He was thrown, like a bag of garbage, from a speeding car that reeked of repugnant laughter and infamous bullies who thought it prudent to dispose of a young boy who had not the least suspicion of the ploy of which he was unfortunately the sorry victim.
The boy, his ears ringing and pain welling up in the abdomen, breathed laboriously and flexed every muscle possible with the hope of calming the excruciating pain, but in vain no less. The passage of each minute rendered the pain worse and injected in him the sense to forgo the pointless effort of wanting to seduce the unfathomable pain.
I swear, I will kill them all! beamed the bleeding boy of eighteen and let his mind take control of his body. The nippy wind on that awful of nights, which Damian P, Wozniak had for a fortnight dreamed to be one that he’d cherish all his life, blew against his perspired face and helped him fall out of consciousness.
Three hours hence, as the first rays of light kissed Florence, an old man in a wheelchair, with beard the like of cotton candy and clothes that begged the question, “Are his clothes the domicile of rats?”, picked up his withering cane and tapped it against the boy’s forehead, gently. The boy, appearing to have not the least bit disturbed by this faint tap, continued to keep his face stuck to the ground.
The old man, resolute to wake the boy up from what he thought was the result of profuse intoxication, picked up his water bottle and poured it on the boy’s face until he jerked and sprang away from whence the water spilled.
‘Stop! What the hell, stop!’ yelled Damian, faintly recollecting as to his whereabouts.
‘This is my spot! Fly, you fool. Go and find yourself a different spot!’ exclaimed the annoyed man in the wheelchair, as he turned his vehicle around and placed a cardboard box on the damp floor, upon which was written, in Italian – “Relieve me of my hunger and I will relieve you of your sorrow”.
Damian, who was momentarily preoccupied with the pain in his abdomen, forgot about retaliating to the old man and bent down to see the blood on his shirt. ‘Oh God!’ cried he, seeing the clot and unwittingly pulled up his shirt. ‘Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit! No, no, no, no, no,’ moaned Damian, as tears rolled down his face, carrying down with it the fine droplets of water that were, a few moments ago, inside the old man’s water bottle.
‘Why the devil!’ said the old man and stared at the tattoo under the boy’s shirt. It was one of the most offensive tattoos with words that shocked the life out of the boy. Damian hoped that he were still slumped against the road and that all that had transpired thus far were flashes from a nightmare that would so valiantly defeated by the coming of dawn. ‘No, no, no, this can’t be happening to me!’ cried the boy still, as the old man cast an apologetic and deeply sympathetic look at the helpless boy.
‘I hate my life! I don’t want to live anymore!’ cried Damian, the son of Bruce Wayne and Selina Kyle. He buried his face in his hands and wept, as the old man said in a tone that was contrasting to the one he spoke to him the first time, ‘Son, here, drink this.’
The boy said nothing in response. He wept softly, cursing himself, his father, his mother and their, in his words, ‘Shitty life into which he dreaded being born into.’
‘Son, are-are you…do you want to talk to your parents?’ asked the old man, taking interest in the boy after realizing the fault in his assertion on the cause for the boy’s state of listlessness.
‘No! I don’t want to! They are dead to me! I don’t want to go back to them!’ blurted the boy.
‘Did they do this to you? Did they abuse you I mean?’
‘No, but their cowardice and carelessness and…and their…ugh! I hate them! I hate my parents for making me feel so sick!’
‘Now now, one needn’t be so hasty. This isn’t the end, my boy. Sometimes, a lot times, things that we think we cannot endure will stare right in our faces and suck the life out us, oh they surely will. No one and no prayer or good fortune can stop these events from happening. One has to accept it and do what one thinks is the right way out of the abyss.’
‘I want to kill those bullies! I want to torture them! They have made fun of my enough. I have endured it for four years now and I can endure it no more. I am not my father, I am not a coward. I am not my mother, I am not going to have people make fun at my expense anymore,’ roared Damian in a tone that brought forth a blend of confidence and resolve.
‘Think about your intentions, son. Do you think that you can live with yourself, without regret, after harming another human being?’ probed the old man, his eyes sparkling.
‘I don’t care about human beings. I don’t care about anyone but myself. I have had enough. I can endure no more.’
‘Very well then, come with me. I will help you.’
‘Yes,’ said the old man and reached the boy’s ears. He touched the boy’s head and whispered, ‘I will teach you how to kill and torture. I will teach you how you make people respect you and fear you. I will teach you to be brave and to have everyone fear you’. The boy grew happier with the utterance of each word. The boy wanted nothing more than to harm those who had caused him unbearable humiliation and trauma. ‘We are the ones that people fear,’ continued the old man, ‘We are the League of Assassins.’