Resident Evil: "Thieves of Dawn"
Prologue:
"…About all you can do in life is be… who you are. Some people will love you for y-you. Most will love you for what… what you can d-do for them, and some…won't… won't like you at all."
Carlos Oliviera stood in front of his class, nervously clutching the paper on his hand. A middle-aged African American woman stood in the middle of the room, her plump arms crossed over her chest, as if sizing the 18-year-old boy. She had short curly black hair, with noticeable make-up on her face. The yellow blazer she wore contrasted the dark, dilapidated state of the room they were in. Each phage colored wall was lined with dirt and spray paint. Chairs were in disarray, and the students shared as much enthusiasm as the neglected wooden floor. The door was a teacher's table away from Carlos. It was still a few minutes before the bell would ring, a few more minutes before he could leave all those blank faces and return to his own world.
"…So this quote is from…?"
"Uh, its, uh, from Rita Mae Wilson…ma'am." He replied with a bit of a stutter.
"Yes, and you chose this particular article to discuss, why?"
"Cuz, well, um, it kind of relates to, uh, what you said, the, uh…exis…existuti…"
"Existentialist."
"Yeah! The existentialist point of view, that uh, man is what he makes of himself."
All of a sudden, the loud screech of the bell sounded, and as cue, the students mechanically began to sling their bags and grab their binders in a steady flow of humanity eager to leave the lifeless tomb. "Remember, study the essay on Plato alright?" reminded the teacher. A longhaired Asian girl in a pink blouse turned to nod at the teacher and hastily left. Carlos folded up the paper and shoved it to the back pocket of his torn jeans. He wore a rather faded blue sleeveless shirt, an old pair of white sneakers, and a small scapular. His brown hair reached the back of his neck, and his skin was naturally tanned.
"Mr. Oliviera?" called the teacher just as he bent down to grab his black bag. "Yes?" he responded with a tired expression on his face.
"Mr. Oliviera, I want to call to your attention how…deplorable your grades have become."
"…Yeah?"
"If you have any problems, please don't hesitate to tell me…"
"There's nothing you can do." He murmured to himself.
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing, Mrs. Hodgson."
"Listen Mr. Oliviera, I don't know if you've noticed or not, but you are steadily falling to the bottom of the class. I mean, Stephanie Wilson had four lines on her article and she still made a better oral report than you."
"…"
"We have just gone through midterms Mr. Oliviera, and if you persist on this…lack of enthusiasm for studying, then you'll have to repeat this course."
"…I'll keep that in mind ma'am." He replied, with a look of indifference on his face. It was like he was asleep inside, with his eyes barely open, and his senses barely working. Mrs. Hodgson sat on her chair, looking at him, wondering if he was on drugs, or if he had lost someone in the family, or the simple overlapping factor that he just didn't care, much like most of the students nowadays. "…Is that all Mrs. Hodgson?" he asked. She simply nodded in reply, which prompted the boy to take out his headphones and put them on.
"So is that where the money you earn go? On Discmans?" asked a young man a few meters down the hall with the same generic look of the classroom. Lockers lined the foyer, with some students playing with various objects in them, from mirrors to playboys. Bryan Johnson was leaning on his locker, wearing a tight red mesh tank top and baggy black pants. His hair was black, and poured over with hair gel to give it a spiky look.
"What I do with my cash is none of your business." came a cold reply, with Carlos boosting the volume of the rock music. "Besides, I still think its better than pot."
"Hey, like you said, my money, my business."
Carlos' locker was to the right of Bryan's, but he never out anything in there so he just stood in the middle of the corridor. Bryan signaled for them to go to the comfort room, and Carlos reluctantly followed. A few girls followed the two boys with their gazes, watching Bryan hold the gray door open and Carlos soon enter to disappear into the grimy tiled room. One of them whispered to the next, the sharp word "faggot" was clearly heard. Bryan shot her an intimidating look, and then smiled, he was handsome after all. Carlos didn't bother to pause the blaring music as he rested the headphones on his neck. Another young man who had curly hair, a thin frame and some thick glasses, watched them come in and decided to leave, his gray shirt had a ketchup spill on it.
"Mr. Chan is still offering you…"
"The chance to strip on a bar in front of drunk fags? No thanks." He finished cynically.
"He's offering a lot, man. I mean, what's the difference with what you do every night?"
Carlos didn't reply. He put the earphones back on and left the room, absconding the other boy.
Chapter 1: "The temple"
He got to his small apartment an hour before dawn the following day. Fumbling for the key, he groggily leaned on the door, flesh colored and run down, much like the rest of the complex that his mother chose to stay in. There already were small rays of light that entered through the broken rectangular window at the end of the dreary gray hall, where a sharp turn to the left would lead to a steep staircase that would take forever to traverse. Five rooms were on each side, alternating from each other. A rusty doorknob perfectly supplemented the tarnished door number, "24".
The musky smell of sweat was still all over Carlos as he got the door open, and practically stumbled inside. In front of him was a small dining table, and to his left was what they called the kitchen, still neglected. Past the dining table to the right was a small corridor, with two rooms on the left wall, one for himself, and the other for his mother, while a small bathroom was at the end. The wallpaper was phage, just like their door that could most probably be broken down by a single push. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and threw his bag down. He had an hour to cook his mother breakfast, another to rest, and the next thirty minutes to head back to his school. With a deep breath he took off his shirt, memories of last night then came flashing back. He could vividly remember, the smell of cigarette smoke that almost choked him as he entered the woman's car. She was middle-aged, and had heavy make-up, which was clear in the dark even though her blonde hair was not. After a few blocks of silence, and the woman's excited expectations, she led him to her apartment where the issue of price was raised. It was a humble home, but infinitely grander than his own.
"$150" he told her, and she agreed without any reluctance. "If you play my game." She added, just as he began to take of his clothes.
Carlos shook his head, trying to forget what happened next, but the pain he felt all over his body was testament to the nameless woman's deluded fantasies. At the age of 18, he had a firm build, that he found was the only way to provide anything for the woman he calls mother. She was still asleep at that hour, but then again, she was still asleep by noon. Carlos closed his eyes and ran to the sink. His hands forcefully met the tiles and he spat, he felt the bile rise to his throat, but go down again, next to a pile of unwashed dishes. An open window, with rusty steel frames, was right in front of him, blowing a friendly breeze down his spine. The water was very cold, but it still felt good against his moist skin. He blinked his eyes, once, twice, greeted by a blurred vision of the wet steel sink.
Pushing back his damp hair, he made his way back to his bag and took out a crumpled paper bag. Inside were the few groceries that he could buy, which would constitute as their food for the next week or so. He took out 2 strips of bacon and plopped it on the frying pan, letting it rest on the gentle flame of the gas stove. Just as he did, he made for the sink and quickly began to clean the dishes, whilst remembering the lesson on Advanced Algebra that he'll be having for first period. A plate slipped off his foamed hand and fell to the floor with a loud crash, making him shout out a profanity.
"Who's there?" shouted a voice muffled by the walls.
"Mom, its me!" he replied while washing his hands and then bending down to clean up the mess.
"Carlos? Carlos where the hell were you last night!?" she shrieked, too lazy to even get out of her room. "I told you I was going to be out studying!" he angrily shouted back, throwing the broken pieces to a small steel trashcan with a black plastic covering its inside.
"Did you break anything!? If you break anything then you're paying for it!"
"Yeah…what else is new, I do pay for everything." He murmured to himself, looking at his index finger that he clumsily cut when he threw the sharp pieces down. His glance went back to the fried bacon, and after wiping his finger on his jeans, he finished making breakfast.
"Mom, I got you something to eat!" he shouted while preparing the table.
"No way am I eating anything that you cook you little rat!" came a sharp reply. "I'm not letting you get your hands on my life insurance!!"
"Mom, if I wanted to kill you…I would just shoot you." He murmured to himself, not allowing his growing frustrations to get the better of him. Shaking his head, he set the plates down and decided to take a shower. "If you want to eat, there's food on the table." Carlos announced as he passed his mother's door. The young man kicked off his shoes at the door, and the rest of his garments as he entered. He would have rather head to school right now than stay in that place with his mother.
Nichole Del Rosario stood on the roof of the public school, holding the mesh that would prevent anyone stupid enough to walk past the cement floor. A group of kids were playing basketball in a makeshift court at the other end of the roof. About five foot six, she turned back and leaned on the mausoleum like structure that housed the stairs, which led back to those dull corridors. She always fancied heights, even as a child. Now at 16, she still wanted to feel the wind so high or grasp the clouds that float in the skies. So far away, the beautiful backdrop of light blue always gave her a sense of relief. The Filipino girl tied back her shoulder length black hair to a tail and then shoved her hands to the pockets of her white buttoned up jacket. The coolness of the floor crept past her black pants, but she didn't care, she wanted to stretch her legs and just rest for a moment. Only a few people came so early, about six fifteen in the morning. It was always the same group of people, the Asian girl who always came with her boyfriend, that kid with curly hair and thick glasses, the faculty members, and some people that she didn't prefer to talk to. There was also that strange brown haired young man that always caught her eye.
After a few more minutes of sitting there and basking at nothingness, the girl decided to leave. She swung her small backpack around her shoulder and headed down. The stairs were blood red, 2 flights away from the fourth floor where her classes were. Her first period was American history, as she was still a freshman. The halls were still empty and a little dark, with silent lockers standing like sentinels that kept watch. On the far end, a janitor in dark blue overalls just finished mopping the floors, and disappeared into another hall. Nichole turned down to take out a cell phone from her backpack, not noticing the comfort room door beside her quickly open. A small yelp came from the other side as the door painfully rebounded off Nichole's elbow, causing her to drop the second hand Nokia 7210.
"I'm sorry-!" came a girl from the comfort room, but stopped when she saw Nichole picking up the cell phone. "…Oh, it's the monkey girl." Came a disgusted expression. "Good morning Whitney." Nichole greeted unenthusiastically. The blonde girl rolled her eyes and headed off, her curly blonde hair bouncing with every step she took. She wore a long sleeved white polo and a short blue skirt, with black leather shoes and socks of the same color that reached her knees. Nichole just shook her head with the same sentiment as Whitney, and stood up.
The school occupied the whole block, with asbestos narrow roads with old apartments and grocery stores surrounding it. Taking a right from a long walk full of sidewalk vendors, Carlos crossed the street, unwary of the few cars that sped by. He came by the corner of the block, with a sign that read "Bosco Street". A metal fence separated him from the school's front yard where a sporadic flow of students, teachers and administrators made their way in, with the latter two mostly arriving in cars to the far right of the main gate, opposite where Carlos was. He wore a thin plain white shirt that kept his tanned body visible, but he didn't bother to change his pants.
With rock music still blaring at his ears, he casually walked past the gates, trailing it with his hand as he did. The old school was a very silent and ominous presence, with cobbled walls lining all four stories. It was just a rectangular building, with a parking lot devoted to those who had the luxury of driving, to its right, a small basketball court behind it, and a statue of a Saint just before the main lobby. A girl sitting on the steps of the main lobby doors flashed him a smile, but he didn't smile back. "Don't do that again Christie!" scolded a girl in blue. The girl who was sitting on the lobby steps stood up and looked back, waiting for Carlos to disappear into the recesses of the structure. "He's cute." She replied while placing her hands on her wrist. "Ugh, don't degrade yourself girl." Responded the woman in blue.
"Why are you so mean to guys who don't go by your standards?" she asked sharply.
"Its not like that Christie…I mean…he is like…teen trash." Replied the girl in blue.
"And guess what kind of world drove him to that lifestyle."