I stride through the halls of the school, stifling the sound of small boys’ giggles, laughter, and cries —the loud type. No one hears the small ones weeping quietly in dark corners. No one asks about them when they miss a meal, or two, or eventually disappear.

This place is labelled as a boys’ school but is, in fact, the scum of scum. It’s more like a transition phase before the children either run away or get taken in the middle of the night without anyone hearing a sound.

The lucky ones go into foster homes or, better yet, get adopted. But are they lucky, really? I was in a foster home once, and let’s say it didn’t end well, for them and me and every last fucker who pretended to not have seen anything.

I don’t knock as I barge into the principal’s office, Richards. He’s still old and fat like a pig with blemished skin and half bald hair.

He’s speaking with his right hand, Nancy, still old, too, but more wrinkled and still wearing those ugly brown-framed glasses.

I’m tempted to shoot them both in the head, but I don’t have time for pesky cleaning right now.

Lucio is getting restless and if I don’t bring him anything soon, all hell will break loose.

While I usually don’t give a fuck about any hell, and would meet Lucio’s little gangbangers head on, the timing isn’t good.

Marco didn’t only see my little Petal, but he’s also showing a perverted interest in her. I’ve seen the way his knuckles tighten and his nostrils flare. It’s the body language he has before raping and maiming people. So, if I mess up in any way, Lucio won’t hesitate to unleash Marco on her and use her against me.

And while I can and would finish Marco, life will only turn for the worse if I become the Costas’ enemy.

I can always kill my little Petal and end my weakness with my own hands.

That idea keeps diminishing by the day, as if it were never there.

Nancy stands up abruptly, her eyes bulging open. Richards clears his throat and wipes sweat off his bald head.

They recognize me. Good.

Considering they deal a lot with underground fuckers, it makes sense they heard of the name before.

After all, Richards is the one who gave me the name after I arrived here with nothing.

I pull out a chair, but I don’t sit down, just shove both hands into my pockets. “Let’s keep this short. Odd twenty years ago, Paolo Costa or one of his men brought a child here. I need to know what happened to that boy and where I can find him.”

“We don’t know about no Costa.” Richards continues wiping his sweat like an overheated animal.

“Try again, and this is your last chance, by the way.” I retrieve my gun and point it at them. “How about you, Nance? Do you know anything aside from locking young boys in a cellar for a week?”

Nancy’s face whitens and even her lips lose color. “I-I…”

“That’s not an answer. Goodbye.”

“I-I know!” Richards raises both his hands as the stench of piss fills the air.

I tilt my head as a big stain wets the front of Nancy’s light-colored skirt before dripping to the ground.

It would’ve looked better if it was blood.

“W-we d-didn’t take care of high-profile kids,” Richards stammers. “I can give you the contact of who did.”

“Name.”

“S-Sarah, Sarah Lisette.”

That’s the same name Giovani gave me, so this is adding up.

I motion at a Post-It block in front of him with my gun. “Write the info down.”

“Of course, of course, Jasper.” His fingers tremble as he scribbles in messy handwriting.

The entire time, Nancy pushes against her chair, not bothering to hide her little accident.

“H-Here.” Richards extends the note with trembling fingers.

I sheathe my gun and both of them release collected breaths. Before they can rejoice, I retrieve my knife and slam it in Richards’s hand, pinning it to the table while snatching the note.

He screams, the sound loud and immensely satisfying.

“That’s for spanking kids until they turn red, Richards. Don’t let me catch you doing it again, or your life will gain an expiration date.”

I jerk my knife and he screams again as his blood splatters all over the documents and the pens scattered on his desk. Nancy shrieks too, begs falling from her lips like prayers.

She’s such a fucking hypocrite. Not so high and mighty now, is she?

I point my knife at her, and she goes completely silent, tears streaming down her face. “P-please, Jasper.”

“Did you stop when we begged, Nance? Or did you lock us up?”

“I-I...I—”

“Shut the fuck up.” I turn to leave then stare at her piss soaking the front of her skirt, her eyes bloodshot and filled with tears. “That’s what happens when you’re scared, Nance, you piss yourself. From today onward, imagine how fucking children feel.”

Richards’ screams and Nancy’s quiet weeping stay with me as I step outside their office.

I need out of this fucking place before I burn it to the ground. There are children who receive care from this place, after all.

My feet come to a halt in front of the memorial wall. Several pictures sit side by side, commemorating the generations that came in and went out of that old door.

I find myself without having to search. It’s not that I stand out, but more like I don’t. I’ve always been the invisible type, the one who sneaks in the back and only becomes visible when he chooses to.

Being invisible helped me adapt to night patrol, the searches, the attempts of molestations.

Attempts, because I always got myself out of them, by force, by wit, by having Nancy lock me in the dark room. I just managed.

Richards stood beside my class at the time. I’m the scrawny kid near the back, partially hidden from everyone, half my face is blocked by the kid beside me and my one eye is glaring.

Fucking glaring at the camera like I’m telling the world and everyone in it to go fuck themselves. My eyes were fucking mean since I was a child, evil and meant to screw up the world.

Unlike common belief, people like me are needed. We’re the predators who keep the balance. Without us, it would all be old-fashioned chaos.

I’m about to leave when I notice the small boy clinging to my side. His short black hair is in a bow cut and he’s hiding his face against my shoulder, not looking at the camera.

And I... let him.

His small fingers dig into the sleeves of my T-shirt as if it’s a lifeline. The most bizarre thing is that I haven’t beat him to shit or smashed his face for touching me.

Joseph. Little Joe.

He was too scrawny, too small, and too weak. He was several years younger than me when he came in and all the other boys wanted to bloody his perfect porcelain skin and blue —or were they green— eyes.

He’s hiding his face, and I can’t exactly paint a picture of him. It’s been decades now.

Being small and pretty, he was adopted a few months after he arrived. Stepford housewives loved his type a bit too much. Perfect boy, perfect face, perfect grades.

And he was young, so he could’ve been molded to anything they wanted him to be.

As I stare at his small fingers, a memory hits me as if it happened yesterday.

 

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