aloycius

This story will span across several parts. Two very different characters will narrate each part consecutively.


[Part I: Cecil's Prelude] "The Parallel Flames"


Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity: the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Devotion, I have found, is an underlying annex to that motto. In time, I learned to despise everything about the FBI. Yes, I was a criminal—one that was fleetingly nefarious, then, as fate would have it, celebrated—and it must seem the obvious reason for my contempt towards the law—or more importantly, it's enforcers—but it was actually something as trivial, however inherently sensitive, as my childhood relationship with my Father.

For a long time—or what seemed to be a long time—I tried to be accepted by him; that man who was always bemused, circumventing any promise of spirited congregation, devoting his heart and mind to something mechanical and of dynamic vacancy. As a kid, I did anything I could think of to get his attention—you know, the things you usually see kids doing with their Dads. Instead of playing with me, coaching my baseball team, or taking me on camping trips, he invertedly ignored my existence; and managed to do so while living under the same roof. As an agent for the FBI—the government arm I so eloquently expressed my distaste for—he was pretty much the the anti-solution to properly raising children—as for my Mother, she was gone, dead, out of my life. But, that's a whole other story entirely.

In the year I was to turn eighteen, I woke up early. It was the first of January—the beginning of the new year. My Father was already up when I got downstairs, he was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the morning newspaper.

"Up early," he said. His eyes remained fixed on the paper—it was unusual for him to look at me when he spoke.

I opened the refridgerator and took the carton of milk, saying, "Yeah."

If he smiled, I did not see it. "Good to see."

He was a tall man, not big, but strong just the same, and his head was shaven. He had a deep, distinct voice that might have been intimidating had he spoke more frequently. I want to say that his voice caught me off guard because he talked so little, but I blame the abrupt nature of it—it's tendancy to elevate sharply.

"I couldn't sleep, and I was hungry," I said.

He got up, and walked out, a cup of coffee held in one hand, his black blazer held in the other. I sat down at the table, and poured milk into the bowl I had filled with cereal. After eating, I took the bowl to the sink, washed it out, put it in the dish washer, then walked back upstairs. I went into my Fathers room, to his closet, opened it, and took a box from the top shelf. In it lied a Browning nine-millimeter pistol. I took it out, the incandescent light from the morning sun struck it's seemingly untouched metal chassis. I put the box back in the closet, closed the door over, then left the room. Having grabbed my things, and having put the gun into a black satchel, I walked out the front door, leaving the house—and my Father—behind.

He will break, and I will break him, I thought to myself.

I held the door open for a woman before going into the convenience store. She thanked me, and I acknowledged it with a smile. It was late in the afternoon. With the satchel at my side—and inside it, a loaded firearm—I walked in, then proceeded down an isle of food and magazines. I had thought about it for a while—about what I was going to do—but I never knew what to expect; and the prospect of actually doing it haunted my once quiescent nerves.

To avoid attention, I looked over the snack foods in one of the isles, then I browsed the magazine racks. My hand, as I lifted it to take a look at one, brushed the side of my satchel, and I felt the gun for the second time. I remember it because something unfamiliar seemed to penetrate me, and I, who never got in trouble, felt for the first time what it was to listen to my gut. Suddenly, I was in a state of sobriety. The feeling saturated my once single-layered logic. Then, it deafened, scattered, and was gone. My Father, again, set fire to my emotions; his ugly image overwhelmed; poison sifted through my thoughts. I shook off the anxiety, and walked towards the front where the cashier stood, unattended.

"Are you in line?" A feminine voice asked from behind.

I turned around to find the woman from before in front of me. She was pretty, I thought, for an older lady (I guessed in her early forties), with a delicate face that seemed as if it could heal even the most notorious of illnesses—like my Mother's, or like a Mother's face should look. She wore a perfume that was, in a word, rapturous—and it enveloped me, as a pestilent gas coats a healthy lung.

I smiled, and failed, as my thoughts were racing back and forth between what I was doing, and whether or not I looked suspicious. "No, go ahead," I told her, saying it so fast that I wondered if she would have understood what I meant if I hadn't moved out of the way.

The woman stepped up to the counter, where she placed a few simple grocery items. The cashier glanced at me, only briefly, in between scanning barcodes, and I flinched at the possibility that he doubted my presence as a simple customer. I stood behind the woman, anyway, and waited for her to leave. When she did, and the door closed behind her, I approached the counter.

The cashier smiled amiably. "Can I help you?"

Overweight, glasses, and considerably short—three defining traits of the man that stood opposite of me. His name tag had read "Jim" (it might have been "Tim", I'm not sure). To call this man a hero would rouse laughter in even the dullest of circles—alternatively, the stereotype could be dismissed, and one might amuse the idea that he was, in fact, capable of selfless theatrics. I unzipped the satchel, and as I went for the gun, I began to tremble, violently. My eyes were glued to him as I reached for it, every second exposed caused my heart to beat faster. It wasn't until I held the gun tightly in my hand, still within the black satchel, that the heavy-set clerk began to back away.

"Kid, you need something?" he asked, "What do you have there?" His eyes, enlarged by the spectacles in front of them, could not resist the mysterious black bag that had been hanging from my shoulder.

I pulled the gun from the satchel, surely confirming his worst fear, and said, "Nothing! Don't move! Don't move, okay?" I was holding the gun so tight then, that in between breaths, I loosened my grip, afraid that I would accidentally set it off, effectively ending the poor clerk's life. The cashier complied, of course; and beads of sweat wept down his face. His hands were up—not because I told him to, but because that's just what you do at gunpoint—and he was trying to stay perfectly still.

The gun indicated the cash register. "Open it!" I barked, then tossed him the satchel.

The cashier did. But, it did not matter. A pick-up had pulled into the parking lot, the engine shut off, and my heart pounded the inside of my chest. For a moment, I gaped at it, as a deer does the incoming headlights of a car. A younger man, wearing sunglasses, got out of the truck. My train of thought then unlocked, and reevaluated the situation. The gun, to my surprise, was no longer in my hand. Delirious, I searched quickly. Giving up, I took the satchel from the cashier then bolted to the doors. Something caught my foot, sending me to the floor. Upon landing, my leg struck what I discovered to be the gun. I picked it up as I got back on my feet, then stormed out. I ran across the parking lot towards the sidewalk, looking back at the convenience store and the man in sunglasses—who must have stopped in his tracks to speculate on my apparent need to flee. But I did not stop, indeed, I kept running until three, maybe four, blocks stood between the store and myself.

What would have happened if I did rob the store? That question meandered in the back of my head. Would I keep on doing it, over and over, without getting caught? How far is far enough, and how will I know when I have his attention? If I do evade capture—and the time comes when will I turn myself in—will he know what it is I was trying to say?

Those questions multiplied and the answers I wanted seemed to be ambiguous, less and less present in the future.