to get John more enraged. The tiny body twisted, trying to break free, as his arms flailed wildly, tearing down the plastic bags above.
 
He wrapped his fingers around John’s wrists, to stop him. He could see crimson blood gushing out, staining his hands. He saw cuts he never noticed before on the wrists, deep scars that weren’t caused by the frequent insertion of tubes.
 
Please, stop. I beg you, John, stop!
 
He restrained the wrists long enough for him to press the assistance button. One wrist broke free and a tiny but hard fist caught him in his chest, aggravating his lungs. He coughed. He held the wrists still as he coughed. The coughing couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop.
 
He felt his grip loosen as the cough drained his strength and his vision blurred to blinding white, and then, nothingness.
 
~*~
 
Something hurt his eyes. Goddamn, it was that piercing light…--
 
His eyes flew open and he jerked upwards, flinching as his head throbbed painfully and he lost his sight to blackness. He shut them again, counting to 10, calming himself as the pain died down. The memories of the night before flooded him instead.
 
What had happened?
 
His right hand automatically moved to trace the three long scars from a hated past ago on his right cheek, something he always did when he felt confused. He remembered clearly the look of helplessness on John’s face, he could see the blue eyes silently crying for help, while the hands tore at the wrists.
 
Why, John?
 
“Master. You’re awake!”
 
He looked up to see a tall boy who had stopped short in front of him, carrying a silver tray and looking happy. The boy set down the tray and picked out two rolled towels. His unbuttoned gray checkered shirt revealed a white vest underneath, and he’d worn faded blue jeans.
 
“Kenji. You’re here.” He managed to utter, his hand still resting on his right cheek.
 
Kenji brushed his golden bangs behind his ear as he gently but forcefully pulled his hand from the cheek and patted a damp towel to it. “Yeah. You haven’t been taking care of yourself, have you Master? You’re all bruised.” Kenji chastised.
 
“Stop calling me that.”
 
“I won’t, Master. You were the one who took me in. If it weren’t for you… I’d still be a street rat out there.” Kenji laughed bitterly. “To hell with life there. I’d do anything to protect you.”
 
“Too late in saying that already, isn’t it? Break off the ties, Kenji, like I asked of you before. You’ll find yourself in trouble soon if you don’t do that… this time I won’t be here to help you. Give hon-honest life a chance. There’s no future in staying here.”
 
“I won’t. I’m not going back to the streets. I DESPISE that place, don’t you see?” Kenji said calmly as he placed the towel back into the tray.
 
“You’ll regret it.”
 
“I won’t.”
 
He laced both hands together and rested them under his chin, watching Kenji as the boy prepared the breakfast he’d brought with him. It was his fault to have gotten Kenji entangled in this. He’d been finishing some business with his men when he crossed an abandoned alley and saw a fight going on. The golden hair had caught his eyes, and the defiant look although he was badly bruised had him interfering in the fight and bringing the boy home as a result. He had let the boy stay with him. He regretted it now.
 
Who knew what the group would do to this boy once he was gone.
 
But it was too late to worry. He’d given Kenji his chance, to not take it was the boy’s own fault. It looked like he’d be seeing Kenji soon in-in… in wherever people who killed other people for a living went to. Whatever. That wasn’t his concern now. John was.
 
He pushed aside the bed covers and pulled himself up before he suddenly burst into a coughing fit. His already-worn-out lungs had gotten much worse after that not-so-weak punch from his John.
 
“Master!” Kenji was by his side in a moment. “Don’t push it! I won’t allow you out of the bed now. Your lungs got injured badly, the doc said. What the h- um, happened yesterday?” He eyed the man curiously.
 
“Nothing. And I’m getting out of this bed whether you’re allowing me to or not. There’s something I need to do.”
 
But, as hard as he tried, he couldn’t get his wobbly legs to support him for long. He sank back on the bed, coughing wildly. He covered his mouth with a hand, before withdrawing it and staring feebly at the blood coloring his fingers. He felt the dread. The helplessness. The wrenching fear that overwhelmed him as it had never had the chance to before.
 
“Kenji. Leave. I want to be alone.”
 
“B-but, Master…”
 
“Leave.”
 
Hearing the doors slam close, he returned back to his thoughts. What was John doing? Why was he pulling out the tubes from his arms? Did he do that every night? Was that why he was forbidden to visit John at night? The first night that he’d come across John… he was on the floor wasn’t he? What was he doing…. Why….?
 
He was so engrossed that he never heard the door opening. It was only after hearing the faint creak of wheels on the floor that made him look up. He jumped in surprise and shock.
 
Sitting in the wheelchair was his John looking white and sickly, as he hugged a worn-out brown book to his chest. Eye bags under his eyes were a startling contrast to his whiteness, and he looked as though he would faint any moment, but the sky blue eyes staring at him were bright and clear.
 
“John!” he breathed. He crawled to the front of his bed and leaned heavily on the bars at the edge for a moment as he gathered whatever strength he could gather and pulled himself to a sitting position by grabbing tightly onto the bars. Succeeding, he held out his arms, inviting arms, beckoning eagerly to the boy. His John. All previous thoughts vanished.
 
John hesitated then held out the worn-out book to him instead.
 
He took it, but without interest. It fell onto his lap as he held out his arms for John again.
 
John shook his head and motioned for him to open the book. He squirmed in his seat as he did so, looking restless and perhaps, a little frightened.
 
He took a closer look at the book he had put on his lap. “Isn’t this the book you forbid me to take the first night I met you?” He asked in wonder, as it dawned on him.
 
Without looking up for an answer, he flipped the cover.
 
On the first page, a photograph of a young woman smiled up at him. A shiver ran up his spine involuntarily. She looked distinctly familiar, someone he instantly felt that he might have encountered in the past. She was pale, with blonde hair, and very thin. He was about to mutter a ‘where have I seen her before’ when he choked on his unsaid words as he caught sight of the childish scrawl beneath: Mother
 
His heartstrings tugged at him and it compelled him to continue flipping the page.
 
The next few pages were drawings, of perhaps happy events… because the John stick figure in it looked happy.
 
He noticed the texture of the next page was a little crumpled; as though the paper had gotten wet before and the drying after left it a little worse for wear. He turned the page, and saw a yellowed newspaper cutting on it. The headlines screamed Murder by Mafia.
 
His head throbbed. There was something he should remember.
 
And then it hit him.
 
He had seen this woman before.
 
One of his businesses in the black market was selling organs and body parts; illegally. People who owed him money and couldn’t pay back were the ones who provided him with them. He was a ruthless man and hunted them down.
 
This woman was one of them. He’d been there personally, for the man she was with had been a rather well-known businessman who fell to his doom with greed. He remembered ordering his men to… what? What was it… yes, he was about to order his men to do what they always did when a shrill scream stopped them. It was a little boy who stood in front of the woman, staring defiantly at him. Those sky blue eyes… how could he forget?
 
How did he forget?
 
Irritable at not getting what he’d expected, he had ordered his men to make the boy shut up. Didn’t care how, didn’t bother what they decided to do, he just wanted any trace of evidence erased. He was a ruthless man. But it only dawned on him now his men were worse. He had expected them to kill the boy. He didn’t, for the world of him, expect them to leave the boy like how he was seeing him now.
 
The boy who had lost his legs and his tongue, unable to walk and unable to talk.
 
So he was the cause of how John became what he was now.
 
He felt blank, and empty, and spent. What had he done? What had he done?
 
He absently flipped a few more pages. Each page was drowned in red, each John figure doing something horrible to a big figure with a tie. Kill. Kill. Kill. The figure said.
 
He looked up. The wheelchair was no longer there. A creak by his side made him turn, and he stared at the mouth of a Colt.45. Pale fingers gripped the barrel firmly, even as it shook.
 
He looked into John’s face. He could see uncertainty, distress, and hesitance in the watering blue eyes. Tears threatened to flow as John kept them in, the gun trained at the man’s chest.
 
He was overwhelmed with too many feelings. The love he felt for John, his sun, the hatred for what he had done before… regret. He wished he could turn back time.
 
He smiled and held up his hands.
 
“I’m sorry John, for having made you this way. If I knew… if only I had known… what love was that time…If only I had realized…- I’m sorry.”
 
“I deserve this. Kill me in any way you wish, John.”
 
He saw John grip the revolver tightly, his finger on the trigger. He shut his eyes.
 
It’s okay if I die by his hand.
 
A loud shot rang through the air, for the first time sounding foreign to the man who had heard a million shots in his lifetime.
 
A minute passed.
 
Two.
 
…?
 
There was a loud clatter as something skittered across the floor.
 
He opened his eyes in time to see John crumpling over the barriers, falling into his lap. Crimson red stained the drabby white hospital garb; crimson red smeared his white face.
 
He was gripped with terror even as he shook the thin shoulders, and his body racked with sobs. “John… John! What are you doing… John!”
 
The boy looked up with difficulty, and smiled a last radiating smile. He mouthed silent words, but Conrad could hear them as loudly as he had heard the gun shot. He hugged the boy in his grief stricken state, whispering something back into the boy’s ear.
 
A strong breeze suddenly blowing through the window caught and flipped the last two pages of the worn-out brown notebook.
 
Kill?
 
No. John can’t. John forgiven. Cause John loves Flower. Like John loves Mommy.


---


A figure leaning against the white-washed wall straightened up as the shot shattered the peaceful silence of a hospital corridor. A satisfied smirk spread across the figure’s face.

The figure turned to walk down the corridor. Golden hair shimmered and shone as they caught the light of the midday sun’s rays through the open window.