lighter

He sat in the car and wept. The twinkling of the lights outside became brighter. The shadows dancing around his car became more excitedly rapid. He looked at the boy. What was the difference between the child on the street, and him in his fancy clothes, and fancy car. A matter of birth? A matter of circumstance? He had turned the boy into himself. Why? To what end? He didn’t know. He hated himself. He looked at the boy, and felt twin wells of sorrow and guilt rising inside himself. The child was huddled over beside a wall and from his vantage point, Azazil could figure out that he was counting all the money he had received today. Having done that, the boy proceeded to leave. A knock on his window startled Azazil, he looked out. A man motioning him to roll down the window. He hardened his gaze, turned the key in his ignition, felt that his car was lighter tonight, for some reason. He pushed down the window just an inch. “Do you have a match?” The man mimicked a cigarette. Azazil was confused. What? “No,” he said firmly. Without missing a beat, “do you have a lighter?” “No.” He said firmer. “Roll down the window.” “No.” Angrily. He made to leave. The man was dressed in tasteful black. He drove away, unbeknownst to him, the shadows that had been circling under and around his car stood there, did not follow him. He looked in the rear view, the man was standing there and had a smug smile on his face. He drove till the light. It turned green. Honks behind him. Impatient, angry. Not willing to wait. Cars began to drive past him, around and past, honking angrily and from behind as they passed him. He didn’t move for a while, the sound of horns not entering his mind. His rage was profound. He turned around, not noticing that the light had turned red again, and went back to the man. The man was still standing there, a grin forming on his face. Wide. Open. Inviting. Smug. Azazil opened his trunk, walked out, calmly. A little chill went up his spine as he turned his back to the man. He went to his trunk, grabbed what he needed, and got out. The shadows vibrated excitedly. The bat was gleaming. Wooden. Flat. A cricket bat. He brought it over. The man did not say a word. He would think about this man many times over the next few years. His silence. The fact that he didn’t call out as he was being beat with a bat. Not once. His body writhed in pain. The smile never left his face. His lips never parted, not even to release a gasp. His eyes never left Azazil’s face. He didn’t need to see the shadows gaining power, finding a rajah. And Azazil was too blinded by rage to notice them. Later, he would think he had felt a chill. But maybe that was his memory playing tricks on him.