Chances, Tragedies, and Miracles

Zex Armindo

To Zex, the key board told a story words could do no justice.
His fingers commanded the row of 88 keys, gliding in complex motions. Tapping the notes to his right, they ringed in an uplifting tune. He heard the laughs of a family, rejoicing and babbling about nothing, yet everything. A Mother and Father sat beside the Rio shore, toes buried in the sand. Clouds made the sunlight bearable, even for this time of year. Zex's hand slipped, hitting a sharp, causing one of the nephews to erupt into an outburst of whines and sobs. Though, his hands picked up, and continued the soothing tune. The Father knelt beside his nephew, bringing him into his arms. For a few minutes, he patronized the baby, swaying the fragile human. Zex's lips curved into a smile. That until an excruciating pain in the back of his head averted his attention.
"Hope you plan on giving us that Jersey to put in our bonfire," a short, yet built boy sneered. He kicked up the soccer ball with the swing of one foot. The same ball that had been used as ammunition, and Zex's head the usual target practice.
The family ceased to exist, the shore's waves hushed and far off. Only a stagnant smog clouded the air, along with his imagination.
A clear line secludes Rio from Favela, seen in one drastic change; the life. Grass cuts off suddenly, and concrete takes its place. Plant Life isn't a priority here, but for tourists, it seems so. Though, no tourists glance twice at the colony built upon the hillside.
"We're like bees, bustling and moving about our sections," His neighbor once told him through an open window. It's the only view Zex had from his cramped quarters, concrete and a glimpse of the old Man's living room.
"I don't think we're bees, Sir," Zex had said, resting his elbows on the window ledge. The rotting wood creaked under the pressure.
"Why so?" He had said, lifting his twig like legs to rest on the coffee table.
"We never leave, never explore," Zex had murmured, "never evolved to see more."
Impressively, Zex picked up the English language as skillfully as a boy his age would a soccer ball. Almost every night, the old man would tutor him through open windows, and hours of mispronunciation.
"I intend to keep my jersey, thank you," he replied, standing up from the stool. He never learned how to play the game his city was world renown for. His intentions were somewhere else entirely, somewhere across the globe.
"Have it your way, kid," the boy lifted the keyboard from the plank of wood it had been resting on. All Zex could feel was repulsion for his grimy hands, manhandling the instrument. The boy handed it off to a slightly taller one, who had been hidden somewhere in the shadows of the alleyway.
"I'd like it if you'd put the piano back down." Zex clenched his fist, though he had no intention of using it. He was an intelligent young man, violence was something he rarely resorted to.
"quebrá-lo," The shorter boy snapped, the tall one following his orders. With a powerful swing against the corner of the building, the keyboard let out a putrid shrill. Its spine bent, malleable under the tall boy's touch. An effortless snap left the instrument on the concrete, looking as destroyed as Zex's reaction. The keys that had once made stories were now scattered in the dust.
"How do you know you won't leave, Zex?" The old Man had asked, the creases of his eyes slowly lowering, clearly tired. He still managed to keep a pleasant expression besides that.
"Oh, I know I'll be leaving," He had replied, quirking an eyebrow, "the world needs a mind like mine. You taught me an octave on the piano, I taught myself masterpieces," Zex ran his hand through his dark hair, overgrown and tangled. His Argentina jersey, faded and stained, fit loosely on his small frame. It certainly was risky wearing the old thing around the slums of Brazil. It had enough meaning to him to take that risk, even if it could make a poor man's nose crinkle, from scent and team choice.
"What if you don't succeed," The man's eyes were now shut, hardly awake. Zex wondered why he wasn't a philosopher or an interviewer. He never really knew what he was, the old Man next store was a suitable name enough.
"I will," he murmured, reaching over and sliding the Man's window shut.
For a moment he looked down at the houses staggered beneath.
'All those bees' he thought. All those bees who will never leave, never make it. He will though, Zex would make sure of it.
For once, Zex had proven himself wrong. With a hard blow to the gut, the shorter boy hunched over, gasping for air. He Eventually fell to his knees. Zex's fist remained clenched, his stance frozen. He hadn't an idea what came next. The tall boy took this opportunity, and forced Zex up against the wall, a large hand locked around his throat.
His eyes reflected an indescribable emotion, Zex never feared the world. He wanted the world, he needed it, and as the tall boy bashed down on him with a strong fist, it slipped away from him. Blood poured from nose, the bronze skin of his face bruising quickly. Zex had a feeble attempt to fight back, smacking his head against the tall boys large forehead. 'At least I'm using it for something else than learning' he thought, but his attack was rematched with a single bash to the skull. The tall boy grabbed his locks of hair, yanking his weakened body forward. He then smashed the back of Zex's head against the cold concrete of the wall, letting go.
His limp body fell, some of his teeth scattered amongst the keys as well. His hair was drenched with sweat and blood. Emotion no longer occupied his eyes, only a blank stare. A bee who'd never leave.