Voice of the Eyes

            It had to be done.

Devilin Satain stumbled into the bedroom with the contents of his stomach nagging at the back of his throat. He cursed himself for allowing the sleep induced sickness to overcome him—again. The heavy hypnotic state hit whenever he faced  a stressful situation. He crouched swallowing hard, willing himself to be okay. He had to be, because in a few minutes Michael would appear in the room bombarding him with questions. Devilin stood feeling some relief. The strange combination of triumph and sadness aggravated the sickening feeling. Sadness his mother was gone yet triumph that he orchestrated her departure. There was no other way to execute his plan.

            Another wave of nausea shot through Devilin’s stomach causing him to lose his footing and bumping into a shelf. Pages of a book flared open and a faded newspaper clipping slipped out before the book slammed to the floor.

The article read:

Aziz Goodman, an esteemed officer of the Chicago Police Department was found murdered, late night April 5, 1988. He was fatally wounded from two gunshots to the chest by a nine millimeter revolver. His body washed ashore the Chicago River. The case is under full investigation.  No suspects found at this time.

             Glancing at the bedroom door, Devilin nervously stuffed the article back into the pages replacing the book on the shelf. He sauntered to his bed instinctively making it up. Tucking the sheets tight to form sharp hospital corners, he remembered the days when the room was large enough for two young robust boys to practice various martial art techniques. Behind the doors of their bedroom, he and Michael carried on like two wild children in a playground, joking and laughing to the point of tears. Once a room filled with a congenial aura, now an area of tension, like a boxing ring where opponents resigned in their corners awaiting the bell.

Michael Goodman was his older brother, at one time his sole mentor. Devilin looked up to him because he was genuine. Michael viewed life as a challenge grasping it with vigor. Often, he and Michael plotted their futures jammed with adventurous journeys.  Then one day, their mother began playing the role of a lost defenseless child and Michael became the adult for her, extracting time from his youthful life to give to her needy soul. Devilin pointed out many of their mother’s requests were gimmicks for attention and sympathy. Michael deducted the findings as a veneer of envy concluding Devilin didn’t know how it felt to be alone, neglected or rejected because all his life he was treated like a celebrity. The two opinions clashed and the once free spirited bond became contained and civil.

The rearing of a motorcycle’s engine blared through the window.

            Devilin perched at his computer desk allowing his fingers to hurriedly tap across the keyboard. He had little time to set up his contacts for the next phase of his plan.