People take death for granted. They watch it on the television. They kill in their games. Yet even if they have seen or committed the act in a virtual setting, they never have the guts to do the act with their own hands.
I killed my first man when I was 10. I stared into his eyes and I could swear I could see his soul screaming at me. Those eyes continued to scream at me as we put chains around him and threw him off the port side of the ship. I walked over to the side of the boat and looked as his last usage of strength was wiggling around hoping for escape.
I threw up. I threw up, and I wept. Captain Arsenault walked over to me and slapped me across the face telling me that I'm part of this life and that I will never escape.
Over time, the acts made my soul grow colder. It became second nature to hear the pleads, the crying, the cursing. Over time, such acts became a sport. By the time I was 17 I had committed countless robberies, Smuggled millions of kilos of cocaine, meth, heroine, and other illegal substances. If my hands were stained with blood when I was 10 then they're drenched now.
I've always found it a curious thing that people say that if they haven't seen their loved one for a long time they forget their face, yet the people who I saw their last flashes of light leave their eyes I remember all of their faces. Not just in death but the smuggling of those being sent as slaves. Their faces haunt me in my sleep. Their shadows dance upon my bedroom walls.
I'm turning 18 today.
I stretched out on the fine linen of my new bed. It's been a long time since I was able to sleep. No dreams, no nightmares just empty sleep. Lifting myself up I look around my room. I still live with my parents who are out of the house most of the time leaving me to my own. I finally talk myself out of the sleep trance I was in and walked to the bathroom. The bottle of pills was still laying where I left them. Sleeping pills that the psycho analyst gave me for the multiple anxiety attacks of the nights. He says anxiety but I believe that it was the ghosts of the past coming to haunt me. My hands begin to tremble, and times when I remember the past I weep. I wept so hard I had thought my heart would stop. They say nothing is worse than being alone. I say nothing is worse than being alone with your ghosts.
The ghosts follow me often. I always see their shadows at the corner of my eyes or the not so shy ghosts would just boldly show themselves to me. The marks I left on their bodies while they were alive still showed in death. Today of my birthday I guess they all decided to pay me a visit. I was eating my breakfast when I noticed the first one to pop up. A little girl that we had kidnapped and sold. She couldn't be no more than 8 but the stare she gave me showed me an old woman filled with sorrow looking at me. At one time I use to try to ignore the ghosts but when it's obvious that they're there or you're just crazy one will begin to entertain them. Yet, they never spoke. Just stared with judging eyes. They could touch though, and they made sure that you could feel it. Leaving no marks but the ones imprinted in your soul. I spent nights being tortured by such entities. The girl still stared, standing close enough to touch my thigh while I am sitting.
The next was a baby. This one was from a time when a pregnant woman was out for a stroll and we came across her. We at first were not going to do anything but one of the ship hands named Mark ran up to us saying how he's made a deal with a Cuban drug lord. The lady had overheard and such was protocol to keep our business a secret. The higher ups knew how to keep themselves well hidden. So it was either her and her unborn or us. I'm ashamed to say we chose us.
One after the other showed up. Almost as if to wish their killer a happy birthday. After the last of them showed up. The first one that I had witness. The man covered in chains dripping wet. His body damage beyond recognition because of being in water for so long. I knew who he was, however. I could never forget. This man who I had watched. His only crime against the crew and I was that he wouldn't make a payment for the protection we offered. All of us should've been thrown in prison but police are just men, and all men can be bought, or persuaded to look the other way. The man in the chains kept his gaze on me. That same look in his eyes as we pushed him off.
An hour or so went by as I sat there staring at all of them when one by one they began to leave. I was alone again and getting up I left for the bathroom... I threw up again and wept. I lifted myself up and rest my hands on the sink. I looked up to stare at my face. The face showed someone who you would never recognize as someone emerged in such things. White, clean, no scars, and grey eyes that suggested innocence. I grabbed my hair gel and slicked my jet black hair back. I then grabbed the trimmers and trimmed the parts of my gote that was untamed. I walked back to my room that suggested mediocre proportions. Nothing to suggest that I was part of a life that would require at least the sentence of a life in prison. I laid back in bed. Wanting to feel that nothing again. To just drift back off to somewhere where there were no memories, no pain, no regret.
I dreamt of hell and my only savior was my phone ringing. I answered.
"Yo bitch where the fuck you at? It's 1 o clock in the afternoon and we need you at the docks. The shipment of wild flower is in." The caller was Tyler. A friend in high school that had gotten trapped as well in this life. Wild flower was our code word for acid.
"Don't call me Bitch you black ass motherfucker. Today is my birthday any way why the fuck would I go to that hell hole to pick up some small game shit?" I retorted back.
"Yo bro, I can do whatever I want you short ass honkey motherfucker. But the captain wants you here. You're the best at making deals and shit. God knows it's not for your fighting skills." He was right. I sucked at fighting... Killing I was good at. Manipulation even better. The crew uses Norse gods as our code names. I was given the nicknamed Loki when I tricked the Somalian cartel to give up 50,000 grams of coke to us. I had promised that they would get the better half of the deal. The better half was their whole cartel being gathered up in one placed and killed. To me that was a pretty good deal.
"Aight.. Fine I'll see you in an hour." I hung up. I laid there for at least 10 minutes not wanting to go. Every cell in my body seemed to be in protest, but I got up and went outside to my car. A small silver Honda Civic. Nothing to suggest that I'm making a lot of money but nothing to suggest that I wasn't making no money.
The drive there was always a tedious expedition. Having to weave through the Panama City traffic was always a pain in my ass. Florida drivers always seemed to be off in space when they drive, never paying attention to their surroundings. It pisses me off at how innocent they were. It amazes me that so many people can be so blind to the evils that happen all around them. When I finally made it to the ports, I was already in a foul mood. When I saw who I'll be making a deal with, I fell into an even worse foul mood.
"Thomas. Fucking. Benedick! You back stabbing english prick!" I shouted to the man as I walked to him. I'm a measly 5 foot 8, but compared to Thomas I was a fucking giant. The man barely passed for four feet. Thomas, as most English men are more or less willing to admit, is a prick. The type of guy who if offered a few hundred dollars. Hell! Even five bucks would throw you under the bus. It was one of the few times I almost got caught. Not by the police or any other federal agency but by the Taliban. We were transporting heroine from Afghanistan and their overzealous religious beliefs didn't like the idea infidels messing with their goods. Thomas was bought out by them.
"Listen, Jack. You know quite well that a business man such as myself will take any opportunity to pounce on the best deal. The Taliban offered more than you could give." Thomas said in his thick London accent. Almost condescending like.
"Well Thomas I know what they offered, they offered less than what we were going to give you rat- faced short piece of shit. What? They offered you some percentage of the trade?" I asked knowing full well they wouldn't do such a thing to a white infidel.
"In fact they did my dear Jackie boy. I converted to their religion. Though not really. My God is the cash that you're about to give me."
"They actually offered you a fucking deal like that? You sold your soul to a god you don't even believe in."
"Not everyone is as superstitious as you. I on the other hand listen to reason."
Reason. There was no reason, no logic, no love in this world. Just whatever we want. So in essence I couldn't be mad at Thomas because he did exactly what I would've done. Take the better deal, but I would never sell myself to a god. I'm haunted by too many spirits. To begin to believe in such a thing would mean that I would take responsibility for the things I have committed. I know this about myself. I do not hide it. It terrifies me to think that any God has been watching me. Yet, I guess I do believe in a god. If money was Thomas' God, then I'm sure the ghost of those I hurt are mine.
"Alright Thomas. Let's begin the trade."
"Now wait jack. We still need to wait for the big boys to come."
"Call me Loki while we do business, you idiot. You don't know who's listening."
End of part one.