The Payback

Poor Wilson! One day his friend caught the perfect climate long awaited to go after his tail. Before he could even realize that what seemed to be his stroke of luck was really one of fate’s dirty little tricks. This happens the moment you are a slipshod to a quaint you never thought of coming.

After twelve years to wake up at midnight and a thought of revenge comes creeping in. Raga staring at the rotating fan of his ceiling, jaw clenching, and his fist rumpling the sheets of his bed, reminiscing. What was thought to be oaf is now repulsing, like a respirator on his mouth, his heavy breathing caused not by a tremor now but of his merciless anger. 

Twenty, now twenty years of age to finally get out of the cage. 

His consistent moving and packing, the loudest of his crying woke a father that was sleeping. “What are you doing?” father asks, "Son, where are you going?" one eye open as the brightest light disturbing his sight. 

“Back to the old place, father” to get some things done, something felonious, as he slip a pistol inside his bag secretly. “Oh, well, send my regards to Mr. Wilson’s” rolling over the bed and cover himself in sheets, a smile on his father’s face that knows nothing but of this Wilson’s fake grace.

 Regards?! You might as well say goodbye for this fellow will soon die. 

Quickly packing to go on his journey, a conquest it is. As the ground rumbles and stone stumbles, the train arrives to get him back to the past, to go and make an end of an unfinished past. To think of this eight years old Wilson’s smiling face, cheering from a success of making him piss, the thought of it every second adds to the urge of Raga’s vengeance. 

The train is moving so fast like a portal way to this memory, a flashback of an eight year old Raga, a quietude in his third grade and Wilson is there too, of his obverse. Like the head and tail of the coin, the same world of different faces, his opposite occurs. 

Throwing papers to someone who didn’t do, nothing, to make a boy cry with no reason, he doesn't know why. Wilson seems to be fast to get on his nerves. After twelve years, only after twelve years, why wait twelve years? To wait being twenty to suddenly get the urge to go on his way and make a move, make Wilson out of this way. Only then he get to stand straight on his own, his eight years old self was a turtle to never get out of his hard shell, lost and alone.

The rumbling stops at the station. He have arrive, taking the first step out the train following by more steps and more, fast and quick like he got wheels in his sole. His sight paste on the white house at the end of this old street, walking as the hindsight playing. Staring at the house with the brightest light in the neighborhood, a sight of ghostly figure of kids playing while, it was then, he was whining, his anger seems to never be stop but keeps on forwarding and growing, and growing. There, behind the bushes, he put his bag down and cover closed with leaves, reloading his gun, practice a perfect aim and how to pull the trigger, and hide it in his jacket he goes on and on. Continue his walking, his jaw clenching all the way, his fist rolling, with a fine black suit, he looks to be like in a mafia, he is now finally ready. Unstoppable as he goes, standing in this fellows front door, one knock, two knocks, and three. Holding the pistol inside pocket, his finger is holding the trigger, preparing a pull, he is very ready. Waiting and wondering if this Wilson can still recognize the face of this kid’s sad eyes. The door creaking, could Wilson be the one opening?

Standing and waiting, and then a bald man appears after opening the door. “Mr. Wilson?”, yes, it’s him, there’s no one else. This young man’s face changes through the years, the eyebrows in his face disappears, but a frown on his countenance is in sight. Who was once healthy and active boy to never stop running around and picking on other kids, is now battling from cancer after all those years. “Is that you?” Wilson, squishing his eyes trying to recognize a fellow he always long to find.

Staring blankly, a long pause, of what he sees in front of his eyes, his teary eyes, trying to not show and sympathize. But no, he must go on and continue, for years and years of suffering by his doings, he must go on. He is here, standing, so close to his goal, pulling out the pistol and then the trigger...there's no going back, he is here, present and the past standing in front of him, there is no way of going back.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Shooting him in the head three times, in Raga’s head, he is now dead. Bang! Bang! Bang! Another shot he whispered to himself, he is dead, he is dead, he is finally dead.

“Raga, is that you?” this young man ask again and clarified. He doesn't seem to talk because a lump in his throat cause and blocked. Raga, as silent as he always was, never said a word, one step back and three steps down, walking away, he is to going back home now.

“Raga?” he wonders again, as to only see the back of his friend slowly walking to an end. Down he walks of their childhood street, as tears finally drop, not from fears. It has been reprieve, that was it, replenished. To see a friend is what it mean, always been. That was why, after twelve years he have to go and see him even if it is only to drop by. 

Looking back at his old house where he find the eight year old Wilson throwing stone at his window from the backyard, to go off and run with him through the night, to laugh over anything with no sense, two kids who are opposite to become friends in an unexpected ways, a bully and the bullied to end up as best friends. For one who rarely to socialize and one to running his mouth all day. One day to go and separate their own ways, Wilson to have another friend. And Raga, who became another lonely lad at high school as hate emerged of why, he seem to not understand why, but envy, he is suppose to stay.

Walking back home, to the present, and to realize that he was his long lost friend. After he moved to another place, only then Wilson, without the other face of his coin, he have no one to call a best friend. For a social butterfly, Wilson, after Raga left, he have never want to see just any other passerby.

-END-