Amazon
Written inspired by a mixtape by Danila Dunaev (you can listen to it HERE). It was also written at work, as a time constraint challenge (this one was written in 1h:02min, the same length of the mixtape).
First person, crime story, not really a fantasy setting. First draft, very rough, all the mistakes are mine.
_________________________________________________________________________
It is a warm night. A light breeze runs through the streets, making it perfect for a few beers after work. Lapa is filled with people, natives and tourists alike, the weather calling for some bohemian fun. I can hear the sound of my heels clicking on the portuguese pavement sidewalk even over the chatter.
People turn their heads to look at me, as always. I try not to feel angry, or annoyed... A woman of 1.90m calls everybody's attention. I should be playing Volleyball, basketball or headlining a freakshow somewhere.
Some people say I should be a model or some such... I would probably had thought of that if I had a better life. At least a life with less worries.
The men who catcall at me have no idea who I am or what would they deal with if they had the opportunity to 'get' me. I'm a criminal. A brawler, a bodyguard, torturer and killer. The thought of my profession always makes me reach to check my gun and this time it is no different.
I work for a crime boss. Out of loyalty, mostly, since she picked me up from the streets, the place I landed on after my parents died, innocent lives lost during a crime war.
Only God knows what I had to do to survive. And let me tell you, I'm sure god isn't too proud of this daughter of his.
I try to use the old buildings at the Mem de Sá street to distract myself from the pain my own memories cause me. Tiny old two story houses, glued to each other. Most have the painting falling to pieces, some are completely falling apart. A few look perfect under the moonlight, and I'm pretty sure those are business houses.
My mobile phone pings softly. Dama. She wants to know where I am, I, her favorite kid, her faithful little girl. I type her a vague answer and check my other messages. Found one. Gringo.
Gringo, who is in a position very similar to my own. A high member of another crime family, he is both hostage, spy and someone who guarantees Dama's good behavior towards the rivals. The only man in an organization of women, he got this name for being pale in a land of tanned beauties.
I like him. He's faithful like me. Thankful because he wasn't killed, mistreated or worse, he works for Dama as an accountant, trying to pay back her good will towards him in some way.
He's telling me to be careful. I chuckle. Smart man. He found out exactly what I found out and, blessed be his big head, knows exactly what I want to do.
What I will do.
I go back to walking, this time more quickly. I want this night to be over as soon as possible. I want to find a way to leave, a way to run away from all of this shit, to live a normal life.
I made my plans for myself, but part of me hopes Gringo takes the chance and finds his freedom.
As I walk, my mind wanders back to Dama. I've never met a woman like her. She was beautiful, and so sure of herself you couldn't help but trust her. Classy, she demanded attention as soon as she got into the room, well dressed. She was royalty.
I remember her beautifully manicured black hands over me, dressing me up, braiding my hair, as she told her story. She came from the streets, just like me. She just one day got tired of suffering, raised an army and demanded a chunk of the city.
In her area, all women were taken care off. Especially the ones who came from a situation of vulnerability.
But for all good she did to the world, she did bad too. She was ruthless. She never worried about collateral damage. If someone wasn't one of hers, someone under her protection, she didn't give a fuck if they lived or they died.
I blink back the tears in my eyes and enter the house. My step hardens, thunderous noise on the wooden floor. I go straight to her audience room and I find Dama there. Alone. Sitting on the chair, legs crossed, she looks like power incarnate.
"Did you do your job?" She asks softly.
"Yes, Dama." I get a small digital camera from my purse and place in front of her. "Here it is."
Dama holds the display to her face and presses the buttons. She surveys what I know are pictures of a barbaric nature, registers of the horrible acts I was forced to commit out of loyalty, out of gratitude. She is looking at the pictures of open bodies, terribly maimed, disfigured.
And to know I did exactly what she asked me to do. Not more. Not less.
She dares look at those pictures and she smiles, the devil woman.
That is exactly when I remember the moment I found out she was the one who gave the order to kill my parents. I remember watching the police footage of that raid so many years ago. Dama started the war. Dama killed who was on the streets, workers and police alike.
And my parents, who were just getting home from a day of work, were caught in the crossed fire. She could had released them, but she didn't. She looked into their frightened eyes and gave the order to kill. War is war, after all. High body counts make the authorities behave.
She found me years later and she has no idea what she made me suffer. This woman, who took care of me with such gentleness, took my family and gave me a life of crime and a list of victims as long as I am tall.
I press the remote control in my purse. The shot rings, loud and clear, from a rooftop nearby. I didn't even have to sit her in the right place, it was as if she knew what I would do and had no regrets.
It was ok, I didn't regret anything either.
And I felt no remorse as her body swayed to the side and the bullet crossed her head, splattering her blood and brains over the floor.
I hear the steps on the floor and I turn to the door to receive my sisters. They flood in, some with their guns in hand. Well trained, they cover all the windows, checking for the shooter. Others scream over Dama's body.
I stand there, very still, in shock. Gringo grabs my arm and turns me to him, then holds my face.
"Are you ok?" He asks, his green eyes focused on mine. I know exactly what he is asking, he doesn't want to know if I am hurt, he is too smart.
I nod just as my sisters realize there is no reason to call a doctor, Dama is dead and gone.
They turn to me, their eyes wide, some lips trembling. Instead of cleaning the room, they just stand there, waiting for some guidance, in silence.
"Here is to The Amazon!" One of the girls in the back shouts. "The Queen is dead, long live the Queen!" The other women join the chanting and I feel a stray tear sliding down my cheek.
Gringo steps by my side and holds my forearm. He leans towards me and whispers in my ear.
"I hope you understand what you just did."
I nod. The women keep cheering. I will stay to stop a war for this area. I will stay to protect my sisters. I sacrificed my future for revenge. And it was worth it.
First person, crime story, not really a fantasy setting. First draft, very rough, all the mistakes are mine.
_________________________________________________________________________
It is a warm night. A light breeze runs through the streets, making it perfect for a few beers after work. Lapa is filled with people, natives and tourists alike, the weather calling for some bohemian fun. I can hear the sound of my heels clicking on the portuguese pavement sidewalk even over the chatter.
People turn their heads to look at me, as always. I try not to feel angry, or annoyed... A woman of 1.90m calls everybody's attention. I should be playing Volleyball, basketball or headlining a freakshow somewhere.
Some people say I should be a model or some such... I would probably had thought of that if I had a better life. At least a life with less worries.
The men who catcall at me have no idea who I am or what would they deal with if they had the opportunity to 'get' me. I'm a criminal. A brawler, a bodyguard, torturer and killer. The thought of my profession always makes me reach to check my gun and this time it is no different.
I work for a crime boss. Out of loyalty, mostly, since she picked me up from the streets, the place I landed on after my parents died, innocent lives lost during a crime war.
Only God knows what I had to do to survive. And let me tell you, I'm sure god isn't too proud of this daughter of his.
I try to use the old buildings at the Mem de Sá street to distract myself from the pain my own memories cause me. Tiny old two story houses, glued to each other. Most have the painting falling to pieces, some are completely falling apart. A few look perfect under the moonlight, and I'm pretty sure those are business houses.
My mobile phone pings softly. Dama. She wants to know where I am, I, her favorite kid, her faithful little girl. I type her a vague answer and check my other messages. Found one. Gringo.
Gringo, who is in a position very similar to my own. A high member of another crime family, he is both hostage, spy and someone who guarantees Dama's good behavior towards the rivals. The only man in an organization of women, he got this name for being pale in a land of tanned beauties.
I like him. He's faithful like me. Thankful because he wasn't killed, mistreated or worse, he works for Dama as an accountant, trying to pay back her good will towards him in some way.
He's telling me to be careful. I chuckle. Smart man. He found out exactly what I found out and, blessed be his big head, knows exactly what I want to do.
What I will do.
I go back to walking, this time more quickly. I want this night to be over as soon as possible. I want to find a way to leave, a way to run away from all of this shit, to live a normal life.
I made my plans for myself, but part of me hopes Gringo takes the chance and finds his freedom.
As I walk, my mind wanders back to Dama. I've never met a woman like her. She was beautiful, and so sure of herself you couldn't help but trust her. Classy, she demanded attention as soon as she got into the room, well dressed. She was royalty.
I remember her beautifully manicured black hands over me, dressing me up, braiding my hair, as she told her story. She came from the streets, just like me. She just one day got tired of suffering, raised an army and demanded a chunk of the city.
In her area, all women were taken care off. Especially the ones who came from a situation of vulnerability.
But for all good she did to the world, she did bad too. She was ruthless. She never worried about collateral damage. If someone wasn't one of hers, someone under her protection, she didn't give a fuck if they lived or they died.
I blink back the tears in my eyes and enter the house. My step hardens, thunderous noise on the wooden floor. I go straight to her audience room and I find Dama there. Alone. Sitting on the chair, legs crossed, she looks like power incarnate.
"Did you do your job?" She asks softly.
"Yes, Dama." I get a small digital camera from my purse and place in front of her. "Here it is."
Dama holds the display to her face and presses the buttons. She surveys what I know are pictures of a barbaric nature, registers of the horrible acts I was forced to commit out of loyalty, out of gratitude. She is looking at the pictures of open bodies, terribly maimed, disfigured.
And to know I did exactly what she asked me to do. Not more. Not less.
She dares look at those pictures and she smiles, the devil woman.
That is exactly when I remember the moment I found out she was the one who gave the order to kill my parents. I remember watching the police footage of that raid so many years ago. Dama started the war. Dama killed who was on the streets, workers and police alike.
And my parents, who were just getting home from a day of work, were caught in the crossed fire. She could had released them, but she didn't. She looked into their frightened eyes and gave the order to kill. War is war, after all. High body counts make the authorities behave.
She found me years later and she has no idea what she made me suffer. This woman, who took care of me with such gentleness, took my family and gave me a life of crime and a list of victims as long as I am tall.
I press the remote control in my purse. The shot rings, loud and clear, from a rooftop nearby. I didn't even have to sit her in the right place, it was as if she knew what I would do and had no regrets.
It was ok, I didn't regret anything either.
And I felt no remorse as her body swayed to the side and the bullet crossed her head, splattering her blood and brains over the floor.
I hear the steps on the floor and I turn to the door to receive my sisters. They flood in, some with their guns in hand. Well trained, they cover all the windows, checking for the shooter. Others scream over Dama's body.
I stand there, very still, in shock. Gringo grabs my arm and turns me to him, then holds my face.
"Are you ok?" He asks, his green eyes focused on mine. I know exactly what he is asking, he doesn't want to know if I am hurt, he is too smart.
I nod just as my sisters realize there is no reason to call a doctor, Dama is dead and gone.
They turn to me, their eyes wide, some lips trembling. Instead of cleaning the room, they just stand there, waiting for some guidance, in silence.
"Here is to The Amazon!" One of the girls in the back shouts. "The Queen is dead, long live the Queen!" The other women join the chanting and I feel a stray tear sliding down my cheek.
Gringo steps by my side and holds my forearm. He leans towards me and whispers in my ear.
"I hope you understand what you just did."
I nod. The women keep cheering. I will stay to stop a war for this area. I will stay to protect my sisters. I sacrificed my future for revenge. And it was worth it.
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