Amilcare's Pursuit Pt. 2 (END)

Is it coincidence, madness or fate?

Once emancipated, I did what I could to live on: robbing, diving into dumpsters, doing whatever oddjob was available but never begging. I was even paid several times to work my "fighting charms" on idiots that refused to pay their loan sharks or simply couldn't choose better friends. I did this just as long as they had the guile to try and answer my punches, so I hardly bothered myself with cowards -who happened to be most people-. Therefore, I would let out my frustration fighting the first hood or tough guy I stumbled across.

I suppose this is how I built a reputation around me. I never figured it would be that notable; however, in each new city I mysteriously woke up in, lacking any recollections of traveling, eating, buying new clothes or satisfying other necessities, there were at least two or three people who knew me. Shortly afterwards I was contacted for a job.

These deals would go down with people who had the money and the means to find me. I seldom bothered to find the whys and hows, only receiving the payment, putting on some comfortable gloves and looking for the target. This would take normally about three days to one week, but the only one time I took a bit longer -about a month- was because I had to reach a political or business bigshot of some kind. You could tell he was at least that much of a guy, judging by the clothes he wore and the media attention he gathered after the pounding I gave him. The times before and after that starred common and not so interesting folks like you probably are.

I don't mean to brag either, but ever since my first contract I have never lost a fight.

And so, I blinked too much one night and unexpectedly found myself being several years older. I didn’t mind the change and kept on with my life and my business.

Things continued their course, in their own peculiar normalcy, until the moment I decided to go for a stroll on the streets of a city I had woken up in two days ago. Evading all looks of curiosity, repulsion and fear, I managed to stand in front of an electronics store’s window and sales display. Several TV sets, all of the same size and model, were piled in stacks of three with a colorful cardboard price tag on the top left corner. All were tuned to the same channel and could be both watched and listened to through the crystal wall that kept us apart. It was the afternoon news.

In short, the news woman talked about a man with rather distinctive features: loose brim hat, middle-length curly hair and a poorly grown beard. A series of crimes and a rather interesting story highlighted his life. I didn’t stay long enough to find out his name or any other relevant bit of information. It was no problem; I’d ask him personally.

Then and there I had decided to follow a new plan: I’d fight this man no matter what.

Despite only seeing him for a minute or two, I took notice of his eyes, those of someone fierce as a wild and violent lion, hungry and caged. He’d easily do more than beat me in a fight, but I couldn’t live without meeting him. It was an almost natural, unstoppable and Newtonian attraction that had me take the resolve to find this man, ignoring all contracts with which many an employer tried to please me with.

Eight months passed. Without the unexpected assistance of those strange spells that seemed to help me leap ahead in time, I lived minute by minute tracking the wild man that would surely kill me. I didn’t even fight a single time in this period, but it hardly upset me.

The anxious and vibrant quest yielded fruit about three days ago from now, in what I think was a park during the last night of autumn. The place was poorly lit, considering the time; only the emerald reflection of breezed grass and the pale grays of cemented walkways stopped all from drowning in twilight.

Having squinted, I confirmed that the solitary silhouette sitting at a lonely wooden bench belonged to him. He rested his elbows across his lap and let his hands slide between his thighs. There was something about his apathetic posture that made my heart race with anxiety. My knees shook, but I managed to have them support my weight in the trek that meant reaching the embodiment of my recent obsession. It took me a lifetime to sit next to him.

The air was electrified by heavy and fatal tension, but I didn’t give up. Knowing I could still articulate words, I decided to relax, drop my backpack at my side and ask for his name. He folded the brim of his hat a little, offered me a disinterested look or two and then answered with a voice missing any feeling of excitement or curiosity. His name -or what I recall it was- was nothing spectacular and as such it was easily forgettable; thus, I abandoned all attempts at being civil and decided to launch a fast right backhand towards his face. Making use of catlike reflexes, he raised his hand and parried me by the wrist at the same time he flashed a smug sneer. I gave him one in return.

Hit after hit, blocked or clean, we stood up and fought with the moon and stars as the only spectators, exchanging wrath in an eternal cycle. The night matured into a fresh sunrise; our blood spattered itself all over the ground, drawing figures so enormous and extraordinary that they looked like ink blots. Each time my rival brought me to my knees or took me down entirely, I remember seeing the stars burning red through the veil of red over my eyes. I remember also laughing out loud at the ridiculous expectations my father had for me, and at the broken hopes of my mother. The laughter was like a frenetic exhaust for a blackness that had choked me for years.

After some time, I felt like I was hitting soft snow instead of a face, even with most of the feeling in my fists gone. He possibly felt the same, judging by how the skin felt like it was dangling from my skull. We kept exchanging blows for another hour before collapsing on a river born of mutual violence. I lost consciousness soon thereafter.

Sometime after that, I woke up in the cell I am now. My entire face is patched by gauze, ointments and suture that stunt my speech. The jolts of pain I felt from my opponent’s attacks are mostly gone, but sometimes I feel them come back every time I try to sleep on the merciless concrete slab I’ve been given for a bed.

I still have many questions that I wish could be answered, such as why I survived, why I am here in this joke of a prison, who delivered me to the authorities and, most importantly, what had become of the man I fought. I can’t help feeling satisfied with my latest fight, but also disappointed at the draw, damned and inconclusive, that acted as its curtain call.

I wish they’d leave me alone. I wish they’d set me free so I could hunt for the answers I need, with keen fists and relentless trudge just as I have done since the moment I was born from the seed. I wish for a rematch to happen.

“For two days now, John Amilcare has been in the custody of federal police, awaiting a trial for numerous criminal charges filed against him, ranging from battery and assault to his first presumed felony: murder, rumored to be in the second degree. If found guilty, judging from early psychometric analyses already available to the public, Amilcare could purge his sentence in a psychiatric institution. Several experts claim and agree that he displays probable symptoms of schizophrenia. Said symptoms include a total or partial disassociation with reality, as well as frequent and vivid hallucinations linked to, according to reports, the death of Amilcare’s father several years ago. In other news…”

I don’t do much right now. I ward off the anxiety of incarceration either fiddling with the chains of my handcuffs when they're on, working out or daydreaming; however, I couldn’t avoid listening to a very familiar name coming from outside my cell and the usual commotion that seldom filters from the halls of the precinct to the interrogation room. It always rang a bell. Each time it entered my ears I felt inquisitive and involved somehow.

The name was John Amilcare.

“Hey, mister.” My mouth felt like it would fall apart when I tried talking to the night-shift guard. It was the work of both the damned bandages and my lack of honest contact with a human being in years.

He answered me with one of those bitter looks seasoned with tedium and frustration. At least I got his attention. I tried to be as direct as possible, since my jaw was killing me still.

“Would you happen to know who John Amilcare is?”

What I received from him as a preliminary answer was a sarcastic smirk. I didn’t laugh with him, nor did I get offended. I only looked at him in the eye and repeated myself. The guard, who up until that point hadn't faced me properly, turned around and glared at me with building amazement.

“Then you really have no idea.”, he said mostly to himself.

He squinted at me, as if trying to inspect me with greater scrutiny. I didn’t buy it. He wouldn’t have found anything even if there was really something to be discovered, surrounded by flares and neon lights. The cop exhaled with reluctance and pulled his lips apart to tend to my uncertainty. He didn't bother with courtesy and was as blunt as possible.

“Yes, of course." I said outloud. "How could I forget?”

The answer hit me with the same ferocity from the punches I took in the park, but somehow I had seen it coming. Some things started to make sense. A mixture of grunt and laughter slip right through my throat, as if irony had stepped into that godforsaken room to tickle me in the belly. Judging by how the guard looked at me, it was obvious he expected a more intense reaction. He walked away emptyhanded; I went back to sleep instead.

I finally knew it! Now the most important riddle of all had seen a conclusion. The rest would take my attention some other day or moment in my life.

Now I know who John Amilcare is, and you never will.