Royce Rain Research Paper

The Work- Royce Rain.

Royce Rain’s was always a passive man. Whether it was simply his nature, or his strict upbringing, there are three rules he never broke: One- never speak out of turn, even if what he has to say is important. Two- in an argument, he is never right. He must graciously allow the other person their way. And three- never, under any circumstances, must he lose his temper.

These morals were sewn into his heart by his mother, a former servant, who left holes where the needle punctured. It was this damage that only let his heart fill to a certain point with love or joy, until it would seep out of the holes. He learned from an early age that feeling indifferent towards people was easier than trying to love them then watch that very love ooze out of his crippled heart. Routine and structure ordered his life; living by the books and with ridged tradition in mind

and he looked that way too. Neatly kept in his three-tiered dresser were a small selection of ironed pants in a spectrum of greys, simple t-shirts that were to be always tucked in, and a thin wool sweater. Every day his parents seemed to feed off his color. Every day Royce became more and more lifeless. His eyes went steely and his hair withered to the texture of straw. With pale skin and a sunken smile, he looked as if death was stalking him. But to die was to exit this world without proving to his parents he was perfection personified. He would fight to prove that he was worth their time.

At the age of 17 he worked in a local restaurant as a waiter. He naturally felt the need to be perfect, to live up to his parents expectations, so Royce never misinterpreted an order, forgot a plate, or dropped a fork. Never. He worked in this field through the rest of his teens and into his early twenties and over the course of nine years, he was not late for work once. He was really starting to become renowned for his impeccable service, until the day he broke his three rules.

It was when he was 27 years old, working at a beautiful Italian restaurant in downtown NYC as head waiter.

It's been nine years since he left home at eighteen to escape his parent's iron cages and leaching love. It was a moonless autumn night, cooler than usual. Everything seemed to be in order: tables set, plates stacked, cups washed, shades drawn, lighting just below half for ambiance, music audible but not intrusive, air temperature at a comfortable range so women can decide to remove their shawl or not and men can keep their vests or choose to set them aside. Neatly, of course. He watched as a man entered, bringing a wave of cold air with him. This man, older, was certainly not the type to dine here. Royce's intuition was telling him something was very wrong. That’s when their eyes met. It sparked a cold sweat to bead up around his hairline. But his training kicked in and his feet moved silently and politely over to where the man was waiting to be seated. The words 'right this way, sir' slipped from his mouth as it did thousands of times before, as he chauffeured the man to an empty

table.

As soon as the man took his seat he grabbed Royce's hand and tugged him down close so they were eye to eye. The man smiled condescendingly and whispered a few hushed words to him, then let go. Royce stood in disbelief for a moment then asked the man if they could talk elsewhere. They both started towards a back door but something was different about Royce: he walked with heavy, careless steps that echoed through the room. As the door grew nearer, he reached for the spare knife he kept in the pocket of his apron. An old waiting trick he learned years back; keeping extra cutlery on him in the case a guest drops theirs and is in need of a replacement. The men pushed through the door and spilled out into the dark and narrow ally created by the restaurant and a neighboring jazz bar. As soon as he heard the door click behind them, Royce turned and plunged the knife into the man's chest with a thick and gruesome sound. Again their eyes met but this time it was Royce who was wearing a sick and twisted smile. The man fell to his knees then collapsed to the ground with a sputter, wheezing something Royce couldn’t make out. The handle of the knife felt cold and surreal as he watched blood flow from the body, filling the cracks in the concrete. Just as his dad's heart stopped, so did Royce's as he heard the door open behind him.

A woman's voice spoke making the hairs on his arms stand on end. Something about the calm in her voice after witnessing a murder, something about the way his name flicked off her tongue- sharp and delicious, that forced him to turn around. This is also the day that his name will never sound the same to him again, as long as it's being said by his new associate, Medea Raven. She held his face in both of her cold hands, forcing him to look directly at her as she told him they needed to leave here this instant. That he must follow her to a place where they would be safe and hidden. As they ran off into the night, Royce still wearing his white apron; now spoiled with dots of blood, all he could feel was joy fill his heart, even past the point that it would normally cut him off.

She took him out of the city, out of the country. They traveled to England in her privately owned jet, where she made a deal with him. Had Royce really known who he was dealing with, what kind of woman was hidden behind those eyes, he would have rather jumped out of the plane than to agree to her terms. But what could he do? Medea was offering freedom, from his past, from the law waiting to nab him the second he steps foot on American soil. She has it in her power to recreate him, give him a new name, new identity, to start fresh with her wealthy connections. All she asked in return was for him to take care of a few of her 'old friends' as she would put it. For him to release that pent up rage she saw back in New York, but in a more discreet and sophisticated way. "I'll do it", he says, shaking hands with the devil at altitude.