my name is

The boy felt a presence. But he couldn’t place where it was coming from. It only made sense, he was probably disoriented. After all his losses, father at an early age, mother becoming a whore to support her family, and now… well, now his hands. There were no two ways about it. This was what it had required. And like all those who had come before him, and had come in desperation, this was what was needed from him. He had offered them up, when he had been told. They had been shaking a little, but when he noticed, he bit his lip, and they stopped. They had put him under, and then they had cut them. This was what they did. They helped those who had no one else. And this boy needed the money terribly. What a soul. Willing to part with his hands to feed his home. But the bigger test was yet to come. Would he manage to remain steadfast? Some blamed themselves, and sunk into the pits of despair with the aid of drugs, which his organization provided all too willingly. It helped them become more docile. Mindless robots, poster boards of tragedy, made it easier for others to give. Others blamed the world, lashed out, became angry. They turned away from families, they made these people their new family. Which also served the organization well. A persistent beggar tapping on your window, almost angrily, you would give them money to get rid of them. There were very few other paths. Which one would this child choose. Where would his loyalties lie? Would his resolve be as strong when the shock wore off, and he realized the truth of his now new irrevocable life? Azazil did not know why he was so fascinated by this child, just that he was. The child murmured in his sleep, all his secrets laid bare, his mother, his father, his siblings.

The boy felt a presence but he could not place where it was coming from. It probably made sense, he was disoriented. It was also incredibly dark in the room. Soon he would bang on the doors demanding to be let out. Very quickly, he would realize the absence of hands. He would rage and shout. Then he would plead. That would be followed by a few hours to a few days of not eating. Silence. Radio silence. And then, well, then he would accept his new life. Humanity is so varied, and yet so very similar.

Azazil walked out into the old city. It was crowded. It was jam packed. It smelled terrible. And yet, it had more character than any place he had had the privilege of visiting in his fifty six odd years. And he had been to the top of the world and back. All those centers of power and privilege, Paris, London, New York, Tokyo, yet this place, in one of the most dangerous countries on the planet, he scoffed, this was his favorite.