Vesa Solonen is a 40-year-old career criminal. He is usually silent and doesn't talk too much, except in a very intense situation. As his last name suggests, he is still unmarried and keeps solo. -- Anon Guest
They call me Solonen because I work alone. It's not what you call a 'real' surname, but it is one that is all mine. The name on the official paperwork is Vesa Meikäläinen. What you Americans might think of as Vesa Doe. It is a name given to the forgotten and the unwanted.
In the rare occasions that they want me, they call me... Solonen.
The last job changed everything. It was meant to be simple. Wipe out the opposition, leave no witnesses. In a way... I did that. Just... not the usual way. These things, they always happen by accident, yes? Go out for the job, come back with something... unexpected.
She did not have a name before I found her, so I have called her Vivi. She is meant to be dead, but in truth I have left no witnesses. I took this one with me. It is a better fate than if I had never found her.
We are the unwanted, together. She is quiet, like me. But I can see in her eyes, she is bright. She knows what is good. But may the gods help me, she is too small.
I do not understand much about raising a child, but I remember being small. I remember the shouting. I remember being a burden. My little Vivi, she will never be too heavy. What I know, is not much. She sits inside my arms and legs when we watch television, or when I read.
I am trying to learn, from what I find, what she needs.
Food is easy. Good food, less so. We learn of salads and vegetables from Sesame Street. It is not always tasty. The cheese sauce, it is very good; and my Vivi, she likes the fondue.
I teach her the things she needs to know. The reading, the writing, the mathematics, how to field strip an AK-47. The essentials. We exercise together, and she becomes strong.
I am proud of my Vivi. I do not ask how she came to be in a cardboard box behind a rich man's mansion. She does not tell me.
We are quiet together, and I only have a few words when she does well. When I say them? Her smile is better than sunshine.
"That'll do, kid. That'll do," I say, and her whole self becomes the light of Heaven.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / eyeofpaul]
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