You used to say I won't know a wind until it crossed me
He often wakes up in the middle night, drenched in sweat, bed trashed and voice hoarse. And then, no matter what time it is, he won't be able to fall back to sleep and would instead spend the night sitting outside on the balcony, feeling the cold air against his skin. Or sometimes, he would go to the practice room and assault the sandbag until his muscles burn. Anything to keep his mind off of his nightmares - if you could even call it that, for it was much too vivid to be mere images that his mind conjured during moments of sleep.
It was always the same cycle. He would be trapped in a pitch black room with nowhere to run, and then he would hear harsh voices picking on him, telling him that he was just a useless piece of trash. He's not masculine enough. He's too small and scrawny to be a boy. He's as weak as a girl. That he's a shame to the family.
And then comes the pain. The agonizing successions of hits that overwhelmed his feeble attempt of defense. He would just end up curling into a ball, wishing for the torment to end.
And then it would all be gone in the blink of an eye, and the landscape would change. He would see Alicia calling out to him from the distance and he would try to stand up in shaky legs only to realizes that he's back in that rotten confinement again. Back in the place that should've offer comfort and yet gave him nothing but sorrow. His limbs would give up then, and he would fall down on his knees as if the weight on the world just falls on his shoulder. And then he would watch, can only watch as that beast approaches Alicia from behind and strangles her. He would struggles to move, or at least scream for help, and then he would be jolted back to reality.
Deep down, he realizes that those aren't exactly dream. It was fragments of his childhood memories, pieces of the past that he kept locked away in the closet of his mind.
It was his deepest fear, the haunting dread that he used to be so familiar with during his time of childhood.
And the anxiety that comes with those six words:
He would never be good enough.
I still look for your face in the crowd
He's trembling in fear. He tries to convince himself that it's just a dream, but he's too shaken to believe his own words. The fear and despair was much too real, and it enveloped him until he can't breathe. Scrambling off his bed, he let his feet take him away from the suffocating darkness until he reaches Alicia's door.
He grabs the door knob, but then his limbs lost their strength and he crumbles to the floor.
No, no, he can't wake Alicia up. He can't let her sees him like this. He's her anchor, she needs him to be strong. And as her protector, he would shield her from everything, including the poisonous dread that's smothering him.
He struggles to stands up straight, but then he feels the chills that creeps on his spine and he let out a choked sobs. It's irrational, he knows, but he can't help but to feels as if someone's watching him. Like that beast is observing him from one of the corner, hiding in the shadow.
The fear was instilled in his mind even before he can comprehend anything, and even now he can't actually get over it. He would still jerked at the slightes sounds, would still jump to his feet when his eyes caught any unusual movement, and he's half expecting that beast to jump out from the darkness and strangle him to death.
A cold wind blows past him, making the curtain dance and he nearly shrieks. Before he knows it, he's already running away with all his might, tears running down his cherubic face and heart hammering against his ribs.
Once he reaches the practice room and slammed the door behind him, he clambers for the lamp switch. He whimpers from the sudden blinding light, making his knees buckle and he falls down face first on the mattress. But relief washed over him, because he made it to his sanctuary, the only place where horrors can't reach him.
Tattooed on my arm is a charm to disarm all the harm
With each jabs and hooks, he feels stronger. With each kicks, he feels the desolation seeps out of his system. And yet, he remembers.
He remembers why he had to learn to take arms. He remembers when he started to raise his fist and retaliate against their abusive father. He remembers how, at first, it would only lasted for a few moments. He remembers what would happen then, once his father subdued him. He remembers the burning pain that ingrained the fear in his head.
He remembers feeling so small, helpless, inadequate, a good for nothing that nobody likes.
Gritting his teeth, he jumps and lands a harsh spin kick on the sandbag before punching it with such force he breaks the chain, and the sandbag falls to the floor.
He pants, all sorts of emotions swelling inside of him and he made a grab for his baseball bat. The moment he curls his fingers around the hilt, clarity engulfed him. He tightens his grips, before swinging it upwards and hits a nearby target with a loud voice. He takes a step forward, swirling the bat in his hand, and suddenly he strikes.
He remembers the first time he grab that bat in panic and broke that beast's nose with it. That beast roared in anger, but he was bleeding profusely and so he left him alone.
He remembers the rush of adrenaline that fueled him after that encounter, and how it drove him to train his ability.
He remembers familiarizing himself with the bat, making it his weapon of choice despite having almost no experience on playing the sport.
He remembers how the bat helped him get through each day, easing the abuse that was supposed to befall him or Alicia.
And oh, how he remembers the shocked look in that beast's face when he assaulted him with that bat. He remembers the delicious sound of his bone breaking under his hit. He remembers the satisfying feeling that he got over seeing the deformed corpse of their so called father.
But first and foremost, he remembers how he feels when he first got hold of that precious baseball bat of his.
He feels alive. Formidable.
If you could see me now would you recognize me?
Spent and satiated, he drags his aching body to the nearest corner and plops himself down on the floor. He put his bat in between his legs, leaning against the cold wall to catches his breath as his eyes assess the damages he caused after his venting out session.
He let out a breathless chuckle. It's ironic, now that he thinks about it.
He went through so much bullshit and violence during his younger days that he could firmly said that he had used up his entire portion of those two.
He used to despise violence, because it reminds him of his father and the anguish that he put him and his sister through.
He used to hold on to the resolution that he would only utilize violence in times of needs, and only to protect himself and his sister.
He used to swear that once they're safe and free from that hellhole of a home, he would not have the need to raise that baseball bat again and would instead lead a peaceful life with Alicia.
But through some kind of sick jokes that fate conjured, he's currently working as an assassin. And so does Alicia.
When I see my face in the mirror
We look so alike that it makes me shiver
He closes his eyes, absentmindedly massaging the sore muscle on his legs. Where did it all go wrong, he wonder?
At first, he only took up this job as his way of paying Bejo back for taking them in and protecting them. He never planned for it to be permanent.
But then as time goes on, he doesn't seem to find it in himself to care anymore. He killed so many people that he no longer feels anything with every life he took. No longer care whether it was someone else's father, someone else's son, or that somewhere out there, a family will be mourning the loss.
When did he become so numb?
He wondered whether or not he had lost himself in the gore, and the glory that came with it.
It scares him to no end, the possibility that he had fall in love with violence and the grandeur it could offer. Because violence were an integral part of that beast and his lifestyle.
What if he became his father? What if that beast somehow lived on through him, and would torture all his children in the future?
Opening his eyes, he looks up and regrets it immediately. Just a few days ago, the Assassin installed the mirror in the ceiling of their practice room, to give each of them a full view of their practicing session, so they can know where, when, and how they could improve. Yet every time he looks at the mirror, he sees a spitting image of his father.
It frustrated him, the fact that he can't get away from that beast's grip even after all this time. That beast is dead, he made sure of it himself. He severed all his ties to the past, locked away all the memories and burned all that reminds him of that putrid part of his life. He even buried the name that beast gave him when he was born and adorned a new identity as the Baseball Bat Man.
But still he saw him every time he sees his reflection.
Lately, the resemblance is so uncanny he can't bear to look in the mirror anymore.
And he can't help but think that maybe, it's not about physical similiarities that came hand in hand as he aged.
Perhaps it's because deep inside, he's losing himself in the viciousness of this forsaken world and shaping up to be just another monster.
Much like his father.
If you could see me now
Would you pat me on the back or would you criticize me?
"You're supposed to be in bed."
He jerks his head up in surprise, but visibly relaxed when he sees that it's just Bejo. "I'm practicing," he mumbles, and Bejo raises an eyebrow.
Bejo says nothing, only taking in the view of their now wrecked practice room before sitting down next to him. He steals a glance from the corner of his eyes, wary and yet curious. It's not every day that he got to be so close to Bejo in such informal occassion. And now, seeing Bejo in that simple white t-shirt and slacks, stripped off of his shades and suit, he can't help but feels that Bejo looks...normal. Like your everyday Joe. And when Bejo leans at the wall, eyes closed and hair tussled, he sees the youth in him.
He forget, sometimes, that they're only a little bit more than a decade apart. For Bejo had always been some sort of parental figure for him and Alicia, a surrogate father that gave him so much more than his birth father did.
"It's tiring, isn't it?" Bejo says suddenly, breaking their silent reverie.
"What?"
Bejo turns his head and looks at him right in the eyes. "The nightmares."
Would you call me a saint or a sinner?
He stares at the older man next to him, stunned. How did he know? And more importantly...
"You have nightmares too?" he can't help but asks in disbelief, and Bejo chuckles lowly.
"It's inevitable, I suppose," Bejo laments. "After all the things we saw, did, and got away with everyday, it's only fair that we got some sort of punishment. That would explain the nightmare, a reminder for the obligation that I washed my hands off of."
"But what could..."
"Scare me? A lot of things do. But my deepest fear is that I overestimate myself, and my ability. That would be such an irony, wouldn't it? I always talked about limitation, and yet I overstepped my own." Bejo let out a hollow laughs. "And to be honest, I often felt that I already did whenever I look at you and Alicia."
He can feel his throat goes dry.
"What insanity possessed me, I wonder, that day I adopted you and Alicia? What did I think? I should've known better, and yet I took the two of you in. Why?"
It feels like a sharp punch in his gut, a suffocating grip in his lungs.
"I wasn't thinking straight, I suppose," Bejo puts a hand over his eyes. "Had I been in my right mind, I would've brought you and Alicia to an orphanage. I would've ensured that the two of you got the proper care, and made sure that the two of you would be adopted by a fitting household, where you could get all the love and care you deserved."
"Maybe you would've gone to be a professional baseball player. And Alicia would get the best treatment for her hearing problems."
"But instead you're stuck with me, and I dragged the two of you into this bottomless pit of hell with me." Bejo looks up to the mirror, sorrows distorting his expression. "I'm afraid that the two of you would wake up one day and realized that you hate me and what I've done to you."
He caught Bejo's eyes, and the agony in those black orbs break his heart to pieces. So before he can second guess himself, he extends his shaky hands and wraps it around the older male.
Would you love me a loser or winner?
He's not one to show his affection through skinship or other physical means, but he can't help but to hug the older male. Can't help but to feel Bejo's shoulder slackened inside his embrace, and how he himself is shaking.
"Please don't say that," he chokes out a sob. "Don't ever say that you regret taking us in, or that we would hate you."
"You're the best thing that ever happened to me and Alicia. You save us from that hell, and you gave us more than just a new life. You gave us a future, you gave us something to fight for. You gave us a family. You're our family."
He doesn't know when he started crying, but the tears just fall down and he can't stop them. Nor that he want to, not when Bejo tentatively raises his hand and strokes his hair.
"Thank you," he softly says. "But I still owe you an apology, for it was selfish of me to brought you into this foul circle and put you through all those torments when the truth is that you and Alicia deserved nothing more but a life of wealth and virtue. You've had enough of violence for a life time, and yet I gave you more of it."
He shakes his head, trying to dispute that, but there's a lump in his throat.
"I can only wish that, you and Alicia would never lost your innocence to this vicious cycle."
"What if I already did?" he croaks, still burying his face in Bejo's shoulder. "What if I turned into a beast already?"
He cries harder when Bejo removes his hands and hold him at arm's length. Is this is? Is he angry? Would he despise him now that he knows the truth?
"You're not a monster. Never have, and never will," Bejo tells him firmly.
"How how do you know?" he sobs. "After all those things that I did, all the life that I took, how do you know that I didn't do it because I like it?!"
"Because you don't. Otherwise you won't be crying like this," Bejo gently says, wiping the tears off of his face. "You may immerse yourself in violence and gore, but you would never lose yourself in it. Because you have a reason. You have Alicia. And everything that you ever did, you did it for her. She would never let you sink in the darkness, and vice versa."
He sobs again, but this time he can feel the relief with each teardrops as the suffocating grips of self doubt leaving him. Bejo pats him in the back a few times, before standing up and and ruffles his hair with affection.
"Go back to sleep, you need it."
He nods, mumbling a thank you towards Bejo as the older man leave first.
For the first time since forever, he easily falls back into a peaceful dreamless slumber, Bejo's consoling words echoing in his mind.
"You're not your father. You would never be him."
Would you stand in disgrace or take a bow
If you could see me now?