Raimundo Pedrosa hated cell phones.

You don't know why you bothered with one at all.

Just a waste of money, is what it was.

Even if you don't talk on it, you still get charged ever month.

Then there are the people who call the cell phones that you hate so much.

They can vary from an irrational parent who demands you get your ass home, just so they can crap-ass beat you until you heave. An annoying friend leaving some wannabe-rap in your message box. A meddlesome teacher who thinks your number is your parent's. Now you wouldn't want daddy to find out you broke that bastard in PE's rib.
Of course, their can also be that call that you really don't want. A call from the parent of that bastard in PE. A call from your sibling telling warning you ahead of time what was to come. A call--the call--from Dad--dear old daddy--telling you he was coming in the morning, to be ready.

Their will be a text from Kimiko, to wake up and get to training.

So you train. You even manage a few dry laughs, so as not to mess with the status quo of things. Only at the end of the day, when they are resting by the tree, lounging and texting and carving a piece of wood, do you tell them. They are mad. They are upset. They are sad. They don't know the half of it.

The next day Kimiko sends another text message. It says they have a surprise. You drag yourself out of bed, bag slung over shoulder. You find a chocolate cake with vanilla icing and a banner that says 'We'll Miss You, Rai!' in big, bold letters awaiting you. Kimiko cuts you a slice, hugs you, and gives you a peck on the cheek. You blush. Clay pats you on the back, making you near choke on the delicious cake. Omi to you bows you and gives you one of his adorable toddler hugs that makes you remember why you hang out with him. You partially hug back.

You are finishing off your slice when that wretched phone rings. It is him. He is here. You mutter a quick ado, and run outside to find him waiting. He is leaning against a beaten Buggy, a nasty glare bestowing his ugly face. You feel the eyes of them, sweet Kimiko, big Clay, little Omi, littler Dojo, wise Master Fung, staring after you as you drag yourself into the front seat. You turn and stare back at the temple as it grows tinier, oh so tinier, into the distance. Not once do your friends, your family, leave their stances at the temple door, staring. Feeling sorry for you, no doubt. Probably pity and nothing more. The way your teacher pitied you, your neighbors pitied you, every person you knew pitied you. You spit out the window. Who needs pity, you asked yourself. It was pity and nothing more. They weren't going to do shit about it. Like all of them. All the rest. Not shit.

You are numbly aware being shoved out of the car onto a sidewalk, which led to a door, which led to an airport, which led to a plane, which led to a sky, the sky, which led to Brazil. A hand, a big, meaty hand, slapped you awake and dragged you out of the plane. He does not let you stop for your bag. Doesn't matter. The only thing of value you own is the pendant you wear. The one she gave you. The one you treasure.

You are shoved into another car when you get another call. It is Omi. You mentally laugh. You had forgotten Kimiko's attempts of bringing the little bugger into the digital era. He must have at least figured out how to call someone. You could not answer, though. He was next to you. He would be mad.

That wretched place comes to view. Gathered outside are they. Brink, with his long hair and ripped jeans. Ronnie, with her spiked black hair and bandaged arm. Jill, with her little pigtails and scabby knee. Juniper and Kutcher, with their identical green caps and denim overalls. Her long curly hair and his short curly hair. They all smiled weakly when they saw your car. You know that is the best they can muster, what with their hell and all. You appreciate the effort.

You are snapped out of your thoughts by a swift punch in the face. Your head lurches into the back of the seat. You feel your nose bleed.

"Get." His voice booms, impatient. You are barely aware that you are dragged out of the car and into the tiny apartment. It seems that all the crimes going on in that rustic, slummy part of Rio--all the purse-snatchers, all the kidnappers, and murderers and rapists and robbers and mobsters and gang-members--screech to a quiet halt as the Pedrosa family file into the house, overseen by their vindictive father. It has become known around the block as 'Death Row'--the train into the grubby apartment, the one that made the world freeze and look, knowing that one may be in the line the next day. Even at the temple, you always feel things tense at this time. Omi momentarily stops talking and is overcome by a thoughtful stare. Kimiko, for a split second, stops typing on her laptop. Clay, lasting just one moment, ceases chomping on his pork chop. And you, well, you, for that second alone, let yourself flinch, and a whimper escapes your lips. For that moment, you can feel the whole of the pain--burns, punches, kicks, whips, slaps, pounds--profoundly. Your vision blurs, and the color red, then black, flash before you. Then it is over, it is all over. You go back to laughing and all is right in the world. Until the next day.

That man has gotten the better of Social Services. He manages to escape attention by ritually having a fling with a lawyer until they back off. As for your mother--Raquel, you believe her name is--she had been the one to sign you off to the temple. You got the call the day previous. Raquel was dead. Hit by an unlicensed car with a grubby-looking man behind the wheel. Died on the operating table. Approval waved off. You are now in full custody of that man. You cannot feel sorrow for those you did not know, or like, for that matter. Yet you were taught not to speak ill of the deceased. As you are shuffled into the dreaded house, you mutter a short prayer in Portuguese for the dead woman who gave you life. "Deus." You mumble when inside. It is not so much of a statement as it was a plea.

The house is awful. Worse than when you had last seen it three years ago. Liquor bottles and cigarettes litter what could've been a lovely hardwood floor, if had not been for the dozen odd boards ripped out and used for either battery or defense, and the hundred or so others that had skid and scratch marks, teeth and bite marks.

You remember how some had come to be. The one next to a torn and stained couch--it had been from Quadro. The eldest. The first in three sibling deaths. You were merely seven when it happened. In an extremely drunk stupor, that man had taken a tiny, nasty little dagger--rusty and caked with the dry blood of another poor--and dragged the boy--then only fifteen--into the basement and shut the door. You remember crawling into Brink's lap, though he was only two years older--now seventeen--and holding back sobs. Sobs were bad. Sobs got your tongue torn out of your mouth. Sobs got your eye gauged out. For a moment you look over at Brink, with his long hair concealing his left eye well, then over to Juniper, who kept her mouth closed and never spoke beyond mumbles and grunts.

A scream--a scream you heard that night. After all took silent as the horrible plot unfolded, that one scream shocked you back to the world of the barely living. It was short and pain-filled and horrified. After that, the sound of something being dragged and thrown out the door. Into the alley. A place seldom used by anyone. You never saw Quadro again. You might've, if you had went into the alley after that.

You never went into the alley after that.

The one by the door--you remember that as your own doing. One day, you were late from school and came home to a high man. That day, your rib tore out of your stomach and made that little indent on the floor. Only when the man had gone out to his dealer did anyone dare gently carry you to an alley and call an ambulance. When asked, they all had a rare same thought and said you had been mauled on your way to the store. Brink had his friend's brother pose as your father.

Two bite marks reminded you of Carolina and Warrick. Two older siblings. You were eleven. Carolina was fifteen. Warrick was thirteen. Both had the same fate. One fatal blow in the head each, landing side-by-side, face down, mouths wide, on the floor. Warrick defending Carolina. Both dragged outside, poured with acid and gasoline and liquor, and torched into flames. Ashes poured into two ashtrays. Those ashtrays, you can see, still lay in the windowsill. Cigarette butts on top.

These memories--they haunt your every wake, your every slumber, your every heaven and hell. The things you'd seen, the things you'd done--murdered for food, robbed for medicine, beaten for the chance to go to school--they will haunt you until your eternal rest, forever and more.

The man snaps you back into the line. You all now lean against a wall. The door is closed and the blinds are pulled. He is facing you, grinning menacingly. You shiver. You are rustic on that look. Out of practice.

"Sweet children." He hissed. In his right hand, a knife. In his left, a gun. "Dear, sweet children. You are free today."

This took everyone by shock. Free? The very word was that to be found in a myth, associated with unicorns and fairies.

"That's right." He said, seeing their astounded expressions. "Free. For today alone. All except--" He pulled out a mocking pointer finger, and cruelly and crudely began waving it over the now shivering little people. It stops on you.

"Raimundo. My son. The one who got away. We have some lost time to make up for, now don't we?" His voice was cold and heartless. A living, breathing soul would not have that tone, only the highest order of a demon, possessing those having the little heart space that they may fit into. His face went from smirking to angry. "Get out of here, you shitheads!" He screamed, in Portuguese. Nobody moved, instead subconsciously forming a protective barrier around you. "I FUCKING SAID GET!" He screamed. Now it was only a fool's errand boy who would think twice about scattering in all directions, leaving you open and wide. You don't blame them in the least. Survival of the fittest, it was in this dastardly hell that one should call home. If given a Jail Free card, you take it and run like a fucking lion, for it may never come again.

"Deus." You find yourself mumbling, over and over. Begging your God and Mighty to send help, if not for yourself, than for your suffering siblings. For Kimiko and Clay and Omi and Master Fung and Dojo. For those you never said goodbye…

A hand clasps around your throat, squeezing with such force that you feel a burning bile well up in your mouth; with a gag you force it back down.

He slams you into the wall, with such force the plaster remaining falls on your head. With that one slam, you are now bleeding through the mouth. A pain unimaginable shoots through your leg.

The knife, which he had shifted to the gun hand, was now slowly, tauntingly piercing the skin on your cheek. Digging, digging at a sloth's pace, into you. Blood gushes from the wound. You feel the crimson liquid trying to part your clenched lips.

"I'm so glad you're back, son." That vile, despicable man is hissing, withdrawing the tiny dagger and, in place, holding up his precious and sacred 9mm gun. He presses the barrel against your temple. "Do you want to know why, boy?" He asks. You can sense the putrid smile spread across his undeserving face. You know what comes next.

"Why?" You manage to croak, hoping you appear defiant instead of buckling. You hear a deep, throaty chuckle.

"Well, my boy, so I can do this." Two gunshots ring out.

--

It takes you a moment to realize that the gun's barrel had been pointed to another place at the last minute. A knee-buckling, head-pounding, horridly disfiguring and haunting pain had erupted and overflowed in his abdomen. Two pieces of hot lead were now sealed with the flowing sticky liquid that was your Pedrosa blood.

He laughs again.

"See what you get, boy, when you try to escape?" He mocked. He is now taunting you in your language, and you want nothing more than to die. To end the pain, not just present, but scarring past and hateful future. Nothing more than for it to end.

Before you can realize what you are doing, you hear yourself--begging.

"Please," A voice, your voice, pleads, "Just…kill me, please." You are begging. Begging like a child would for a cookie. Asking for your caretaker to slaughter you. You are disgusted with yourself. The man laughs whole-heartedly and turns, apparently looking for something.

It is then that your phone rings. It is on vibrate, so only you can hear the persistent hum. It had fallen from your pocket along the line, unscathed except for a scratch to the neon green cover Kimiko had gotten you for Christmas. Speak of the devil.

It was Kimiko. Wondering how things were, you muse. Sweet, thoughtful Kimiko…

"Kim." You manage to say quietly, blood pouring freely from your mouth now, slurring your speech.

"Rai? Are you okay?" You hear the muffled cries from Omi, Clay, and Dojo to let them talk to you. Kimiko hushes them. "Rai? Raimundo?" She is asking if you are still there. You see the man, your father, you force yourself to think, emerge from his search. He wields a contraption made of fifty or so needles, three butcher knifes, and a tazer.

"Help…me…" Are your final words before darkness overcomes your very soul. All you can see and feel is blood. Your head lolls to the floor, unable to get support from your neck. Your arm is next, phone still clenched into your bloody hand, Kimiko's screams of "Hello? HELLO?!" coming from the speaker. As you feel yourself fade, all you can see is that phone. You feel a pent-up anger unleashing a minute too late to save you. You must blame something, anything. Your final waking thoughts are of how oh-so very much you hate cell phones.

--

Two bodies were found in an alleyway in the scums of Rio de Jeneiro, Brazil, March 3, 2007. One was old, nearly a skeleton. From the bone structure, he was determined as fourteen at time of death. Dental records identified the victim as Quadro Pedrosa. His disappearance was previously a cold case.

The second was that of a boy a year older. The body was new, as the blood seeping from every possible opening was still wet. He was identified by the siblings, who had come home to find their father washing his torture device. The children were now in foster homes.

The poor boy's name, your name, was Raimundo Pedrosa, and God, did you hate cell phones.

A\N-I am a twisted little bunny, now aren't I? I must say, I do disturbing, tragic angst rather well. Or it could be the midnight hours. I always do my best writing at 2 am. Review just to tell me what a twisted little bunny I am.