I was a falcon for about a year or two. I watched Freedom Street every day, and when there was a shootout there, I'd get involved too. I was only supposed to keep watch, but I was getting stronger and I wasn't afraid of anything, so I'd kick the shit out of anyone. That happened several times, to the point that the rival gangs stopped showing up on my street.
By this time, several clowns recognized me, and some were even afraid of me. They called me "kid" or "little mage" 'cause they didn't know my name, but they only used these nicknames in secret because only Darius could give nicknames to his clowns, and he only did so with the best. The rest of us were like farm animals: nameless 'cause most of us were going to die sooner or later.
Naming us would be a waste.
Anyway, the thing is, one night I was keeping watch on my street, and no one was passing by. It was the middle of the night, or so I thought, and I was practicing my magic to keep myself awake. I had a pillow, and with a little magic, I could transform it into a sphere covered in spikes. The spikes were so sharp that I bled every time I touched them with my finger.
Suddenly, someone came to my street and approached me. I gathered a little magic and saw him coming closer. At first, he was just a shadow, but when he was near, I saw that he was wearing clown makeup.
"The password," I told him 'cause anyone can put on makeup like that to pretend to be part of the gang.
"I'm so fucking stupid," let's just say that was the password back then, and he said it. "Darius wants to see you; he's gonna test you to see if he'll put you on some real missions."
"Ok," I said pretending I didn't care, but I'd been waiting for that test for a long time 'cause it was such a waste to have me just as a falcon when I was much stronger than almost all the clowns. I should be out on missions, taking down the other gangs, the police, or even the FBI.
And I also wanted to be paid more 'cause my dad hadn't come back for a long time, and my mom kept asking me for more and more money.
So I went to Darius's lair.
"I come for my test," I told the clowns guarding the entrance.
"Darius already called you? That's great, little mage," one of them told me and pat my back. "Come in."
But the other clown didn't let me through.
"The password."
"You're so fucking stupid," let's just say that was the password back then, and I said that.
"Come on in," he opened the door.
"And what's the test, what do I have to do?"
"We can't tell you, bro," the first clown said, "but you'll be fine. Don't worry"
I went inside and immediately found myself in a very large room, which was full of clowns. Many were shouting and cheering.
"Here's another one!" someone shouted, and everyone turned to look at me. Some cheered, and others came up to me and took me to the middle of the room; there was Darius, a few men kneeling with their heads covered, other falcons like me, and all the clowns surrounded us in a circle.
"That's everyone, sir," a clown said to Darius, and he raised his hand. All the clowns who were shouting and cheering fell silent at that moment.
"We clowns are one with death," Darius said, and we all heard him. "Cops, enemies, traitors, anyone will try to kill us when we least expect it. Every day we live could be our last, we know that well.
"We'll never get used to live so close to death.
"But we can get used to killing.
"Anyone who goes to a shootout and isn't willing to kill will end up dead. None of them will spare your life 'cause they're sure you won't spare theirs. This is kill or be killed, so if you want to stop being falcons and become real clowns, you have to get used to killing."
Darius then turned around and went to join the other clowns.
"Pick one," he told us. "Take the bag off his head and kill him."
"No, please! I didn't do anything!" shouted one of those with a bag over his head, and a clown hit him.
You could hear some others crying, and from their voices, I knew most of them were kids my age or a little older.
There were also a few men with their heads covered, and some of them barely moved, as if they didn't care whether they were gonna die or not.
I thought for a long time that they were brave and faced death with pride and honor.
I was so fucking stupid.
They were as scared shitless as anyone, but they had been so close to death so many times that they knew crying, screaming, begging, bribing wouldn't do shit, and they weren't going to waste the little time they had left on that.
They seemed calm 'cause they were preparing to die, forgiving those they hated, praying for their loved ones, and all of that also helped them forget for a moment that they were about to die and couldn't do anything about it.
Me and the other hawks looked at the men in the bag, and one by one we picked them out.
When I fought the other gangs, I liked to go after the older ones until they were screaming and begging me, a little kid, for their lives. They looked so pathetic. That's why I picked on a man standing in front of me who was trying to hold back tears. He sounded like a little kid who'd just been scolded. Now, up until this point, I'd never killed anyone, or at least I'd never killed them directly 'cause the other clowns always finished them off, but maybe if they hadn't, I would have killed a few already.
So I approached that man and took the bag off his head. He looked at me scared for a few seconds, and after all that time, that fucking son of a bitch finally recognized me.
I was paralyzed and couldn't stop staring at him. He now had a double chin and gray hair, he was also fatter and had some wrinkles on his face.
But his eyes were just as I remembered them, and they looked at me with fear.
"Son, help me," begged the same asshole who had the nerve to abandon me and my mom. "Tell them I didn't do anything. Son, it's me, your dad."
His hands were cuffed behind his back.
He started crawling toward me, and I took a step back. All those urges I had to torture him and make him beg vanished. I didn't want to kill him or do anything to him; I just wanted none of it to be real, for it all to be a dream.
"Son, please. If you don't help me, they're gonna kill me."
He kept getting closer and closer, and I backed away until I bumped into the circle of clowns surrounding us. They threw me forward, and I fell to the ground.
"Don't be a pussy!" Someone yelled. "Kill him!"
"Son," my dad was right in front of me, and he was grabbing my shirt and pulling it. "Tell them I'll join them, that I'll do whatever they want. Son, please listen to me."
I couldn't stop looking at him, and at that time I was so fucking stupid 'cause I wanted to cry, I wanted to tell him to come back, for everything to be like it used to.
"Please, son," he just wouldn't shut up. "I'll do whatever you want. I'll be home more often now, with you and all your brothers."
That simple word brought me back to reality.
"Brothers? What brothers?" I asked him.
"With you, I'll spend more time with you, with you and your mother. Son, please don't let them kill me."
At that moment I understood everything. I wasn't his only son, and my mother wasn't his only woman. That's why he always abandoned us for so long, why he hardly gave us any money, even though his wallet was full; he had another family, or maybe other families.
I was so fucking mad, yes, at him, but even more at myself. I always thought it was my fault he left; I always wanted him to tell me he was proud of me, that I was a good son.
But that asshole just saw me as one of who knows how many kids, and maybe he didn't even remember my name.
"What's my name?" I stood up and asked him. I was so fucking stupid I expected him to answer: "You're Miguel. I do remember you. I care about you. I miss you and your mother. You've always mattered to me."
But I knew that I, as always, was asking too much.
"You're my son," he replied, and I punched him so hard he fell to the ground.
"Say my name," I was practically begging him. "Say my fucking name." He only had to say "Miguel," and I would have freed him and tried to get him out of there. The clowns would have killed us both there, and I knew it at the time, but I just didn't care.
I just wanted him to say my name, to show me that I mattered to him at least a tiny, tiny bit.
But he couldn't even do that.
"Son, help me." He tried to stand up, but his legs were shaking. Blood was pouring from his nose. "Please. I love you so much, son."
I grabbed his shirt and punched him so hard he fell to the ground again. Every second that passed made me angrier and angrier at him 'cause that asshole had played with me my whole life, 'cause he still had the nerve to call me son when he didn't even know my name, when he had told me I was ungrateful 'cause I wanted to have a father for more than five minutes, when he scolded me for every little thing while he was out fucking everyone.
"Son, please," he tried to stand again. His mouth was all crooked and covered in blood. "Your name doesn't matter—you're still my son."
Hearing him say that filled me with a rage far greater than when those clowns destroyed my magic book. A dark aura covered me whole.
It was like my body moved on its own 'cause I did it without even thinking. With all that anger, with all that power that came out of my body, I hit him once in the face. That was it. I just threw one punch, and I didn't even feel anything when I touched him, as if it hadn't happened, as if it hadn't been real, but I hit him, and that punch was so strong that it sent him flying several feet into the air and he landed on the other side of the circle of clowns.
Seconds passed, and he didn't move.
"Gentlemen," Darius approached me and raised my arm as if I had won a boxing match. "There's a new clown with us."
The other clowns cheered and yelled, and I stared at what was left of my father. He was lying face up, blood splattering across the floor, but his eyes, nose, and mouth were gone, just a pool of blood where his face should have been, as if I had made a giant hole there. He wasn't moving or breathing anymore.
It was just one punch.
Seconds passed and I kept watching him. I waited for him to get up, to gasp for breath, to ask me for help again.
But he didn't move anymore.
Some clowns then grabbed him by the arms to drag him away. More than ten years have passed since then, and I still remember how the blood covering his face drenched his entire body as the clowns began to drag him, how instead of a face he had a mass of red flesh and brains, how the trail of blood expanded as they carried him away, and how he disappeared behind a wall when the clowns went into a hallway.
I don't know what happened to him after that, but they probably buried him somewhere no one would ever find him. Maybe they chopped him up so no one could recognize him, or maybe they even dissolved him in acid.
But I'm pretty sure that he's dead, I killed him.
It was just one punch.
And that was enough to kill him.