

### LUCIFER TRAVELS

MALIK WILL

~~~

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 by Malik Will

Published by AuthorCraft Publishing

Copyright © 2014 by **Malik Will**

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

AuthorCraft Publishing

www.authorcraftpublishing.com

Publisher's Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

1st Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

**Lucifer Travels/ Malik Will**. -- 1st ed.

ISBN 978-0-615-98716-30

### Dedication

I would like to dedicate this novel to my best friend and confidant, Rashun Lockhart. You are truly an inspiration. You have been through so much in this world. So much so, that I sometimes imagine of having the power to change it. And if you would ask for the earth to be wholesome and white just for one day, I would make the world so.

Sometimes the darkest things in our lives make us beautiful because we know underneath all the decay, there's a light ready to illuminate.

—MALIK WILL

### CONTENTS

Like A Roaring Lion

One Nightmare Too Many

Those aboard Train C114

The Lake that Burns with Fire

The Words of Him

So That You May be Healed

The Sufferings of this Present Time

Both Come From Him

Light to My Path

Flourish without water

Its End is the Way to Death

God's Storm

Hands that Shed Innocent Blood

Be My Witnesses

The Sum of Your Words

Through the Valley

Test the Spirits to See

The Devil Prowls

Someone to Devour

Darknesse Not Overcometh

Finally, Be Strong

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

# Like A Roaring Lion

Mrs. Jackson concocts supper, a stroke of genius pulled from scraps she found lying around the fridge. Her kids, away somewhere in the backyard, are elated by a stray mutt she told them to avoid. She's worried. It's near dusk and her older sister, Bridgett, has not returned home at her usual time.

She checks her watch as the foulest of thoughts pour into her head. She mumbles to herself, "That girl should've been home a long time ago."

The concern came comes from the recent news that there had been three bodies discovered, not too far from their home. All of who were women.

As she removes a hot pot of hog maws from the stove, she shouts to her children, "Have ya'll seen your auntie?"

"No, isn't that your job?" replies Debra as she walks into the kitchen.

"Girl don't you sass me," she says. "Where's your brother?"

"He out there playing with that dirty dog...again!"

"Go tell him to bring his butt inside!"

Debra, delighted and full of glee, storms out of the kitchen and shouts at the top of her lungs, "ROGER, MOMMA SAID GET YO BUTT INSIDE FOR YOU GET A WHOOPIN'!"

Roger runs to the kitchen, shouting, leaving a trail of dirt on the recently swept floors.

"I didn't do nothing Momma," he says.

"Then why are your clothes covered in mud?"

"Ummmmm, I don't know, Mommy."

Mrs. Jackson scoffs and rolls her eyes in annoyance. But the worry about her sister outweighs her urge to give him a beating. So she dismisses him. "Boy, go on down the street and see if your aunt stopped by sister Jenkins's house."

Roger was staggered thinking his mother believed his story. He had just told a tall tale and lived to see another day. Jubilant and cloaked in bravado, he walks from the kitchen to the front door, pumping his chest in a grand manner.

_That boy could be a dead pig in the sunshine and still be happy_ , Mrs. Jackson thinks as she rolls her eyes again. "Oh, and see if sister Jenkins got any milk, we're running low."

Roger didn't respond.

"Boy, I know you hear me talking to you!"

But little Roger still didn't respond. Mrs. Jackson, anxious and bushed from standing on her feet, pitches her giant cooking spoon into the sink in a fury and storms into the living room screaming to the top of her lungs. But the screaming was is replaced by heavy breathing—the only sound she could create.

Her body halts, frozen in time. The air in her chest inflated inflates and deflateddeflates. Rendered speechless, she began begins to tremble. Roger is also at a standstill with his eyes wide open as tears pour from his face. However, it was a silent cry as if he understands his fate.

Mrs. Jackson murmurs, "Please don't do this."

But this plea was is not to her son. It was is to the man holding the gun, which, at that moment, is pointing directly at little Roger's head.

"Please, don't hurt my baby," Mrs. Jackson cries.

The gunman smiles. "I won't hurt him. It will be painless."

"NO! PLEASE...PLEASE...PLEASE GOD."

The gunman strokes Rogers's head, comforting him as a father would to his son. He whispers in his ear, "It's okay, buddy, it's okay."

The gunman turns to Mrs. Jackson as she continues to plead. "God can't help him," he says. ". He been dead a long time. He just ain't know it"

Mrs. Jackson drops to her knees. "NOOOOOO!"

Then the sounds of life returning to death spun through the room. _BANG!_

Roger crumples to the wooden floor. Blood pours from his body, traveling toward his mother's knees.

The gunman, steely eyed and focused, approaches Mrs. Jackson.

Debra rushes into the living room screaming, "What happened, Momma? What happened?"

The gunman hovers over Mrs. Jackson. He watches her cry for a moment.

Debra sees her brother lying on the floor. She runs toward his body, stretching her arms like Silly Putty, placing his head onto her chest. "What did you do to Roger? What did you do?!"

The gunman turns toward Debra. Staunch and unwilling to fold, she glares into the gunman's eyes even as tears gush from her own.

He stares back and, cruel and without warning, places the barrel of the gun against her brow. The heat burns her. But, steady in her pride, she refuses to flinch. She grinds her teeth to blunt the pain. Her skin, lax and full of youth, is blackened by the blistering heat. The room, silent, and her fate, sealed. One can only hope God noticed as she begins to recite the Lord's Prayer in hope. "Our Father, who art in heaven."

The gunman cocks his gun.

"Hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come."

The gunman moves his finger from the top of the gun and places it on the trigger.

Debra takes notice. "Please allow me to finish."

The gunman removes his finger from the trigger and places it back on the top of the gun.

"Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven," Debra continues. "Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For the kingdom, the power, and the glory; forever and forever. Amen."

Debra finishes her prayer and continues to provide succor to her brother's body, rubbing her fingers throughout his hair as his mother would do.

"Do you think He heard me?"

"Who?"

"I mean, God. Do you think He heard?"

The gunman places his finger back on the trigger. "Go and ask him," he says. And with her sad face filled with disgust and trepidation, he fires one single shot into her head.

Debra falls to the floor with her brother still locked in her arms. Mrs. Jackson lies crying in the same position as before.

The gunman, with no hesitation, turns to Mrs. Jackson and aims. The pistol again roars. B _ang_! In one small moment, a once beautiful home had now become a grave. And, in that same instant, to his gun, a free man had now become a slave.

With his heart racing, buried in blood and guilt, he turns to the front door with intent to leave. But a distinct sound captures him. It's the sound of life. The sound of innocence. It's the sound of Mrs. Jackson's seven-month-old baby awakening from his nap. Or as he sees it, it's the sound of a witness.

He rushes to the back room, pulls his pistol from his pants, and as he reaches the baby's crib, he points the gun at the baby's head. The baby smiles, unaware of the danger that's before him. The infant, idyllic as he lays, reaches for the pistol as if it is a toy, smiling and laughing as children do.

The gunman pulls the pistol out of reach, not allowing him to get burned by the barrel's heat. He hesitates. The scene of new life and pending death is all-symbolic. But he isn't a man of the arts, only a man with a heart. Though it's blackened, and the Louisiana sun is all but forgiving. So he re-aims as the baby plays. His finger slowly moves toward the trigger. Inch by inch till it touches.

Then, Daniel awakens from his dream.

CHAPTER TWO

# One Nightmare Too Many

December 13, 2012.

A loud moan pours from the bedroom. It's the groan of an old man lost in his dreams. An elderly women woman rushes to the room where the old man lays. "Wake up," she says. "You were dreaming."

Daniel turns his body to face the woman.

"It's okay," she whispers. "It's okay."

Daniel wipes his brow with the bed sheets. He was dripping in sweat. The woman grabs a paper towel from the nightstand and dabs it on his cheeks. She comforts him by humming their song, Love Letters by Elvis Presley. Daniel loved when she did that.

He smiles as he looks at her from the corner of his eye. She stares back, smiling also; and as she finished wiping him, she whispers, "All done. You should go outside. It's beautiful out."

But Daniel looks away and sighs. The woman just smiles and walks out of the room. You see, she knows that every day he awakes it's from that same old dream. Every morning, she rushes into that same old room and wipes his face until it's dry; every day she pleads with him to go outside; and every time Daniel sighs. He always sighs. He never answers, only sighs. It's routine. He has done that for the last forty years. And she has done the same.

Daniel is a night walker, always hiding from the light of day, far from the orchestrated lives of those day walkers. He found a job at the rail station and he's been there for over thirty years.

He gets up every night and walks to work, all the way from Hickory St. to around Audubon Park. But he always leaves a little early just to make it home before sunrise. Can you believe that? That old fool actually thinks he can run from the past. But they say that the light of God shines even in the darkest corners. And he will soon find out, that it is truly inescapable.

CHAPTER THREE

# Those aboard Train C114

Deep in the night, Daniel works his shift just as he does any other day. He has driven the same streetcar since his first day on the job: train C114. It has been thirty years, and it still runs strong, never needing a single repair.

Because he works the night shift, there are rarely any passengers. This affords Daniel the privilege of listening to his radio, something that is forbidden for the day shift conductors.

He prefers not to use earphones, so he turns it loud enough to hear. But not loud enough to disturb the few passengers that do come aboard the streetcar. He listens to recorded sermons of a local priest who is really popular in the community.

Every night, Daniel listens to his sermons, word for word, though he is not a religious man at all. It was the strangest thing; when passengers asked him why he was listening to a priest speak when he is in fact non-religious, Daniel's only response was, "Because I love his soul."

That's his response every time. But the passengers aboard train C114 know Daniel. They ride that train with him every day. For years, it has been the same old faces every night. There's the happy drunk, who, unbeknownst to many, tells the most fascinating stories. He always sits in the front of the train near Daniel and tells stories of his travels around the world and how he once met the artist formerly known as Prince. He is an interesting fellow. At one point, he claimed to have held the Guinness Book of World Records for most times landing on the moon. When asked how he managed to get to the moon, the drunk pulled out a package of what he called "Mexican horse." When Daniel asked him how "Mexican horse" got him to the moon, the drunk responded, "Well, I got on the sonofabitch and rode it all the way there."

As I said, he was a very interesting fellow.

Besides him, there is the single mom. Though Daniel seldom speaks to her, he assumes that's the only reason why a young woman like her would work the night shift in such a dangerous area. Plus, every time he boards C114, she has this look in her eyes. You know, like when someone just finished crying. All Daniel knows about her is that she has a prosthesis on both the left leg and right arm. He always wanted to ask, just to find out how she lost those limbs.

One of the few times anyone ever heard her spoke was last Memorial Day. Many of the passengers came wearing emblems from wars before there time. Likely the wars of their ancestors. The funny drunk told stories of his grandfather in Patton's army and his father's stint in Vietnam. He spoke about how he regretted never serving his father's country. It was powerful when he said it too because he paused for a single moment, and, in the short second, everyone on the train could see through the funny stories and petty jokes. They saw a man dying, not from sickness, but from Father Time because he has and still is passing by slowly.

"It is the most dreadful of pains to watch life slowly carry on while you've done nothing," said the drunk. He mused about life and the sacrifices that soldiers all too often made and said, "Thank God for the soldiers who serve our country, especially those who've made the ultimate sacrifice."

Out of nowhere, the single mom's eyes popped open and she shouted all the way from the back of the streetcar. "What do you mean by that?"

Her accent wasn't from this place. There was a deep rasp in her voice and she stressed many vowels that she shouldn't. She was most likely the daughter of Jamaican immigrants.

All the passengers turned to the back of the streetcar as the drunk replied, "Are you referring to me?"

The single mom slowly got out her seat and calmly walked to the front of the streetcar.

"You can't stand while we're moving ma'am," shouted Daniel.

She bent down, while ignoring Daniel's orders, and placed her hand on the shoulder of the happy drunk. "What do you mean by that?" she asked for the second time

The drunk face, slack-jawed as he was mystified by her question and the assertions behind it.

"What? You don't think they made the ultimate sacrifice by dying for this country, the country that you live in?"

The single mom, stern in her certainty, smiled and took a seat right next to the drunk, looked down to the floor of the street car, listening to it tumble. "Those who are dead. They be the lucky ones," she said.

The drunk made no response. After a brief moment of silence, the woman rang the bell for the conductor to stop. She exited the streetcar.

The other frequent passengers are simply referred to as the "the lovebirds". Every night, they board and exit at the same stop, at the same time, every day. Every time they are holding hands, staring at one another with a craving that can't be mimicked by another. It was the way they looked at each other that made their love so majestic. They loved like children. Free from the world's cynicisms and all of its trappings; and, they touched each other merely by looking, and made love in the same dream they prayed in because God made their bond in his image of what love is supposed to be. That's why they are the "lovebirds". They epitomize all that is great about love.

Daniel can't help but watch them as they carry on aboard C114. They've been riding on this streetcar for the last five years and they have never stopped holding hands. Their union is a constant reminder to Daniel of the woman with no face. He often tells the story of this woman he once knew. He describes their relationship as similar to that of the lovebirds. But through the years, he has never mentioned her name. He merely calls her the woman with no face, because her beauty is understood. And somewhere amongst the people, she hides. Till this day, he awaits her return just as he's done for years. You see, she leaves just as she came. And every time she passes, she touches him in places that he has since kept sacred. So for years, he has tracked her. But she has avoided him. Yet this is no fault of her own; she is who she is. And she is how he always envisioned. So he tells stories of her to whoever will listen. And he watches as everyone basks in awe as he describes her beauty by simply describing her soul.

CHAPTER FOUR

# The Lake that Burns with Fire

Deep into the night, Daniel's mind travels back to a familiar place. But this time, the scene starts where the dreams usually end. It takes place back at that baby's crib. Daniel's mind has known these stories for far too long. So, as the gunman gets closer to the baby's crib, his body's temperature slowly rises, and his eyes tremble under the lids. He is, in a sense, preparing to awake. But this time, on this day, he doesn't.

This time, the dream doesn't stop. And so the gunman aims as the baby plays. He slowly moves his finger until it touches the trigger. The baby cries. But it mustn't be scared 'cause tears are pleasant to the gunman. They give him joy and provide solace.

The gunman moves the barrel closer and closer to the baby. The baby cries louder. The heat from the barrel is evident. It induces sweat from the baby's scalp. It's nearly touching. The baby feebly moves his arms and legs, attempting to flee from the gunman. But he is a newborn and there will be no running today. There will be no avoiding his fate.

Just imagine a cute chubby baby panda bear lying on its back. It's really cute and it's even more adorable because it's so chubby and fat. Now, imagine that the panda is so fat and little that it can't even roll over from its back. Now, of course, it tries and tries, moving its little arms. But this is to no avail.

Even the gunman notices the cuteness as the baby cries. He finds it adorable. The gunman even smiles. It's a menacing grind. Then, at that point where you think life's horrors have reached their peak, the gunman places the sweltering hot barrel against the baby's leg.

The baby's screams turn frantic. The gunman's eyes are steely and focused, just as they always are. Oh, the venom that lies in both pupils. They could tell a story on their own.

The baby's screams are long-winded. But this is not a cry. This was a plea. The baby is saying, "Please! Please!" He just can't speak it. He is too tiny.

The gunman presses the barrel further down onto the baby's leg harder and harder. He muses about whether or not God hears the sizzling of the skin. I'm sure he does. It's a crackling noise similar to the sound of bacon frying. But it's a slow crackle, so it's more like a sheet of paper gradually being balled. After a few minutes, the cries of the baby suddenly cease.

He just lays there with his eyes open, blinking every third second as his arms shake back and forth. It is now apparent that the baby's mind has traveled far from the horrors of his crib because he now is trapped in a seizure. The gunman notices this also and strokes the baby's head with his palms even as he holds the hot barrel on the baby's leg. But the baby's mind left us long ago. The gunman lays the gun in the crib. With both hands free, he picks the baby up and holds it in his right arm and strokes his head with his left hand while softly singing a nursing rhyme. A rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. The baby seems to be comforted by this as it shakes less and less. Soon the shaking stops. Now calm, he lays his head into the chest of the gunman.

The gunman smiles once again as he removes his left hand from the baby's head and goes into his back pocket. He looks down at the baby. He notices how the baby sleeps with such joy.

He is amazed at how peace can be gained at such a time. He smiles for one final time and whispers, "Rest well, child," and pulls a pocket knife from his back pocket. He gives the baby a sweet, farewell kiss right on the top of its forehead. After a second or two, he plunges that knife into the baby's back.

Though, the baby doesn't move. It's hard to tell whether or not he has left this world for another. He is motionless as his eyes lie closed. But for good measure, the gunman slowly twists the knife causing blood to pour onto his hands and chest, and, eventually onto the floor.

It pours out so fast that the sound of it dropping to the floor is reminiscent of the spilling of a glass of water. With the blood of that child plastered over his hand, he ensured that it could never be referred to as the beautiful dead.

There, he caressed the child's cheeks, smearing blood all over that peaceful face as he menacingly whispers in his ears, "It's okay. It's okay. It's okay."

Daniel awakens to the sound of a familiar voice. That old woman always seems to be there when he needs her. She whispers, "It's okay, Daniel. It's okay."

Daniel is disoriented, moving his head back and forth as the woman attempts to calm him.

"It's okay, Danny." She clenches his hand. "It's okay."

But Daniel is, of course, fussy as he sometimes is after a dream. "Why the hell did you wake me?" he says.

The woman disregards Daniel's tone. "It's time for work."

He wipes the right side of his eye and looks over to the clock on the nightstand. There is a cup of water blocking his view. "Well, what time is it?" he shouts.

"Its 11:25 p.m."

"Oh, crap!" He jumps out of the bed and runs into the closet to search for his work uniform. In 30 years, he has never been late. That is, until today.

A short time later, aboard C114, Daniel carries on just as he's done for years. It's the beginning of his shift, so there aren't any passengers yet.

The single mom is always the first person to enter C114. But her stop isn't until Hickory Street, which is five minutes away.

In this time, Daniel plays the radio as loud as he wants. This day isn't any different than the others. So, with his eyes forward, while his mind travels, he sits there with this vacant stare as the priest reads scripture to his congregation through the radio's speakers.

"Today we are in the troubling of times," says the priest. "And given the horrors that our people have seen this year and in past years, mankind's likelihood to gain doubt in to things that he cannot fully understand is proliferated. And that doubt is pursued by the enemy, and sometimes—" The priest pauses for a second to clear his throat. "Sometimes, it is more necessary than ever, to take a step back and read from scripture."

Daniel's eyes are vacant, but this giddy smirk gradually appears across his face. And it grows bigger and bigger as the priest continues to speak. "Please turn to mark 13:23."

The radio becomes silent as the priest waits for everyone to ready their bibles. So, in turn, the streetcar becomes a dead silence. All that is heard is the sound of the metal wheels thumping down on those tracks, over and over and over.

The priest begins to read. "Take heed, I have foretold you all things. But in those days, after tribulation...the sun shall be darkened and the moon shall not give light. The stars of heaven shall fall. And the powers of heaven shall be shaken. Then shall thy see the son of man coming in the clouds with great power and glory."

Daniel's smirk is still visible as the priest's voice fades into the background when he lowers the radio. The streetcar is nearing Hickory Street and it's time for the single mom to board C114.

She climbs aboard the streetcar, carrying with her a large black garbage bag. Daniel can't help but notice. "What's in the bag?"

The single mom pauses for moment and looks down into the bag. "Just a few of life's accumulations."

Daniel turns back and looks inside the bag as she holds it open. He notices shiny clothes and dresses that look as if they were made for royals. "You're not throwing that all away, are you?"

The single mom, somber, smiles. She closes the bag and ties it into a knot. "No child, I'm just going home." She walks down the aisle as Daniel watches from the train's rearview mirror.

The happy drunk is the next to board C114. His mind is wandering back to yesterday. He became consumed with the single mom's words. As a matter of fact, he's thought about nothing else since. Something in her words held him captive. The questioning of life and all its wonders paraded through his spirit.

The drunk sits at his usual seat in the front. But with him, he carries a small spiral notepad. Though, nothing has been written on it.

"What you got there?" asks Daniel.

The drunk holds the notepad steady with both hands, while tapping his thumbs repeatedly on top of the pad. "You ever noticed the beauty in the small things?" he says as he taps with tremendous aggression.

"Things like what?"

The drunk holds the notepad up high. "Look at this. You ever notice how clean and perfect the paper is? I'm saying, let's say I scribble a bit on it. It becomes used and nobody wants that, right?"

"Right."

"But let's say I go ahead and rip this paper out. Then it's like brand new, right?"

Daniel responds with simple nod of the head.

"You ever wonder why we can't be brand new like that? Like a sheet of paper."

Daniel swallows his spit and pauses to think for a moment. He has known for far too long of questions like this. Similar questions have boggled his own brain until it found its way onto his tongue to speak. "That's just what it means to be a human," says Daniel.

"How you figure?"

"Well, have you ever been in love before?"

"Many times. Many, many times," the drunk says with a smirk, showing off his small number of teeth.

"Well, what's the opposite of love?"

"I don't know, hate?"

"Its pain," says Daniel. "The opposite of love is pain. They go hand and hand. Like gumbo and rice or like, it's so beautiful how they both play off one another because you cannot truly have one without the other. They're so in sync that you'd think pain _love_ loves and _love_ loves pain."

The drunk cuts in, "How so?"

"When you love someone and they look you dead in the eyes...dead in the eyes, and they tell you they don't love you anymore, what's the first thing you say?"

"Well, I'd want to know why."

"Will _why_ change anything?"

"No. It won't."

"Will it make her love you again?"

"No."

Daniel turns around with his brows raised and exclaims, "Well you might wanna ask yourself, why the fuck does _why_ matter?"

The drunk smiles and places his notepad into his back pocket. "Hey Daniel?"

"Yes?"

"What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"

Daniel looks forward and laughs as the drunk leans his head against the glass window next to him and closes his eyes. Soon, the streetcar slows as the lovebirds stand outside, waiting to board C114.

They're always the last passengers to get on and every time the door opens, they're always kissing and staring into each other's eyes with such reverence. Sometimes they even hold up the streetcar when doing that. It's like when they're together, nothing else exists except them. Everything else around them disappears, even the sound of an eighty-ton streetcar tumbling down the tracks.

But this time as the door opens, there is no touching. There is no kissing. There is no staring into each other's eyes like the fate of the world depended on it. There is no embrace. They just, simply walk into the streetcar and take their seats.

Daniel looks at them through the rearview mirror. Both of their eyes are devil red, and even though they repeatedly wipe them, the dust the tears left is still palpable.

The drunk briefly opens his eyes and notices the angst of the lovebirds. He grins and quietly mumbles, "There is a God after all."

Daniel focuses his eyes back on the road. He thinks for a second of what he should say. He muses about how he could fix whatever that plagues them. "How could this be? What did it take for such a union to be broken?"

It pains him. But their union encompasses more than just him. It includes all the passengers aboard C114. When the lovebirds are broken, it in turn breaks something in the others as well. So for every tear that drops from their eyes, it falls directly on foundation of their souls. And in this moment, in this second, they all sit motionless, watching as it all overflows.

For the single mom, the lovebirds are what could have been. If only he would have seen her for who she truly was; if only he hadn't of touched those girls like he did; if only she hadn't said those nasty things, but it was so painful.

For the drunk, the lovebirds are what never was. They are nothing but a mere fantasy about the truest form of love, and their pain solidifies all that he believed. But the truth is sometimes a double-edged sword. So, for every question it answers, it slowly stabs the place from where the question matured.

For Daniel, they are everything that was: quiet reminders of the past. They are a time capsule in the flesh where he sees all that he was and all that he could have been. Though Daniel has, for so many times, been so many people, that even when he hides, more than one shadow always accompanies him in the light. And, he knows. So all he can do is ride that streetcar just as he has always done as he discusses internally the sequences of life. But that will soon end as he focuses his attention elsewhere—on something outside of his mind. Outside of the streetcar. It is, a figure standing in the middle of the tracks.

CHAPTER FIVE

# The Words of Him

The train slows. The figure heads toward the train. Daniel opens the door. The figure walks closer. Daniel squints his eyes, attempting to see its face. The way it moves seems so familiar. He knows it.

"Who's there?" he shouts as he walks out of the streetcar. His loud voice causes the passengers to jerk alert.

The drunk awakens and walks to the front of the streetcar. He gawks through the windows staring at Daniel.

Daniel sees the figure, but not its face. "Come into the light," he says.

The figure hesitates a moment, but in time walks into the light, revealing itself. The light reveals it to be not a man, but a child. A young girl, in fact.

Daniel walks closer. Her eyes are all too familiar. He removes her hood, exposing a round burn mark on her temple. Daniel steps back, runs into the streetcar and quickly shuts the door. He pants.

"What's going on?" asks the drunk.

Daniel composes himself by talking slow breaths, ignoring the drunk's question.

"Daniel, what the fuck is going on?" he says again.

Daniel pulls the lever to accelerate the streetcar. The girl still stands in the middle of the tracks. She doesn't move.

She is just as audacious as she was in that dream, gawking in the face of death.

The streetcar moves closer and closer.

"JUST MOVE," says Daniel.

But she doesn't. Instead, she lies in the middle of the tracks, daring him to continue.

The streetcar gets closer. The length of a broomstick is what divides eighty tons of steel from tumbling down on her. There is no room for those steel wheels to go but onto her bones.

All the passengers on C114 are on their feet in awe. Those steel wheels are but an inch from her skull.

The passengers, both nervous and shaken, gasp in perpetuity.

The girl, brazen and unabashed, closes her eyes in acceptance. As the steel wheels on that machine reached the top of her skull, it comes to a stop.

And freezes.

Daniel had pulled the accelerator back. The passengers, still on their feet, watch as he exits the streetcar once again. He walks toward the young girl and stands above her with his shoe inches from her foot.

"You don't exist," he says.

The girl smirks while pulling herself up from the tracks. She dusts the gravel from her clothes. "Why don't I exist?"

"Because I saw you die! I saw it!"

The young girl smiles and walks onto the sidewalk. "Don't be so trite. How can you see with such blinded eyes? Why do you say these things? You live in a world where you see absolutely nothing but lies and misery, all of which are conveniently free from your doing. I may not exist in your world, but I do exist in this one."

Daniel sneers and abruptly walks toward the girl. "Stay off my goddamn tracks. You hear me?" He hurries back onto C114 and slams down to the accelerator lever at maximum speed. He stares back at the young girl who again becomes a blurred figure in the dark. She would do the same as the streetcar rides into the shadows of the night, until there is nothing but darkness to look back at. Daniel turns his eyes back toward the road.

By then, he had already run a red light on a busy intersection, giving that old familiar story of cause and effect a chance to render its ugly head. And he's a brutal sort, always anal about facts and preciseness. There's no place for such things in his world.

Daniel see's what's happening. Time has been slowed for some reason, just so he can catch every moment. He sees the 18-wheeler coming. But he cannot react expediently. All he can do is endure as the streetcar falls to its side.

He watches as his body moves slowly out of the seat. His lunch scatters, along with his bottled water.

He watches as the water falls apart. It was once whole, now it's not; its remains touch everyone.

He watches all the passengers fly as well with such delicacy. They dance across each side of the streetcar like ballerinas. Their screams ricochet off of each other's ears, one after another.

As the streetcar reaches the ground, he watches the tanker fall on top of the streetcar. The metal sinks in, similar to when a soda can is smashed.

Daniel looks up and sees liquid slowly falling from the tanker onto the passengers on C114. But there is a weird color to the liquid. It's a brownish gold color and its taste is beyond foul. It surely isn't water.

When he finally rises to his knees and reads the writing on the tanker: Shell, an oil and gas company, time reverts back to its normal state.

The streetcar lies flipped on its side. He searches for a way out. But the situation is calamitous. The windows on the right side of the streetcar are blocked by concrete. The left side is also blocked as the tanker truck lies completely across, blocking every possible escape route.

The only way out is through the front window. He's shaken from the crash. His vision blurry. Gas continues to pour into the streetcar causing it to fill up similar to water in a sink.

The smell dazes him. He presses his fingernails into his brow. The collision had sent him flying backwards, where his face unfortunately met a window that created a gash on the left side of his cheek. Gas has entered the wound, bringing a burning sensation to his entire face.

He gets up, slow, trying not to slip on the gasoline covered floors. He pulls two thick shards of glass from his face.

The seats where all the passengers once sat, are all empty. The streetcar is misty and dark.

"Is everyone okay?" he shouts.

No one replies.

He crawls to the back of the streetcar, feeling with his hands. He does this until he touches the foot of the drunk. "Are you okay, man?"

The drunk does not respond. As Daniel moves closer, he grabs the drunk by the shirt and attempts to pull him up out of the gasoline. It takes a while, but he does. When the drunk is pulled above the puddles, Daniel sees that he no longer has a head. It has been severed from his body and lies, smashed between metal and Louisiana concrete.

Daniel recalls that his head was against the window while he slept. He guesses that it's fitting that if he had to die, he died there. Maybe now, he can finally rest.

Daniel moves the drunk's legs to the side and crawls to the back of the streetcar. He sees the lovebirds next. They did not suffer the same fate. They survived the crash. But one of the metal rods from inside the streetcar has pierced one of the man's legs. In turn, he was rendered helpless. But his lover sits right by his side, un-wavered. "Everything's gonna be okay, babe. We're gonna make it out together. I promise."

Daniel moves further to the back, crawling through the ever-rising fuel. He's looking for the single mom. Her prosthesis had been separated from her leg. It lies in a sea of gasoline. He picks it up and drags it as he searches, groping with his hand in the dark. He finds her, leaning against the wall with her eyes closed. He takes two fingers and places it on her neck to check her pulse. But there is no pulse. She is dead.

As she lies there, all those beautiful shiny dresses that were in that black bag, lie soaked underneath it all. Daniel notices a picture frame near her body. He pulls it from the gas. It's a picture of young woman and two kids. Daniel places the picture onto the lap of the deceased woman, and somberly whispers, "Go home."

As he crawls back to the front of the streetcar, he assures the lovebirds all will be fine. "Hold on! I'll go get help," he screams.

He crawls toward the only possible exit, the dashboard window of the streetcar. The glass is cracked, but the window is still very much in place. He kicks the glass once. But only a tiny piece breaks off. This is not the typical glass we see in our homes. It's about five times as thick as a normal glass window. He tries again, causing a bigger piece to shatter. But the hole is not big enough to fit through.

Daniel tries a third time and a fourth and a fifth time. He kicks repeatedly until the hole is big enough to crawl through. He cuts his own leg in the process.

When the hole is finally big enough, he limps out into the street, screaming at the top of his lungs, "HELP! SOMEBODY HELP US! HELP US!"

But there is no help to be found. There are no cars passing by. There is no one in sight. He is all alone. Daniel falls to his knees crying like he has never done before.

Then a voice sounds from the distance. "They're gone, Daniel."

He turns around, rattled and confused. He sees the figure, the girl from the tracks standing right above him. He rises to his feet.

"Help us, please! Go get help."

The young girl shakes her head and moves closer until they are within arm's length.

She places her hands on his cheeks and caresses. "They do not exist, Danny. They are all in your head."

Daniel becomes angry and snatches the girl's hands from his face. "No! You don't exist."

He runs to the front of the streetcar, checking on the lovebirds. The gasoline has risen to their necks. They've both covered their mouths and nose with dry clothes to protect themselves from the choking smell. There isn't much time. The girl's voice, pitying. "You can't save them," she says.

"YES I CAN! I CAN!" He again runs to the back of the streetcar, looking for anything to free the lovebirds as the gas has now begun to pour into the street, leaking from the cracked windows and splintered steel. It became mixed with the truck driver's blood as his torso lies hanging through the tanker's window.

A metal instrument lies in street. Daniel figures he can use this to break the steel pole that has impaled one of the lovebirds. He runs to grab it. As fate would have it, the power line that the streetcar used for energy, bursts from its line and falls into the middle of the street, right in front of the metal instrument.

The wire snaps back and forth while the gas that has been spilling from the tanker gushes with more fervor than before. He wants so bad to reach that instrument. But he cannot. All he can do is watch.

Daniel turns back toward the girl from the tracks and again pleads. "HELP US! PLEASE!"

The gas inches toward the power line as every second becomes a step closer to death.

"There is nothing that can be done."

Daniel runs to the front of the streetcar. The gas is within a few feet of the power line. He sees the lovebirds consoling one another. He sticks his arm inside the streetcar. "COME ON! THERE'S NO TIME! GRAB MY HAND!"

But only one of the lovebirds reaches for his hand. As she holds on, she stares firmly into the eyes of her wounded lover. No words are ever spoken. There were merely tears as they allowed their hearts to talk for them.

Daniel knows what he is asking. For her to be rescued, she must in turn, leave her lover behind.

"MA'AM! WE HAVE TO LEAVE NOW!"

Her lover wipes her face free of tears and somberly instructs her. "You must go," he says.

"No! No! I can't!"

He pulls his hand away from hers and again says, "You must!"

Daniel screams, "COME ON, LADY. THERE'S NO TIME."

When Daniel pulls her toward the window in a last-ditch attempt, she rips her arms away from his and replies, "There's always time," and lies her head quietly onto her lover's shoulders.

Her lover attempts to persuade her to leave again. But she shushes him. "Let's not waste our time yelling." And so he concedes and kisses her head.

Daniel pulls his arm out of the train. By that time, the gas had reached the power line. The flames rip through the streetcar, burning all things inside and out. While Daniel watches, those flames would surely intensify, causing an explosion of the streetcar and the tanker.

The power of the blast propels Daniel from his feet, slams his head into those iron streetcar tracks. As he lays bleeding and unconscious, the girl from the tracks kneels and places her hands on top of his.

She says a prayer in his name. " _Father, your child lives in a world where the truth does not. He sees not with his heart, but only what his mind allows. Please bring him back to when he was a child. And a shine light into his darkest corners so that he may one day see."_

CHAPTER SIX

# So That You May be Healed

The sound of an EKG machine runs rapid. _Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

It is the only sound in the room. Daniel opens his eyes. A man stands before him wearing a white coat and blue scrubs. The room is a bit blurry. He hears his name being called. "Mr. Freeman. Mr. Freeman."

Daniel turns his head to the left, then again to the right. "Where am I?"

"You are in a hospital, Mr. Freeman," the man in the scrubs replies. "I am Doctor Oswald. You have been in a very serious accident."

Daniel can't believe the news and begins turning and twisting, pulling the intravenous wires along with every movement.

The doctor attempts to hold Daniel still. "Relax now. Relax."

Daniel follows the doctor's orders. His calm voice allows him to become tranquil. The doctor holds in his hand a pen and what seems to be a notepad.

Daniel looks up. "What's that?"

"This is what we call a trauma flow sheet." He writes without looking up.

Daniel looks away, staring at all the wires running from his arms.

"Now, do you remember anything?" asked Dr. Oswald.

"The couple." He stares at his wounded arms.

Dr. Oswald ruffles through his notepad. "What couple?"

Daniel turns his head back toward the doctor. "The couple that was in streetcar."

Dr. Oswald takes his notepad and places it on a nearby counter. "You were the only person brought in from the accident, Mr. Freeman."

Daniel looks away and closes his eyes. Dr. Oswald watches tears sneak down his cheeks. He takes a step closer and places his hands against the rail of his bed. "I know this is hard for you. But there are some officers out there who have a few questions for you about the accident. I won't send them in until you're absolutely ready. Are you ready, Mr. Freeman?"

Daniel eyes remain shut. He doesn't mumble a word. Dr. Oswald picks his notepad up from the counter. "I'll tell them to come back in an hour." He takes one more look at Daniel and walks out of the room.

After an hour or so, the doctor returns with the two officers. But as the door to the room opens, all that was there was an empty bed and detached intravenous wires. Daniel is gone.

Down the busy Canal Street, hundreds of onlookers gawk and point as an old man limps across town in a blue hospital gown. People aren't too happy about Daniel's appearance. The problem isn't that he is wearing a hospital gown; the problem is that there isn't enough gown to cover his wrinkled backside.

People seem to have never been more terrified in their lives. Parents of small children sweep them away as if Godzilla just touched down in the French Quarters. Nonetheless, Daniel keeps on walking.

He left his wallet along with his clothes in the hospital. He has no other option but to walk. So he does, far and long. He walks all the way to Rampart Street, where his journey comes to an abrupt end in front of his destination: Saint Jude Chapel.

Daniel stands before the church, observing the beauty in its architecture. He notices the three crosses that stand at the very top of the building, piercing the sky as birds fly about.

The church is landscaped to that of a medieval gothic castle that housed queens and kings. Many years ago, only the privileged could experience such a place. But this is said to be for the people, all people, even those who disavow Him.

Daniel limps up the steps toward the large double doors that lie shut. He is very weak. He makes sure one hand stays planted on the rail as he climbs. Once he reaches the top of the steps, he pulls the door open.

As he enters the church, he sees rows of empty seats where people pray and worship. He walks near the pews, but remains standing, admiring the tall cathedral ceilings and gothic artistry. The windows are all painted with pictures of men and women in long robes.

Around the church are several statues of woman and children. At the top are paintings of naked men flying in places that God roams. Even the marble floors are in and of themselves, the personification of God's beauty because they reflect the very nature of everything that touches it. For every soul that passes through those doors, reflect years of the human condition that could never be understood.

This goes for Daniel as well. He stares at his reflection seeing scars both outside and in, that took years to create. He stares into his own eyes, seeking answers to questions he has yet to ask. For those few moments, he dives through past memories seeking reasons for his own attrition. How could those beautiful eyes hold such a hell?

He places his hands on his face, touching it gently. He thinks of how telling these marble floors are. But they do not at all reflect his face at all. They instead, reflect his father. And he knows as he looks down into himself, thinking of all things that were and weren't.

Quickly, the door to the confessional opens and closes as a young woman exits.

Daniel watches her leave as her high heels repeatedly clunk against the marble floors. A few minutes pass, the light atop of the confessional door goes from red to green.

Daniel walks toward the door. A plaque says. "Father Jackson," under the green light.

He takes a deep breath and moves his hand toward the knob. His arm is visibly shaking. He's afraid. He takes another breath, but this time, he twists the knob until it opens.

Daniel takes one look back at the empty seats of the church, and walks into the confessional. The room is divided in two parts. On the left side, there is a screen for people to confess their sins. It is free from the view of the priest because he sits on the other side of the screen. It was made for confessors who prefer to be anonymous.

However, on the right side of the room, there is an opening for anyone who wants to walk behind the screen and sit face to face with the priest. Daniel, not surprisingly, chooses the former. He stands by the screen, confused about where exactly should he sit because there are no chairs in sight. He has never done a confession.

Daniel sticks his face near the screen, nearly touching it with his nose. "Hey, how does this work?"

The priest answers with a question. "Is this your first time doing the sacrament of penance?"

His voice is strong and commanding, full of authority. After taking a moment to think, Daniel replies with a modest, "Yes."

He has never even heard of the term, "Sacrament of penance."

The priest asks. "Excuse me if I'm wrong. But I don't recognize your voice. Is this your first visit to our church?"

"Yes, it is."

"Okay. Well, welcome to Saint Jude's."

"Thank you," Daniel replies. "But do I have to stand here for the entire time?"

The priest points. "Uhh. There's a kneeler right below you."

Daniel looks to his left and then to his right. "Where?"

"If you just look right beside you."

Daniel finally sees that it had been next to him the whole time. "Oh, here it is. I found it."

"Okay, then," replies the priest. "Now you've never done a confession, is that correct?"

"Yes. I mean. No." Daniel is nervous.

The priest says softly, "It's okay. This is not unusual."

"Really?"

"Well, yes. I have seen people go decades between confessions. In fact, one fella, I remember, explained to me that it had been 70 years since his last confession."

"Well, do you?" asks Daniel.

"Do I what?"

"Do you confess?"

The priest pauses for a moment, leaving the room in an awkward silence. "I do...just like everyone."

"So you sin too?"

The priest chuckles a bit. "Yes, I am human."

"So what, do you confess to yourself? How the hell does that work?"

The confessional became silent once again. The priest seems taken aback by Daniel's language.

"I didn't get your name," he says.

"I do apologize. My name is Daniel Freeman."

The priest again welcomes Daniel to the church. "So what penance would you like to give today?"

"Whoa, now. Let's, let's not get ahead of ourselves. I mean, I wanna know a little about the man I'm telling all my innermost secrets to. You know what I mean?"

"Okay. Well, I'm Father Jackson. I'm—"

"Yeah. I mean, I already know who you are."

"Do you?"

"Yeah, I listen to your radio show."

"Oh, I see now."

"Yes, so I know who you are. But I wanna know who you are. Understand?"

The priest sighs. "Well, what else do you want me to tell you?"

Daniel raises both hands in the air as if the answer is so obvious. "I want you to confess!"

The priest chuckles a bit. "I don't think you understand how this process works."

"No, but I do."

"NO, I don't think you do."

Daniel raises his voice, talking over the priest. "Man, you have to have some bones in the closet."

The priest calls his name repeatedly.

But Daniel rambles on. "I mean, who doesn't have a sin or two to tell?"

The priest attempts a second time. "Daniel this is not the place or time..."

But Daniel continues. "Have you ever stole something?"

"What?"

"When the last time did you had sex with a woman? Or maybe you don't like women. Maybe you prefer to touch few church boys here and there?"

The priest erupts. "MR. FREEMAN! IF YOU CONTINUE WITH THIS TYPE OF INSOLENCE AND WILLFUL CONTEMPT FOR THE LORD'S HOUSE AND HIS CHILDREN, YOU WILL BE FORCED TO LEAVE THIS CHURCH IMMEDIATELY!"

The confessional is overcome with silence for the third time. This time, a lengthy dead silence. Both men, domineering in their own right, look for the other to start again as they wait behind the screen.

Daniel digresses. "Look...I'm...I." He pauses to compose himself. "I'm sorry. I'm not used to being vulnerable."

"That's quite all right," says the priest. "And to answer your question, I have not and will never do anything of those things."

"How? How do you do that?"

"Are you asking me how do I not steal or abuse children?"

"No. I'm asking, how do you be perfect like that?"

"I never once said I was perfect, Mr. Freeman. I sin just as anyone else. I lie, I judge others, and sometimes, as you may already know, I lose my temper."

"So, if everyone sins and it's a part of our nature, why apologize for it?"

"Well, it's not in our nature to sin, Mr. Freeman. God did not make us that way. But when we allow certain things to control us or have dominion over us, then yes, we sin."

"What do you mean when you say certain things?"

"Well, are you familiar with your bible?"

Daniel doesn't answer the question. He just remains quiet, letting his silence speak for him. So the priest continues. "Well, in Peter 5:8, it states, be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour."

"So he can be anywhere?"

"That's correct."

Daniel inquires, "Even in the church?"

"Yes, anywhere in this church, but you need not worry about that. We run a tight ship. The devil fears our righteousness."

Daniel smirks. "Does he?"

"Yes. He sure does."

After another brief but awkward pause, the priest explains the process of a confession.

Daniel takes a deep breath. "Oh man, that's gonna be tough. I don't know where to start."

"Don't be frightened by old trespasses. If you don't know where to start, just start from where it began."

Daniel chuckles a bit. "My entire life has been a sin."

"Well confess your life," says the priest.

"Do you really have time for that?"

"No, I don't," says the priest. "But God does."

Daniel smiles behind the screen. The priest continues to instruct Daniel so the confession can finally began. "Now before we start, repeat after me. Bless me father for I have sinned. This is my first confession."

Daniel repeats after the priest, word for word.

"What are your sins, my son?"

Daniel hesitates for a moment, and then begins, "When I was born I think God must've known me from another world..."

CHAPTER SEVEN

# The Sufferings of this Present Time

I was born August 27, 1939. 74 years ago in Natchitoches, Louisiana. I still remember that sticky heat in the summertime. I was the youngest of two kids. My sister Caroline was seven years older.

As kids, we spent most of our time in the backyard. We didn't have any toys, so my sister and I would end up tossing rocks at this boarded house across the street.

Mr. Gaines, who lived across the street, always got on us about throwing rocks. Every day, he'd come outside yelling at the top of his lungs, "Y'all better stop throwing them rocks near my window."

I didn't know what all the fuss was about, because he only had one good window. The rest of his windows was boarded up. I guess he was trying to conserve the last good window he had.

He was such a strange person, always sitting in that chair guarding that window. You'd think there was hidden treasure behind that board, the way he'd guard it every day. It's strange, but at the same time amazing to see the value people put in the smallest things. We always put value in material things, while just the feeling of love and adoration becomes second. But it wasn't second to me because I knew what love was. And I found it in an unfamiliar place. It was from my sister Caroline. She was my mother and father. I still remember her tucking me in every night. I was so grateful for her because our real momma didn't really give a damn. She looked at that television more than she ever looked at us. But it was my father who made her that way. He'd always hit on my momma like she was some kind of punching bag or something. I remember one time he beat her so bad she couldn't speak out her mouth for weeks.

So I don't blame her for not talking to me. I don't blame her one bit because the worst thing a person can do to someone is to take away your self-worth, and that's what my father did to my mother.

It's sad when you think about it. But at the same time, it's funny because my father was a hardworking man. He worked sixteen hours a day in that hot sticky Louisiana heat just to support us. I almost never saw him at home. But when he was home, he only did a handful of things, and that's eat, sleep, and beat my mother.

That's one of many things I wish I didn't remember because it haunts me when I'm alone. Her screams still resonate in my dreams. They transform my fantasies into nightmares. I can still see the blood dripping from her nose while she crawls on the wooden floors as my daddy screams words that I cannot repeat in this confessional.

I see him pulling out his favorite belt. The same belt he would always use on her. It was a long leather looking strap that was about two inches wide and four feet long.

Caroline and I had a nickname for it. We called it our pet snake because every time it came out, it was striking somebody and more times than none, that somebody was my mother.

He would swing that belt so hard as if he was looking for her to give him a different reaction. But it was always the same scream.

So he'd hit her harder and harder until he was too tired to go on. Caroline would always run to her room, she couldn't bear the sound. But I watched every moment.

In my own mind. I became a witness. I've watched for years as my mother was beaten and tortured. I've seen her burned and I've seen her raped. I've seen her teeth knocked out and I've seen her eyes swollen so bad they wouldn't open. I've seen her humiliated and I've seen her ridiculed.

But what I also saw was her pleading and begging for mercy. Every day, I saw her pray in every single way and still no answer.

"Please stop," my mom would beg every time. Every single time.

But he wouldn't stop. Stopping would only show weakness. You see, I truly believe that in my father's mind, the only way he could justify his actions was by tricking himself into believing that my mother deserved every beating. So stopping because she cried would only show that she didn't deserve it in the first place and that he was wrong. He couldn't stop. He couldn't let himself be wrong.

The crazy thing is that he wasn't a mean looking man. No, not one bit. He was a handsome man, at least 6 feet 4 inches tall. He had this long curly blond hair that had all the local women envious of my mother. He was strong too. I remember one time in Natchitoches, I saw him kill a crocodile with his bare hands. I swear I did. I could never forget it. My father was like one of those people you couldn't forget even if you tried.

Though the one thing I remember the most was his eyes. He had such beautiful eyes. They were as blue as the deepest part of the sea. I remember him staring at me with those same eyes right after he finished beating my mother, every time. He would walk up to me and hug me and ask me softly in a whisper, "Are you okay?"

I don't ever remember answering. I just remember staring as he stared back. The crazy thing is that he always looked at me with love, as if he adored me for some reason. Oh, those beautiful blue eyes as blue as the sea. No wonder I'm afraid of water.

The priest interjects. "Is your father still alive?"

"No, he died a very long time ago," replies Daniel.

"Oh, I see," says the priest. "And your mother?"

Daniel exhales stridently. There is still some pain that hasn't fully been wiped away yet. "She's dead also."

"Do you have any good memories of your family, at all?" asks the priest.

"I do. As far as I can remember. I believe it was on Christmas and I was 15 years old."

CHAPTER EIGHT

# Both Come From Him

December 25, 1954. It was Christmas. Caroline and I exchanged gifts. It was the first gift I ever gave her. I don't why because she'd always find something to give to me. Maybe, I was just beginning to understand the meaning of Christmas.

I made her a necklace with these beautiful small stones from our backyard that I neatly laced together with pink embroidery thread and on top I transcribed a few words that said, _To you my love_.

She, on the other hand, painted three beautiful pictures for me. As matter of fact, I still have them to this day. All three were paintings of long bodies of water. In that water were big fish, small fish, and everything else in between. Each picture also had this big shark in the middle as all this sea life floated around it.

She said the reason she painted three was to signify the setting. The first picture took place in Africa, the second in the Gulf of Mexico, and the third near Australia.

In every picture were different sets of sea creatures of different colors from different places. But what stood out was that the shark in each painting was the same.

When I asked Caroline why she kept the shark the same, she said the shark was us. She explained the nature of how sharks travel endlessly through time, reaching different borders and distant shores. She said a shark travels so far thinking someday it will reach a new destination that looked different from the last. But it was destined to live in the sea, and that is where it will remain. She said the unfair part is that the shark doesn't know of its destiny. It only wishes it can reach a new land so that maybe it to can one day feel alive.

It was a depressing picture for the likes of Christmas. Though I didn't understand it at the time. I was just happy about getting something. I think her point was that hope is only false when we try to change the inevitable or when we try to defy nature or science. It is then that we become lost in our hopes, where we lose ourselves.

You see, my mom and dad could not be changed. And even when they were, they found themselves slipping in the same place they rose from because it was their nature.

If we continue to try to bring about that change, we will only move in this endless cycle, looking for somewhere and traveling everywhere, while going nowhere, like a shark in water.

CHAPTER NINE

# Light to My Path

You know, I can remember it so well. And that sometimes can be a bad thing. But this wasn't one of those times. Maybe it was the whole idea of Christmas that made everyone transform. So much so that my dad was even in a good mood.

It all started in the wee hours of the morning.

Before sunrise, he came into my room. He must've thought I was sleeping but I heard him hovering over me. I could smell his foul breath as he exhaled loudly as if he were troubled. He placed his hand softly on my head and massaged it. I couldn't move. A part of me was afraid as if he was a not my father but a stranger. As if we had no history or lineage.

I feared him even though he had never laid a hand on me. I felt broken by him as if I was shattered glass, fragile. I could not bear to look at him in the dark. So I closed my eyes and hoped the darkness would hide me from his demons. I shut down completely, and pretended he was not there.

What happen next troubled me because it didn't make a bit of sense at the time. This man, whom I feared like nothing else, opens his mouth and whispers to me so softly and says, "I love you, son."

I felt my heart stop then. Tears broke from my shut eyes onto my blanket as memories of his past sins smothered my thoughts. I began to lose breath and exhale loudly. I was hesitant to reply.

I thought of all the pain he caused and nightmares he starred in, and his penchant for causing my mother's tears. But I also thought of how he held me and called me his little man. I remembered how we said we were best buddies. I focused on the good times. It was then I forgave. It was then I open my eyes and turned around to say "I love you too", but by then he was gone from my room, leaving me to dream until sunrise.

One of the reasons why that Christmas was one our happier moments was because everyone was at peace as if we had forgotten ourselves of yesterday. Everyone had changed. Momma even cooked us a meal. Yes, sir! Now, it wasn't much, but it was a helluva lot better than anything we ever had before. She was so happy, dancing around the kitchen as my daddy watched from the living room as if he hadn't seen her in forever.

They exchanged words, though I heard no sound. I was lost in a daydream, wishing I could go back in time, so tomorrow, I could return to this moment whenever I am troubled.

I was truly joyful that day. It was so beautiful in so many ways. I was afraid to let the day end, because I knew what tomorrow would bring.

So that night, as my mom and dad slept, I arose from bed and quietly whispered to my sister, "Caroline."

But she did not respond.

"Caroline," I said again.

Still she did not respond.

She had fallen asleep, leaving me to bear the night alone. I wanted to wake her, but I was hesitant to do so. I imagined her face underneath those covers, dreaming so peaceful about places that she may never reach. This was all bittersweet, because she would awaken tomorrow to see that her happiness was nothing but a dream, and her dreams nothing but fantasies.

So I reached for her covers, hoping she would embrace all that I wanted to show her. But when the covers of that bed were pulled from the spot where she usually lay, it exposed only pillows set to confuse any wandering eyes. She was gone. And positioned underneath those pillows laid a neatly wrapped envelope entitled simply: _To You, My love_

I reached for the envelope but my hands hesitated to even touch it. I wondered what it could say. I hoped nothing. No good could've come from inside those lines.

As I pulled the paper from that envelope and unfolded it, at first, I couldn't help but notice that there were several damp spots sprinkled across its surface. I suspected she wrote it while in tears. At that moment, I imploded with fear and all its features. I began to pant heavily. And the melody of the paper flickering became the only sound the house could hold, even muting those pestering crickets.

"Let Destiny live it," she would say every time I questioned things I didn't understand. So, I read the letter. _I am not sure how to put this into words that would sound kindlier. We have lived inside two separate worlds and it has been this way since before we were born. For so long, I have counted the days that me and you could travel to a place away from all the things that afflicts us. But I now know I can no longer follow behind you down that desolate road that so many have ventured from. Because, just like them, I too am not strong. I am nothing like you. I am weak and afraid. All those promises we made, I cannot keep. I am so sorry, my dear. I am so sorry._

I stood, angry in disbelief that those words could even come out of her mouth. What could've troubled her so much that she would abandon me without ever saying goodbye? There were no words that expressed how I felt. She had been more of a mother than my own mom. Just the day before, she was caring for me and sheltering me from things I didn't understand. And just like that, she was gone. She was gone.

So alone I was. Alone in the darkness as the sounds of wind hitting the windows resonated through one ear and out the other. I decided to go outside and witness the Christmas night. I had to walk slowly on my tippy toes because our creaky wooden floors could awaken my parents.

I opened the door and walked onto the porch. The stars were out and about. There was something about the entire scene that made me feel free. All the pain and heartache I once had, had somehow been leveled. Where sorrow once lived, became bliss; where fear was instilled became courage; and where hatred reigned became love.

For the first time in a long time, I became contented. I was joyful, just by the feeling that wind gave me as it brushed against my skin. The funny thing was, it all happened outside of that wretched home. And there, I decided.

The world was so much more than the hell we lived in and I had just started to see it. I decided to leave it all behind just like she did. I took one last look through the front door and whispered somberly, "Goodbye home."

With both eyes full of tears and pockets empty of money, I walked away into the darkness of the night, free from the past, yet unsure of the future.

As I began my journey into the night, I noticed I had forgotten to take a coat to shield my body from the winter's cold. I thought of turning back but I had come too far to let the elements derail me. I jammed my hands into my pockets, but the winds still trampled my face.

I was in the middle of nowhere, walking down a dirt road with no human being in sight. The silence of the night terrified me. The roads, dim and desolate. The only sounds were that of the wind and my shoes scraping the gravel as I moved forward.

I remember there being this giant open space of grass on each side of the road. It was really huge. The sight of it, strangely, took me back to memories that were not of my own. I envisioned children playing from sunup to sundown until their mothers called them in for dinner. I envisioned ranchers with their cattle imitating cowboys like their fathers once did.

All of this, I saw as if I had witnessed it with my own eyes.

The life I always wanted was right there in that field. I could see them with my own eyes as if they appeared from my fantasies into reality. So, as I walked down that long dirt road, those fantasies accompanied me. They were more understandable and forgiving than earth. It was more real than reality.

In my darkest moments, it was my imagination that kept me sane. It sheltered my soul when I could not bear the turmoil of this world. It was in this imaginary world I found my solace. It was there I found myself lost in a field of dreams, trying to ultimately hide forever.

But, as time would eventually tell, the world's heartaches always seem to find me. Only when I am truly happy, there awaits a scenario I've known far too long. I am then taken back to my world, a world I will never understand.

I walked and walked, and finally, the sun had rose above the clouds. Cars passed, forcing me to move off the road onto the grass. I was so tired, I waved at each car that went by hoping someone would stop. I waved and waved and waved. But no one stopped.

I was just about to give up and lay right on that grass until I heard the engine of a car idling. I turned around and there was an elderly man on the driver's side and a young girl about my age on the passenger's side of the car.

The old man's head was completely bald and he had a thick white beard. "Why you out here waving at folks?" he asked.

"'Cause I need a ride."

"Boy, where are your parents?"

"I don't have any."

"You don't have any?"

"Yeah. That's right."

"Well, where you headed?"

"I don't know. Anywhere away from here."

The old man looked into my eyes as if he was trying to read into my soul. Nervous and a tad shaken, I looked to the ground. He reached over the young girl's lap and unlocked the door on the passenger's side. "Come on. Get on in," he said.

He looked to the young girl. "Scoot over, Sammy, and give the boy some room."

I got into the car and closed the door.

"I'm Oliver McKenzie and this is my daughter Samantha," he said. "Now go on Samantha, and say hi to the boy."

"Hey," she says in a reluctant tone.

"Hello. My name is...umm. Umm."

Samatha rolled her eyes. "You don't know your own name?"

"Be nice," Mr. McKenzie said.

"Sorry, Papa."

Mr. McKenzie turned to me again. "Now boy, I don't know where you from, but in the south, we're polite to one another, and when someone tells you their name it's polite to respond by saying, my name is Sean or Randy or Zachary, or whatever it may be, understand?"

"Yes sir," I replied. "My name is Daniel."

"Well, alright now. Nice to meet you, kid."

McKenzie put on his seat belt and started the car. The engine made a loud roaring sound that could be heard for miles.

"You ever been to New Orleans?" he says.

"No, sir, but I always wanted to go there."

Mr. McKenzie shifted the car into gear and proceeded to drive off. "Well boy, today is your lucky day."

Everything was so quiet during the ride. Not many words were said either. Samantha fell asleep; I pretended to as well. But I kept my eyes open, peeking out as much as I could as we drove through the back woods of Louisiana. I remember all the greenery and the smell of rich pine and rain. It's virtually impossible to not fall in love with something as striking as that, something in its natural state, untouched by humans. How could it be so plain and yet so perfect, so beautiful in its own right? I kept thinking about how life would be if we simply left things untouched. What would happen if we simply lived like trees in a forest? How would life be if we just existed without being altered, or if all our faults were the exact thing that made us beautiful? How would life be? I kept asking that same question until we made our way out of the woods and into the city.

"You hungry?" asked Mr. McKenzie.

No. I'm okay. Thank you."

"Well, are ya thirsty?"

"No, sir."

Through the side of my eyes, I could see Mr. McKenzie look back and forth from the road to me. He seemed like a person who had many questions. But I had no answers to give or words to speak. I had nothing. I just kept my head down and my eyes closed until I felt the car stop.

"We're here!" shouted Samantha.

I opened my eyes and noticed a home similar to that of my own. But when you've come from where I'm from, the grass is always a tad bit greener.

"Let's get inside where it's warm," said Mr. McKenzie.

I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or Samantha, so I didn't move.

"You deaf, boy?"

"Uh, no sir."

"Well, get on in this house," he said.

I was stricken by his kindness. Yet, as I walked into the home of this stranger, I was, for the first time, apathetic about what the future held. Instead I seized this moment for what it was.

I thought of how, at home I would cry and how my sister would attempt to console me. She would take my head and lay it across her chest and whisper, "I am my brother's keeper."

I remember her saying it was one of God's phrases in the bible. My sister watched over me just as Mr. McKenzie was. He was my new keeper. He was my new Friend.

"Now make yourself at home," he said.

"Thank you, sir."

Mr. McKenzie placed his hand over his mouth and yawned for about ten seconds. "Well, I'm beat." His eyes were red and his face looked like a man who'd traveled a thousand miles. "Samantha, come here for a moment," he shouted.

Samantha walked from her bedroom into the living room. "Yes, Dad?"

"Honey, I'm a little tired from driving all night and I need get some shut-eye before I fall out. So I need you to keep our guest company."

"Sure thing, Papa," replied Samantha.

Mr. McKenzie yawned one last time and proceeded to his room and lightly shut his bedroom door, leaving me and Samantha in the living room.

Samantha seemed like the shy type because she did not look at me, nor did she speak. She just sat on the opposite side of the couch twiddling her hair. I didn't know whether to speak or to keep my mouth shut.

She was way out of my league. She was one of them God-fearing, polite, do-right types. But it was her beauty that held my eyes. I wanted to make eye contact so I could start a conversation. So I continued to stare. I did not blink for about 30 minutes. I just stared mindlessly at her as she continued to twiddle her hair with her fingers. I stared and stared and stared.

Until, she just looked up, turned her head to me, stared directly into my eyes, and asked, "What the fuck you looking at?"

"Uh... huh?"

"Are you deaf?"

"Uh... No. I'm not. I just—"

"Oh, Okay. I get it now, you're retarded."

"No! I ain't no goddamn retard."

"No way! You have to be! I mean, look at you. You're sitting there on the couch with your tongue sticking out, saliva dripping everywhere like you're some fucking Chinaman looking at a fucking German shepherd."

"Uh...what?"

"Your heard me," she screamed. "You have all the signs of retardation. I mean, what in the blue hell were you doing in that field the day after Christmas?"

"I was taking a walk!"

"In the middle of bum-fuck nowhere?!"

"It was good exercise."

"Exercise? Your way to skinny. You look sick like one of them Africans!"

"What the hell you say?"

"I'm serious. I swear to God! You really have no meat on your bones. Look at you, all emaciated."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yep."

"Well, I'm skinny because all the meat and bones are in your mother's mouth!"

"You watch your mouth," she screamed.

"Yeah? Well, you should try telling your mother to close her mouth 'cause everybody been in it."

"Stop it now!"

"Seriously, her mouth has more customers than a dog store in Vietnam."

"That's it," she says. She jumped from the couch, her fist balled, and punched me right in the face.

"OH SHIT! MY EYE! MY EYE! YOU PUNCHED ME IN THE EYE!"

"Well, I warned you."

"Really?"

"Yes, I did, I said stop."

"Yeah, you said stop. You didn't say you were going to turn into a crazy bitch!"

"Keep your voice down!"

"But you nearly broke my fucking jaw!"

"Look, I'm sorry."

"Well, sorry won't fix my face."

"I said I was sorry, okay?"

"Sure."

Samantha walked into the kitchen. "I'll get you some ice," she said.

"Forget the damn ice."

She ignored me, grabbed a handful of ice and placed it in a plastic bag. "Here. Put it on your face. It'll stop the swelling,"

"I don't want it," I said stubbornly.

Well, you're taking it," she screamed. She plowed onto the sofa and placed the ice gently on my face.

I just sat there, angry. I couldn't believe what happened. I, Daniel Freeman, had been beaten up by a girl! A girl!

"Does it still hurt?" Samantha asked

"What do you think?"

She didn't respond. She just put her head down and sat quietly.

"Why'd you have to get so mad when you started everything?" I asked.

"You went too far. You had no right to say what you said about my mom."

I placed my hand on her shoulders. "I'm sorry."

"You're forgiven."

"Well, it's going to be hard to look your mother in the eyes now," I joked.

Samantha closed her eyes and turned away.

"Uh. Did I say something wrong?"

"No, it's nothing." She looked down as if she was trying to hide her eyes from me. The room, silent. Words of what I should say, poured into my head, but I whispered not a sound.

She stared into my eyes.

"Look who's staring now," I said.

She smiled. In fact, that was the first time she smiled since I met her. Eye to eye. We both looked at each other's pupils as if we were reading a good book.

Yet, this was more like an epic. All our highs and lows showed through our eyes. We both could see it all. The unbearable stench of truth had arrived, and we hadn't had a chance to brace for it. She was young and so was I. But we had been here before. In some other life or some far away world. I gaped in to those same eyes and felt those same feelings. And it felt good. It felt real; I didn't want it to ever go away.

So excitedly, I whispered, "Let's go."

I remember specifically watching as one single tear slowly dripped from her left eye down to her cheek as she forcibly held this bittersweet smirk. As that tear finally fell from her chin similar to as a raindrop would falls from a leaf, she spoke one word that would soon define all of what we came to be.

"Okay."

Thus with one little bag and some food that would surely not last, we walked out of that home and trusted ourselves unto the world. I only wish someone would've told me that we would never return.

The priest interjects. "So you ran away again."

"We did," answers Daniel.

"Where did you go?"

"Everywhere. We went everywhere.

CHAPTER TEN

# Flourish without water

New Orleans was a vibrant place, completely different from that of Natchitoches. I remember the French Quarter was as live as it is now. There were people everywhere, from businessmen to panhandlers to hustlers.

I remember the sound of melodies bouncing off my ears as musicians played songs on street corners, as loud car engines thumped back and forth around town, while steamboats danced across Lake Pontchartrain, creating mazes in the waves that chase them.

Samantha and I spent many days there watching the sun rise and fall. It had been just six weeks since we left. We had this romantic view of freedom as if we would run away unto a world of bliss and joy. Someone should have told us how cold the world was.

We had no money, no food, and no place to sleep. We were street kids and we hadn't taken a single bath. We reeked horribly. Our teeth were bright yellow and covered in white plaque. Our clothes were covered in stains and riddled with holes. I felt so bad for Samantha. I had taken her away from that perfect little home with that perfect white picket fence, and led her to a place she was never meant for.

This place wasn't meant for a soul of her kind. This was where animals lived, where wise guys posted and where hustlers dealt. This wasn't home. This is where the devil roamed. One day I pulled her close just as I've done many times before. But this specific time, instead of a kiss, I told her to return home. Though she refused.

She chose to endure and stand alongside me. From that day on, we made a promise—that everything we did, we'd do it together. Funny enough, that's one of my biggest regrets.

"What is?" the priest asked.

"That we made such a trivial promise," responds Daniel.

"You wish to repent for this?"

"No. I just wished we promised to love forever."

"That's profound," the priest replies.

"So, because we didn't have the means to buy food or clothes, and given the fact that not many people were jumping to give a couple of homeless 15-year-olds a job, we had to be more creative while in the streets of New Orleans—"

"So what did you do?"

"What else could we do? We took it."

The first thing we needed was a mark. Now we limited our search to mom-and-pop shops. There's two reasons why. First, they had fewer workers than those bigger chain stores, so there weren't a lot of people to watch you. Second, they didn't have any security guards.

Out of the over 200 hundred stores in the French Quarter, there were only three that we wanted to hit: Brendon's on Royal, Frank's Food Mart on Madison, and Mrs. Henriette's on Broadway.

Now, we didn't just choose these stores randomly. There was strategy involved. We chose them because of three distinct qualities that all of these stores had. That is, all of the owners weighed over 300 pounds. I know it sounds cruel, but we figured that if you couldn't see your own goddamn feet, then there's a good chance your fat ass wasn't catching us when we ran.

Anyways, our first job was at Frank's Food Mart, owned by Frank Bailey. He was in his late 50s at the time. We heard that Mr. Bailey was a member of the hooded order, or what we call today, the Klan. So with that information, we found our key inside.

We needed one more person to make the plan work, so we recruited a young Italian kid named Peter Giordano from the neighborhood. We just called him Donnie. He was homeless as well, and slept in this old abandoned warehouse across the street from where we slept.

We had Samantha as bait, Donnie on the roof of a building across the street as a lookout, and me for the heavy lifting.

Now, I wanted to hit him at night, but Donnie suggested we do it in the daytime because in New Orleans, there were more people out at night than during the day. And you know what? He was right. So about 9:00 a.m., an hour after the store opened, Samantha walked into the building panting.

"Hey, you Frank...Frank Bailey?"

"Yeah. Who's askin'?" he responded.

Samantha began to cry, screaming, "No! no! no!"

Frank walked from behind the register. "Now, what's got you all riled up, little lady?"

Samantha ran toward the old man, latching onto his leg as she gushed out tears. "I just don't want nobody to get hurt."

Frank knelt beside her. "Now, don't think that. Ain't nobody gonna get hurt up in here."

Samantha, bit by bit, wiped her tears.

"Now, what is it, sweetie?"

She looked him square in the face. "I saw some black boys down at the corner around near Bourbon and they was talking bad about you."

Frank's eyes popped out of his head as if it had just seen a ghost. "I got niggers out there mentioning my name," he shouts.

"Yes sir. I'm afraid you do."

"Well, what did they say?"

Samantha hesitated.

"Come on girl. What exactly did you hear them boys say?"

Samantha again wiped her face and she added some erratic shaking for dramatic effect. She had him following her every move. He was putty in her hands and she was pulling his strings with every word. "I overheard them saying that they was gonna go over to your house and kill you, your wife, and your kids, sir. They said they was gonna kill every single Klan member in town and they ain't seem like they was playing."

Franks eyes popped even wider. "Wait here." He went back behind the register and returned with a shotgun. "Now, show me where them boys is at."

"Okay, sir." Samantha led Frank around the block, leaving the store with no one to guard it.

Donnie, who waited across the street on a roof, whistled for me to go in. I hid around the block holding two large garbage bags.

"You got about three minutes!" screamed Donnie.

I ran into the store, dumping every food item I could find into the bags as he continued to warn me of the time. I made sure I got all the non-perishable foods. I skipped over things like milk and bread and focused more on things like potato chips, cookies, and candy.

"You got two minutes," Donnie shouted.

The plan was for me to spend no more than three minutes in the store. We figured within that time, we could get enough food and get out before Mr. Bailey returned. But I filled both garbage bags in half the time. So I decided to go back around the corner to get another bag. It made sense to get all we could. I was so tired of being hungry. I darted out of the store, running as fast as I could, carrying the two bags with me.

When I got around the corner, I placed the food behind the alleyway where we slept and returned toward the store with a third garbage bag. As I ran back into the store, I could hear Donnie shouting like a mad man. "What the hell are you doing? Why are you going back?"

All I could think about was all those hungry nights we endured as we lay sleepless, dreaming of full stomachs or Samantha's belly growling and her penchant for assuring me that everything was okay. I never understood why she did that. How could a person be so calm at a time like this? How could she be so perfect? And why didn't she ever blame me for all her trials?

Donnie, still looking out from across the street, saw Samantha running furiously back toward the store, waving her hands up and down, alerting us to get out.

Donne shouted. "Danny! Danny! Get out!"

Mr. Bailey was walking back toward the store, carrying that large shotgun. Samantha ran past the store, all the way toward the dumpster where we slept. "Hurry up, Danny! Hurry!"

Mr. Bailey was just a block away. By then, the third bag was full.

I was ready to leave the store. The only problem was, I couldn't. Mr. Bailey had already begun walking back towards the store. If I was to walk out, I'd be directly in his line of sight.

As Mr. Bailey gets got closer and closer, I stood in the window watching Donnie on the roof. He looked back at me and again at Mr. Bailey. I ran to the back of the store, attempting to exist the back door. I pulled the knob. It wouldn't twist. As if the door was locked from the outside. I ran back to the front of the store. I stared back at Donnie. He sees that I cannot leave without Mr. Bailey seeing me.

I was beginning to panic. I looked around the store for anything that could help me. There was nothing. I turned back to look at Donnie. He was gone.

He left the roof and ran into the street and stood directly across the street from me as I remained idle in the glass door.

There was literally no way out. If I came out and managed to escape, Mr. Bailey would've likely seen my face and identified me to the police. And, if I stayed, he would have shot me dead, right where I stood. I gave Donnie a quick hand gesture, signaling that I would run out.

I saw him mouth the word "no" as he shook his head back and forth.

Mr. Bailey was only a few steps away. I was gonna get caught. Donnie looked back at me He knew the rumors about Mr. Bailey. We all did. In our little time there, we had heard he was responsible for hanging four black boys for mouthing off to him. Now, mind you, they were black. But if he killed them for talking back, what the heck would he do to me for stealing from him?

As Mr. Bailey stepped closer and closer toward the store, I could see Donnie eyeing the ground, while walking back and forth. He picked up a rock, a big enough size to palm it, and hid it behind his back. He glanced at me one last time and then ran hysterically into the street.

"Hey fat ass!" he said.

Mr. Bailey stopped. He turned to Donnie as Donnie stared right back at him, without fear.

This gave me enough time to get out of the store. I ran all the way to the end of the block and watched as Donnie stood face to face with him.

Mr. Bailey walked into the street toward Donnie with his shotgun pointed to the ground. "What the hell you say to me?"

Donnie looked him square in the eyes. "I ain't said nothing."

Mr. Bailey placed his shotgun across his shoulders. "What's yo name, boy?"

Donnie responded, "Michael Giordano."

Mr. Bailey sneered at his Italian name. "I'll be watching you, you fucking Guinea."

Donnie smiled and slowly walked off, while still holding on to that rock. Mr. Bailey watched him until he turned the corner and walked back toward his store.

As I watched from the end of the corner, Mr. Bailey reached for the door handle of his store. He pulled the door open and took one step inside. And then he paused.

He observed his store. He knew something wasn't right. But for some reason, he didn't go inside. He just stood there. As fate would have it, he turned in my direction and stared directly at me as I stared back at him from the end of the corner.

Then my entire body froze for a few seconds. The sight of that psychopath wielding that goddamn shotgun was haunting. His eyes, gaped open, gawking at me in this ominous manner as if he was waiting for me to run. He was daring me to move. But I couldn't. I just couldn't.

A few seconds passed. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a person ran into the middle of the street. I couldn't quite make out who it was, but he had something in his hands. I saw him winding up and aiming toward the direction of Mr. Bailey.

It's Donnie, still holding that huge stone. As he reached the middle of the street, he took one look at me and shouted, "Run Danny, run!"

He pitched the stone at Mr. Bailey.

Mr. Bailey somehow saw the stone coming and ducked. The stone missed him. It instead shattered the store window.

Mr. Bailey, infuriated, sprinted in my direction as if I was the one who broke his window. My guess was that the old timer didn't even know where the stone came from. All he saw was me. And thus, I ran.

He chased after me for so long that I ended up running all the way to Claiborne Avenue, a colored neighborhood. At the time, I had never been around so many black folks in my life. They gawked at me as if I was some an alien invading some distant land. The look of contempt was expected. But it was mixed with a sense of fear created years before I was born. I was sickened by it. Come to think about it, maybe I _was_ just an alien. Faces like mine were unfamiliar in those parts. The streetlights that I had mistakenly crossed was their borders and I had stepped across unbounded by the fear that they would have had, had it been them who came to my neighborhood. Had it been them instead of me, what would all the people have done?

I remember running past this alley, attempting to find a place to hide. But there was nowhere to go. Store owners shut their doors in a fury as soon as they saw my face. I remember tiring of running for so long, I sat on the steps of this church and once again prayed as we usually do when there's no else to run. With both hands folded together, I closed my eyes and when I opened them, I was still on the steps, unsaved until a colored man, whom I had not met ever in my life, took my hand and guided me into this store where even more colored folks sat. I was hesitant at first, but he had the most convincing eyes. All the people in the store eyes perked wide open. They knew I didn't belong there. A white boy in a black neighborhood. But this man, for some reason, refused to falter.

"Put this kid behind that counter," he said to the man at the register.

The clerk looked at him as if he was crazy. But the man insisted I be allowed to hide behind that counter. So the clerk relented. As he guided me around the counter, I would never forget the words he spoke. "Don't fear nothing Danny, you're safe here."

A few minutes later, Mr. Bailey ran into the store asking if a white kid had run in here.

"We don't get too many white folks around here," said the clerk.

Mr. Bailey cocked his shotgun, causing all the customers in the store to gasp.

"You getting smart with me boy?" asked Mr. Bailey.

"No sir. I'm just stating a fact."

"Well, when I asked you a question, you answer with a _yes_ or a _no_ , you understand me?"

"Yes sir." The clerk avoided eye contact with Mr. Bailey.

Mr. Bailey took one last glance at rest of the customers in the store and walked out.

The man told me to wait a few minutes until the coast was clear. But I asked the clerk could I wait a little longer.

"You can wait for as long as you want," said the clerk.

I waited until sundown. I wanted to thank him for all he had done, but he was already gone. As I walked back to my old haunt, one question lingered in my mind. How did a man whom I never met in my life, know my name? He called me Danny and I never told him my name.

That night, Donnie met up with us in the alleyway where me and Samantha slept. We gave him a third of the food. We ate like kings. I thanked Donnie for saving me. With that, as we sat behind that dumpster, feeling for just a moment like that world was somewhat ours, he sealed our friendship with an old Italian phrase, " _Chi ama crede,_ " which means, "he who loves, trust."

After that day, we were high on our own professed power. We had tricked a man 40 years our senior. It meant so much more to us than just food. It was the principle of the matter. It was for the hundreds of street kids who, just like us, lived in and around the French Quarter. It was for the daily commuters who walked past us every day like we were invisible. It was for the people who couldn't bring themselves to look us in the eyes as they dined right outside where our home lay.

It was for all for them. After hitting Mr. Bailey's store, our names resonated through the streets like Greek myths. We were the Persians of our time. All the street kids looked up to us. All the merchants loathed us. Mr. Bailey reported to the police that it was, in fact, masked bandits who robbed him, not kids. He said the robbers used pocket knives. I guess it was hard for a big honorable Klansman like himself to admit that he was robbed by a couple of 15-year-olds. Because of him, the police dubbed us, "the guinea gang," and that was on the account of Donnie being Italian. I guess they figured we all were. But I was as Pollack as they come, and Samantha was Irish. But we really paid it no mind. We just went with it. From then on, we were the Guinea Gang. Every store we touched, we pillaged. Soon, there was no one to touch in the French Quarter because we had gone through them all. The mom and pop stores had become small potatoes.

So we moved past them and began hitting chain stores. Not just for food—we needed more than that. We needed clothes, and shoes, and other things that every human needed. So we took them.

It came a time where we had taken so much food and clothing that we began giving it away. No street kid in the French Quarter went hungry or without blankets or shoes because of what we did. They worshipped us more than they did God, because we delivered and we didn't require any praise in return. Nothing but the smiles on their faces.

You see, the problem with God is that, I don't think He gets it. How could He? How can someone so great, so powerful, and so loved, understand what it's liked to be homeless in the streets of New Orleans? How could He know what it's like to be human? How could He understand what it's like to be powerless, and to not know, and to not be loved? How could He? How could He?

"Well, some would argue," the priest interjects, "how is it possible for us to truly understand Him? It is illogical for man to hope to understand something far greater than their mind can fathom."

Daniel hisses at the priest's answer. "All I know is that we were calling for Him, every night! Every. Single. Night. I mean, there were kids as young as two years old out on those streets by themselves. Couldn't we get a little assistance here? Couldn't we get just a little help? Or maybe just a little love? We were out there for years, in the most trafficked neighborhood in in the city. And no one noticed."

"How did you eventually make it off the streets?" Asks the priest.

"We made a change," says Daniel.

"What change?"

"We stopped robbing stores for food and clothes and we started robbing them for money."

Two years had passed and we had everything. Samantha and I were seventeen years old. Donnie was about a year older. We were still living near the same alley, but we had all the food we could eat and all the clothes we could wear. We had everything but a place to lay our heads down to sleep. And that's where the problem was.

Samantha had become dispirited by the street life. I know she blamed me, but she wouldn't admit it. I could tell. Her eyes told a story just like the first day I met her.

Sometimes I asked how she truly felt, but she'd hit me with that old familiar phrase, "Everything's fine."

It had gotten to the point where she didn't tell me anything. I mean, we talked, but only about small things like rumors she heard from someone else that Mr. Brooks, who lived across the street, was cheating on his wife with another woman.

We didn't talk about anything real anymore like we used to. Instead, she talked to Donnie. She had taken to him a bit. Maybe it was his greasy hair or reckless attitude. Or maybe it was his affinity for telling stories about his family's mob connections.

I always wanted to ask him, "If you're all connected with the mob, why don't they use some of that mob money to get your ass off of the street?" But I never did. I just let him ramble on. But Samantha, she ate it all up. Everything that came out of his big mouth, she either blushed or giggled. I remember one time he told us this story about his uncle being Antonio Matranga, the biggest crime boss in New Orleans. He told us how his uncle could help us make real money. Right after I heard the name Matranga, I started ignoring him. So I didn't catch the rest of it.

I just couldn't take it when he talked like he was some kind of Mafioso or something. And he just kept talking and talking and talking. I could leave, go around the block, eat a po-boy sandwich, play a few games of craps, take a nap, and come back, and the SONOFABITCH would still be telling the same damn story. Samantha loved it. She had changed so much. She wasn't the same girl that I met on that grass field years before. She had become something else. She became more irritable, and angry at everyone around her. The way she dressed even changed. She even walked differently, always twisting her hips when she moved. She kept her lips devil-red, covered in lipstick, perking them at anyone who looked. All the neighborhood guys, both young and old, gawked and whistled at her when she passed.

And she loved every moment of it. The way she was going, I knew she'd eventually trip. I just wanted to be there to catch her when she fell.

So one day, Donnie comes into the alley, talking as usual about haphazard plans to make money. As usual, I ignored the guy. That is, until I overheard him say the name, Whitney National, which was the largest bank in New Orleans at the time.

"Did you say Whitney National?"

Donnie rolls his eyes. "Yeah man, Whitney National."

I scratched my head for moment. I knew he couldn't have been talking about what I thought he was talking about. So I asked again. "You talking about Whitney National, the bank?"

Donnie rolled his eyes once again. "No, Whitney the hooker. Of course, the bank!"

I scoffed at him and laughed. "What the fuck? Who are you, John Dillinger?"

Donnie seemingly annoyed, walked toward me with an irate grin. "What's your fucking beef?"

"You wanna know what my beef is?"

"Yes," replied Donnie. "I really would like to know."

"Since when do you fucking make the rules? Since when do you find jobs for us? I am the one who decides who we're gonna hit. Now you're talking about robbing a fucking bank. A bank! Who the fuck do you think you are?!"

Donnie laughed. "Boohoo! I know what it is. You're scared, right?" he mocked. "What are you, a fucking queer?"

"Watch your fucking mouth!"

Donnie stepped closer to me and I stepped closer to him. Samantha moved in between us. She placed her hand on my face and looked into my eyes. "Can you just please listen to the plan, Danny?"

"What? You going along with this crap?"

"Just listen. What would it hurt to just listen?"

"You know, this ain't Bailey's Food Mart or a corner store on Broadway," I shouted. "This is a bank. There's vaults, and security, and cops, and you wanna walk right in there and take their money?"

"Yep," replied Donnie.

"How you expect to do that?"

"I got a key." He opened a black duffle bag and pulled out three handguns that were wrapped in brightly colored handkerchiefs.

"Are you serious right now?"

"Look, we won't need them," Donnie assured Samantha.

"Then why the fuck do you have them?"

"What you don't expect people to just give us the money because they like our smiles?" says Donnie. "We gotta put a little fear in their hearts."

"So you wanna rob the biggest bank in the city, and not shoot nobody?"

"That's correct."

I couldn't help but smile at the absurdity of what he was saying. No way I was gonna follow him into that goddamn bank.

"Well, I'm sorry Donnie. I'm ou—"

"I'm in," Samantha shouted.

She knew what I was about to say. So she jumped ahead, knowing I would follow her like I always did. She didn't even talk to me first. I remember staring directly at her and she couldn't even look back at me.

But Donnie could. "Are you in, Danny?"

"When have I ever been out?" I replied.

"Alright then. I'll be back tomorrow with everything."

Donnie left. And it was just me and her. I stood next to her as she stood against that alley building. I remember repeating the old familiar pact we made years ago, "Everything we do, we do it together. You remember that?" I asked.

She steps from the wall and sneered, "We are doing this together, remember?" And walked away.

"Where you going?"

"I'll be back later."

However that night, our alley was a lonesome one. For the first time, it was just me sleeping there, and no one else. I remember specifically saying this one prayer, hoping to God that she had just gotten lost or something. The funny thing is, she did exactly that. There was nothing I could do to find her. She was gone.

The next day, she returned with Donnie and he jumped right into the business of yesterday. There was no acknowledgment of why she left or where they were for the entire night. I didn't ask either.

It was better that way because sad stories don't belong in Neverland, only happy thoughts, pretty horses, and free moonshine, with not a cop to arrest us, and girls in pretty dresses who all gawk at love when they see it, and everyone give hugs that last for a century so then we can all truly live in the moment. In that moment, I chose not to cry. Rather, I chose to listen as Donnie laid out his plan.

He pulled out three sheets of paper that he called schematics. They looked good from a distance, but a closer examination showed a bunch of erratic drawings that seemed more fitting for a third grader with epilepsy.

Anyways, there were three sheets. One of the bank's interior and two were of the exterior—on the north and south side of the building. The schematics contained the position of each security guard in and outside the bank, their routes, and how long it took them to move from one point to another.

"There are four guards who rotate outside and two who stand stationary on the inside", Donnie explained. "The guards on the outside rotate clockwise around the building in ten-minute intervals. The guards on the outside are labeled A, B, C and D. Every time guard A moves, guard B takes his place and guard C and D follows this same order. This happens from 8:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m. After 12, the rotation switches to counterclockwise. As a result, guard D leads and guard C follows. Those guards stay posted from the time the bank opens, until the time it closes. The only time there aren't at least four guards on the outside is during the time of 12:00 p.m. to 1:00 p.m. During that time, two guards take a 30-minute break from 12:00 p.m. to 12:30 p.m. After their break, those two guards relieve the other guards until 12:30 p.m. to 1:00 p.m. Now, they usually switch up who goes on break first, but what stays the same is that from 12:00 p.m. to 1:00 p.m., the two guards posted rotate on three minute intervals. That is, counterclockwise around the building from points A, B, C, and D. Once the lead guard reaches point D or A, the guard who follows takes the lead and the route changes to clockwise. This happens for one hour each day. Which means, at exactly 12:09 p.m., both guards will be on the south side of the building, leaving the entrance on the north side unguarded for exactly three minutes.

"What about the two guards on the inside?"

Donnie pointed at the interior schematic. "There's only one guard on the inside during lunch. So that won't be a problem."

"What do you mean, it won't be a problem?"

"Well, you put a fucking gun to his head and he'll become real compliant."

"Okay then," I replied. "So, let's say we get past the guards. What about getting the money out of the bank? They'll sound the alarm as soon as we run in."

Donnie laughed. "Who said anything about running in?"

"So, how are we gonna get the money?"

"Simple. They'll hand it right to us."

"Why would they do that?"

"Teresa O'Connor."

A few seconds passed and Donnie remained silent. It was like he was waiting for me to ask before he actually told me.

"Okay, who is Teresa O'Connor?"

"Well, unlike you Danny, I pay attention to the small things. Now, our friend Teresa, here, happens to work at the bank as a manager. Did you know she takes the Claiborne Avenue bus to work every day and that she lives not too far away in the 9th Ward?"

"How do you know all this?"

Donnie shrugged. "Like I said, I'm observant. You let me handle her. You just need to be ready."

"For what day?" I asked.

Donnie looked at Samantha. "Is Friday good?"

"Yes, Friday's good," Samantha affirmed.

Then they both looked at me. "Yeah, Friday is good," I said.

Donnie handed me a gun and placed the schematics back into his duffle bag. "I'll see you guys tonight. I got something to handle."

Samantha stood up. "I'll go with you."

But Donnie shook his head. "This I need to handle myself."

"Oh, okay." Samantha sat back down.

And as Donnie left, I moved closer to where she sat and leaned against the alley building. "You know, after Friday, we ain't gonna be street kids no more."

"Yeah, and this alley has a lot of memories to it."

"Yes, it does. You remember that one time when I spent all night trying to catch that big ol' rat 'cause you was too scared to sleep?"

Samantha smiled and laughed. "Yes, I remember."

Her eyes became watery as I continued to talk. "You know, I was searching all over for it. I even set a trap for the damn thing."

"I remember, but you never caught it, did you?"

"No, I didn't, but I tried."

"I know you did. I know you did. I guess it just wasn't meant, you know? In life, sometimes, we can spend an eternity looking for something that was never really there to begin with."

"Just like a shark in water," I replied as tears fell from my eyes.

"What?"

"Nothing," I replied. "Just old memories."

And as we sat, reminiscing on life's past glories, pretending yesterday's kisses had taken place centuries ago, I understood that this entire time, it wasn't that she changed so differently. It was that I hadn't changed at all.

A few days passed. Before I knew it, it was Friday and we were preparing to go into the bank. We parked at the end of the block, across the street. The car we sat in was boosted all the way from Jefferson Parish. Donnie was at the front in the driver's seat; Samantha was in the passenger's seat, and I was in the back.

Donnie checked his watch at exactly 12:08 p.m. "Get ready guys." He wrapped a handkerchief around the bottom half of his face. Samantha and I followed suit. The guard moved from the front to the south side of the building. Donnie pulled out his gun. Samantha and I follow.

"Let's go," he ordered.

We got out of the car as the guard was still walking. He hadn't turned the corner yet, his back was facing us. We were literally right behind him. Then he stopped all of a sudden.

"What's he doing?" I said.

"He's tying his fucking shoe," said Donnie.

I began to panic. Sweat dripped from my face and all I could think about was being a cellmate to three-hundred pound guy named Big Earl who happened to have an affinity for young boys. "Oh my God! We're going to jail."

"Shut up, Danny."

"Someone's gonna see us!"

"No, he's getting up. Just wait!"

The guard stood up and walked around the building as Donnie predicted. As soon as he turned the corner, we ran into the bank. There was one security guard on the right and Donnie immediately put a gun to his head. "Put your hands up, old man, and don't fucking move."

The guard raised his hand and all the people in the bank began to scream. Donnie took the guard's gun. The guard derided Donnie. "You're just some young punk."

Donnie smiled, but it was a menacing one. "Get your ass on the floor, now!"

The guard obliged. But he continued to taunt Donnie. "You know what they're gonna do to you in jail before? Oh yeah, they gonna like your ass."

The look on Donnie's face grew increasingly unnerved.

I yelled to him. "Times running out, we got two minutes left!"

But Donnie continued to glare at the guard.

"Come on, man. What the fuck are you doing?"

Donnie turned to Samantha. "If he moves an inch, shoot him!"

Samantha aimed her gun square at the guard's head.

Donnie hurried to the bank counter. Teresa O'Connor, eyes wide and shaking, stands behind the teller's counter. Donnie ordered her to stand up. But she was understandably hesitant.

"Don't make me ask twice," Donnie said calmly.

Teresa came to the counter trembling and in tears. "What do you want from me?"

Donnie smiled. "I want you to look at something I found." He stuck a hand into his pocket and pulled out a picture frame with a picture of her, a man, and four small children. Teresa gazed at the picture and immediately became hysterical.

Donnie ordered her to keep looking at the picture. "Look at it bitch! Look at it!"

But Teresa was unable to compose herself. Donnie took the picture and pressed it against her face. She squealed. "Now where did I get this from?" he shouted. "Where did I get this from?!"

She spoke but her words were all muddled by her cries. "It...It was...on...my man...tle."

Donnie placed his gun against her jaw. "I can't fucking hear you! Where did I get this from?!"

"It was on my mantle. It's always there!"

"You would be correct." He smiled again. "Now, I know you're the manager and you're the only one with the key to that there room."

Teresa reached in her pocket for the key and tried to give it to him. But Donnie declined. "No no no!" he said calmly. He pushed her hand away and placed his hand around her jaw, squeezing it, imprinting his fingers into her face. "I really need you to pay attention, Teresa, this is very important. This is extremely important! Now, a friend of mine is hanging... Well, not really a friend, he's more like an associate. By the way, you ever notice how people misuse the word friend these days? It's quite depressing..."

Donnie abruptly paused for a moment as if it was deep thought about something more important.

A few seconds passed. The entire bank was noiseless. Nobody moved. Everyone's eyes were focused him. I don't think he even noticed. "Anyways," he says. "An associate of mine is hanging outside of your residence as we speak."

Teresa fell to her knees as Donnie still held her face up, palmed in his hand. "Please, don't hurt them." she begged.

"No no. Stand up now."

Teresa gradually rose to her feet.

Donnie grinned at her as she was vividly frightened. "I need you to listen now. If I don't give him a call in about—" Donnie checked his wristwatch. "In about five minutes... Well, let's just say you won't need to hire that little cute babysitter of yours anymore."

The look on his face was ever more menacing. I had never seen him like this before. He had spent so much of the little time that we had, intimidating the bank workers that our three minutes were almost up.

I warned him again to hurry. "Come man, we got less than a minute."

Donnie gave the woman two duffle bags. "Go into the back, fill both of these bags, and we're gone."

He looked at his wristwatch once again. "You got 45 seconds."

The woman snatched both duffle bags and raced to unlock the door to the room where all the bank's money was stashed. She threw money into both bags as he ordered.

Donnie checked his wristwatch once again as he waited for her to finish. He looked around at the bank customers and employees lying on the floor. They were all nervous and afraid. He recognized one of the bank customers on the floor. "Hey look, it's James Braddock."

The man was hesitant to respond, but said, "Yep, that's me."

Donnie smiled. "Well, I have to tell ya, sir, I'm your biggest fan."

"Thanks."

Donnie turned back around and shouted to Teresa. "You got thirty seconds, lady."

She continued to stack money into the bags.

Donnie turned back toward the man. "Hey, didn't you just lose to Al Stillman?"

"You'd be correct."

Donnie laughed and continued to make small talk. "Tough week, man! What are you doing in New Orleans?"

"I supposed to be on vacation."

Donnie snickered. "Well, you're gonna love it here! It's really the people that makes New Orleans great!"

"Is it really now?"

"Oh yeah," Donnie replied.

Teresa returned to the front with both bags filled. "I packed as much as much as I could."

Donnie called for me to grab one of the bags. "Alright, we're out, guys."

We hurried toward the front door of bank. We were out clean. There was no reason to stop. There was no reason to turn around. But as sure as my name ain't Sally, he did. He could've walked past the security guard, out the door. But instead, he placed his gun directly on the guard's kneecaps.

"What the hell are you doing?" I shouted.

But Donnie ignored me. He antagonized the guard. "Who's the little punk now?"

The guard looked Donnie right in the eyes. "You are."

He stared at the guard for a short-lived moment. The room, still and tense as no one knew that would happen next. And then, he abruptly removes the gun and said, "Let's go."

As we made our way outside, the alarm to the bank sounded. We hurried to our getaway car parked down the block. By the time anyone noticed, we were pulling off.

The ride was filled with sharp turns and hard stops as Donnie drove rapidly through the streets of New Orleans, running every stop sign and red light in sight.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"St. Charles Parish," replied Donnie. "I'm done living on the streets like an animal. We getting a house."

"Oh, okay," I said. "But you know there's no one behind us, right?"

"What?"

"There isn't anyone behind us! So you can stop driving so fast!"

Donnie peered in the car's rearview mirror and saw no car in sight. He slowly took his foot off the gas pedal and allowed the car to drop to a normal speed. As the car slowed, he laughed, and so does Samantha.

"We did it!" she screamed.

"Yes we did," I affirmed. "How much you think is in the bag?"

"Hell if I know," said Donnie. "But it's a lot more than we had yesterday."

He was right. It was more, much more. After counting it all, we ended up with about $90,000 in cold hard cash, which in the 50s was a fortune. All at 17 years old, we had the world at our fingertips, watching it spin just as gods did. No one could stop us. We were the kings of our court from that day on. After splitting the money evenly, we managed to get a place for the three of us. The owner of the house charged us double on the account of use being underage. But we didn't care. What's $60 a month when you sitting on 90 grand? Plus, we split it three ways, so it was really only $20 a month per person and we each had our own rooms. But after a while that all changed as Samantha's room became Donnie's and Donnie's room became Samantha's. At night, I listened as they consummated love in ways I never dreamed of. Eventually _we_ became _was_ and I became lost, looking for _me_ inside a pile of memories of her. And just like that, it was over and there wasn't a damn thing I could've done to get her back. She was gone; in many ways, so was I.

Six months had passed since the bank heist and all our material dreams came to fruition. We littered our home, inside and out, with the newest furniture and gadgets. Our wardrobes consisted of the finest brands. Samantha's closet consisted of shiny dresses, fur coats, and cloche hats that were all designed by the likes of Coco Chanel and Cristóbal Balenciaga.

Donnie's style changed completely too. He decided that it would be a good idea to only wear suits, no matter what the occasion was. If he went to the grocery store, he wore a suit. What about a ball game, you ask? Yep, you guessed it! He wore a suit. I think he even wore one to bed.

But I wasn't a suit-wearing type of guy. I felt more at ease in short sleeve cardigans, a shirt, and some slacks. I'll be the first to admit, I splurged a bit when it came to clothes. Maybe, it was because until then, I never had anything.

But Donnie took splurging to another level. I mean, the guy's suits all cost close to $60 and he had at least 50 of them. He had a matching hat and socks. And sometimes he even had a fur coat to match. He was really walking around like he was the Al Capone of New Orleans. What he didn't spend on clothes, he spent on cars.

I remember he had black 60 series Buick coupe, the 125 H.P. Chrysler 85 passenger coupe, a 1954 Chrysler Imperial custom roadster, a 1953 Auburn 851 Boattail 1 speedster, a 1950 Lincoln Le Baron Convertible roadster.

All these cars were lined up and down the block, some in front of other people's homes and some were even parked in some of our neighbor's driveways. They didn't mind it at all and even when someone complained, Donnie silenced them by throwing a few dollars their way. He had it all worked out along with all the little things money could buy and even the things it couldn't.

"You mean Samantha?" the priest interjects.

"I mean, he bought everyone, except the police. They took notice after luxury cars started to flood our middle class neighborhood. They were on to us. They even put had a surveillance van right outside of our house. They watched our every move, waiting for us to slip up."

"And Samantha?"

Daniel pauses a moment. "You know. The money didn't matter one bit to me. She was a part of me. When she left, she took a piece of my soul along with her and I been trying to find it ever since."

"Did you ever look to the Lord?" asks the priest.

But Daniel doesn't answer, causing the confessional to be overrun with silence once again.

"Did you ever think of returning home?"

"I did," responds Daniel.

"You did? You thought about it?"

"No. I did return home. But not before our last heist."

"You robbed another bank?"

"No," replies Daniel. "We robbed the most feared man in New Orleans, Anthony Matranga."

It was eight months after she left me. Ever since, my mind had been traveling to places that no man would ever go willingly because it hurt. But before then, I couldn't feel. Then one day the deadness that was once there was all replaced with stinging words of awful men who reviled me for no particular reason. So I had their faces to be all molded in resemblance of God's son because there was where the world made sense.

Regrettably, it only lasted for a moment. Soon that feeling of nothingness returned and the beautiful mind that once loved like a child became again so lost in itself that it awaited for its soul to be saved by its sole captor. That was the world I was in. Sleeping in that house just made all my wounds sting a little bit more. So one day I came home ready to pack my bags and leave that hell they called a city behind me, along with all of its memories. I remember packing fiercely, throwing everything I saw into one little bag in no particular order. But every bit of clothing I tucked away, dug up a memory that I had been trying to suppress. And so I wept. While I sat, crying my eyes out to an audience of one, Donnie walked into my room and stood in the doorway.

"You going somewhere?"

"Yeah, man. I'm going home."

"What! And you ain't gonna say goodbye?"

"Goodbye, Donnie."

He laughed. "You are something else, you know that?"

"Is that right?"

"You goddamn right. I set this shit up, put money in your pocket, and this is the treatment I deserve?"

"Oh, you set this up?"

"Yeah! I did!"

His assertion that he had brought us together caused me to laugh for a brief moment. I was surprised that he even had the audacity to make such a crass statement.

"You have lost your fucking marbles. I am the one who brought you in when you were on Canal Street, begging with your fucking hands out like a fucking queer."

Donnie stepped past the doorframe. "You better watch who the fuck you bad mouthing sport." He hovered over me in such a threating manner.

I stood up as well. There we were, face to face, and all the things I wanted to say in the past were all on the tip of my tongue. Then Samantha moved in between us. "Stop it. Now!"

As I continued to stare into Donnie's eyes, he simply began to smile. He didn't have a need to stare me down. He didn't have to prove anything. The truth is, he had already won. And he knew it. With that, he stepped out of my door and slowly walked into the living room.

Samantha noticed that my clothes were inside of a luggage bag. "What, are you moving out?"

I didn't respond. I looked at her with the same disdain I looked at Donnie with, maybe even more. In turn, she looked down, keeping her eyes away from mine, the same way she did years ago.

"We need to talk," she said while looking at the floor.

"What could we possible have to talk about?"

"About a five million dollar fortune. Our last job!"

Donnie and Samantha had nearly spent all of their money from the bank heist. To be honest, I had too. No matter how much I wanted to say no; no matter how much I hated her, I couldn't just say no. I mean, five million dollars is nothing to sneeze at.

"Who we hitting?" I asked.

"Mantranga!" Donnie screamed all the way from the living room.

I hurried out of my bedroom, into the living room. "You can't be serious?"

"We are," Samantha said.

"But... How?"

"Mantranga has his hands in just about every neighborhood in New Orleans," said Donnie. "Every place that has some sort of dirt, prostitution, drugs, gambling, or what-have-you, he's involved. There isn't a single person in New Orleans who doesn't answer to him. So let's say you gotta guy who's bootlegging moonshine and selling it for under the going rate. And this guy is making a few bucks here and there. I mean, it's not much to attract too much attention, but it isn't too small to sneeze at either. Now if this guy is smart, what's the first thing does?"

"Well, if he's smart, he pays Mantranga," I replied.

"Exactly," said Donnie. "Even if he isn't involved in the operation, you still gotta give him a slice because the keeps the lights off."

"What lights?"

"The police lights. How do you think he manages to do all of these things and has never once seen the interior of a jail cell? He has the police all paid."

"No, I've seen the papers. The police are investigating him. They arrest his people every week."

"Jesus! Do you think they're really trying the catch Mantranga?" asked Donnie. "This guy is possibly the biggest serial murderer since Earle Nelson and you're telling me the police can't find anything on him! Not one thing? And don't tell me that he gets others to do his dirty work because he don't need to send nobody to do it for him. I hear he even does some of the hits himself. And they know that. There's no way they don't know that. How could they not know that?"

"So why are they arresting his people if he has so much control?" I asked.

"Who ever said anything about him not controlling that?"

"I'm not getting this. So you saying Mantranga gives up his own people, and everyone knows this, and those same people—his people—still protect him."

"That's exactly what I'm saying. That's why he's untouchable."

"There's no way!"

"There's no way? What do you mean?" said Donnie.

"I mean, the people who work for him and who are bribed by him, all know who he is and what he does."

"So what?"

"I'm saying, why even work for the guy when you can be sacrificed at any given moment just to keep his tail out of the fire?"

"Well, that's the puzzle of the American dream, ain't it?"

"Yeah, I guess it is," I said as I contemplated how unfair life really is.

"Look, he has the world by the balls," said Donnie. "Ain't no point in getting yourself all work up over it. That's just the way things are and that's the way it's always been."

"Don't you worry no never mind. I don't give a damn about him. I just want his fucking money."

Donnie smiled. "That's what I wanna hear. Now, rumor has it that he has drug houses in seven different wards. That's the 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, 9th, 12th, and 17th ward."

"Wait just a minute! You talking about robbing a drug house?"

"No, if you'd listen first, you'll hear the plan," Donnie chided. "The drug houses aren't the mark. They merely tell a story."

"How so?"

"Because it doesn't add up. Mantranga's got seven different houses in seven different neighborhoods, right?"

"Right. That's what you said."

"And in every one of these neighborhoods, they have these kids, and I mean kids everywhere, who watch every single person who passes near the streets where those house are."

"Why are they watching?"

"That's what I wanted to know," said Donnie. "Come to find out, Mantranga has all the kids in the neighborhood moonlighting as lookouts. And those kids...they know those streets. They've lived there their entire life. They know who's supposed to be there and who's not."

"How the hell do we get past an entire neighborhood?"

"We don't," interjected Samantha. "But that's not the hard part."

"Yeah, she's right," said Donnie. "After we get past the lookouts, there are at least three guards outside of each of those houses, armed with sub-machineguns. And inside the house, there is I don't know how many people. But there's something strange going on with one of those houses."

"How strange?"

"Real strange. So we got all these houses and all these drugs being processed in and out of there. I get that. And we see naked women come in and out of these houses all day."

"Naked?"

"Yes," said Donnie. "They use naked women to make sure they don't pocket nothing."

"I see."

"Yeah, so I see all the naked girls coming in and out of all of these houses every day."

"How is that strange? You said it yourself, that's something they do for security reasons."

"True," said Donnie. "But shouldn't naked women be coming out in and out of all the houses?"

"Which house they are not coming out of?"

"The one in the 17th."

"So are you saying—"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," said Donnie. "If all those other houses are where they cut and process the drugs, the other house is what?"

"It's where they stash the money."

"You would be correct. You'd be correct."

"So, how do we get into the house without being seen by all the lookouts?"

"We need a distraction. And I know just the thing."

"Oh, yeah? What's that?"

"You," said Donnie.

"Okay, I'm in", I replied.

"You don't want to hear it first?"

"Nope. But how we gonna get past the police? They follow us everywhere."

"Don't worry about that. I'll handle it."

"Okay, just tell me when we're going."

"Well, alright then." Donnie patted me on the shoulder and walked from the living room, into his bedroom.

Samantha looked at me, seemingly surprised. "I thought you'd say no."

I smiled. Her innocent girl act had grown tiresome a long time ago. "No you didn't. You knew exactly what I would say. That's why he told you to come in here after him. It was all a plan. I was always a part of your plan."

Samantha folded her arms and rolled her eyes in annoyance. "What's your problem? Every damn thing is not about you, Danny. What? I don't owe you shit."

"You don't owe me shit? You owe me everything!"

"No, I don't." She started to walk away.

"How could you let it all waste away?" I said somberly. "How could you just destroy everything we had?" She paused as her back is turned toward me. I continued. "How could you leave and not say nothing, like I was trash, like I never meant nothing? You was all I had."

She didn't say a word.

"How could you?" I shouted.

Still no word.

"Babe, say something. Just say something."

She slowly turned around and looked into my eyes, while hers became increasingly teary. "Something", she said and walked into her bedroom.

As I stood there, I couldn't help but remember the first moment I saw her face in that field years ago. She's grown so much since. And as the door to her bedroom closed and the house became once again silent, I stood there by myself, walking back into those memories, hoping to see her hold me once again as she did every time I got homesick. But even in my mind, she could never be as noble as she once was, because the girl I knew had grown into something much more. When the wood of that door finally touched the seal and as the sound of it all ricocheted through my ears, I understood it wasn't just our last fight. It was also my final goodbye to the girl I once knew.

"Was this the last time you saw Samantha?" the priest asks.

"No, It wasn't. It would be two weeks later. The day we robbed the most dangerous man in New Orleans."

The date was June 15, 1957. All three of us waited in a stolen pickup truck that was, of course, boosted from across town. Donnie loaded bullets into his revolver as I sat nervously, feeling sweat drip down my face. Mantranga had made the money drop two hours before, bringing in six large duffle bags. We were running 30 minutes behind schedule. We had to drive to Metairie and leave our car at the house of one of Donnie's connects. The police, of course, followed as we expected. There at the house, we went out the back, and drove off in another car, which Donnie stole and stashed there the day before.

"Hand me the towel," I said, wanting to wipe the sweat from my face.

"Remember, do it just like we talked about. Drive all the way to the right side of the block," said Donnie.

"I got it man," I replied. That was the sixth time he had reminded me.

He handed me a bag of money, consisting of two thousand one dollar bills and once again chided me about the plan. "Remember. Don't throw it out until you hit the car."

"I heard you the first time."

"Alright then." Donnie looked at Samantha. "You ready?"

Samantha took a deep breath and nervously replied, "Yeah."

"Well, let's go then," said Donnie.

They exited the truck wearing these bright yellow raincoats that covered their entire body and masks to cover their face. With one last look into each other's eyes, they began walking toward the end of the block to get into position as I started the truck's engine.

Once they reached the end of the block, I pulled out of the parking spot, driving toward their position. When I reached the end of the block, I slowed and took one last look at Donnie. He, in turn, nodded in affirmation. So I went left as planned.

The stash house was on the right. I remember noticing the two guards on the ground looking as if they were possessed with a menacing stare. I drove by while all the lookouts gawked as well. That's exactly what we wanted. All eyes were on me and as I made my way toward the end of that block, I veered left and purposely crashed into a parked car, immediately tossing out the bag of one-dollar bills.

In the rearview mirror, I saw the guards pointing in my direction as the gusty wind blew all of those bills around the street. Within minutes, the lookout kids rushed toward the car, grabbing every dollar in sight as I sat in the car pretending to be injured. They pushed and grabbed like some freaking hyenas. It was a spectacle.

Just think of all those kids who've suffered across New Orleans, without a bed to lie their heads or food to fill their bellies while people like Matranga got richer and richer. I remember this one kid who, in an attempt to pick up some of the money, dived onto the road like it was a pool of water. He in turn, was toppled by the rest of the kids. And as they stepped all over this poor kid's body, no one bothered to even help him up. He just laid there, bloody from his head being smashed against the concrete. It was if every citizen in New Orleans was outside picking up that money. Everyone, except the guards. They did not move one inch. They just stood there, watching everyone else take part in all the hysteria.

I didn't see much at all and the hoard of kids that blanketed the streets blocked my view for most of what happened next. All I know is here is when things went bad.

Donnie and Samantha waited around the corner.

"Shit, they ain't moving," he said.

Samantha took one look at the guards and removed her raincoat, along with her shirt and bra, leaving her breasts exposed.

"What the fucking are you doing?" yells Donnie.

Samantha smiled. "Plan B." She strode toward the stash house.

The eyes of two guards were focused on the commotion down the block, where I was. But the guard on the balcony spotted Samantha coming. He stared at her as she approached the house. He swallowed his spit and shouted, "Um Wallace, you seeing this?"

Both guards spun toward Samantha. She kept walking toward them with her breasts moving freely up and down. The guards didn't say a word nor did they lift their guns. They just stared. She attempts to walk up the porch steps.

All three immediately raise their weapons. "Don't fucking move," one shouted

She raised her hands.

"Who are the fuck are you?"

"I ain't nobody. Just a passerby," said Samantha.

"Well, you know whose steps you by?"

"No, I don't."

"Well, you best get the fuck outta here. You don't walk up no steps of somebody's house you don't even know."

"I need some blow," she said.

"What?" The guard is confused, but still on high alert.

"Some blow. You know what I mean. I know this is Mantranga's place."

The guards become increasingly suspicious, placing their fingers closer to the triggers.

"Who the fuck told you that?" one says.

"Who else is this neighborhood need a home with men holding machineguns?"

"You don't worry about this place. Get the fuck outta here, now!"

But Samantha doesn't flinch. "I like the way you talk to me," she says.

"Wha...What?"

"You heard me... I like aggressive men."

Both guards look at each other.

Samantha takes a step closer, slowly.

"Hold it now," one says nervously.

But she continues to move closer and closer. She walks up the porch steps.

The guard on the balcony shouted to the two guards on the porch. "Everything all right down there, Wallace?"

Because he was on the balcony, he couldn't see directly below where the porch was located.

The two guards looked at each other with deadpan, confused looks on their faces. "Yeah, everything is okay," one of them shouted.

Samantha bit her lips and dropped to her knees and crawled toward to the two guards. They looked at each other, unsure how to react.

She paused. To the guard on the left and whispered, "Come here, sugar."

The guard swallowed hard and stepped toward Samantha until his crotch was directly in her face. Samantha smiled and unzipped the man's pants. The guard's eyes blinked faster and faster as he exhaled loudly. She unbuckled his belt. His pants fell to his ankles. His penis vividly erects through his underwear.

She eased his underwear to his ankles and placed her lips on the tip of the guard's penis. His eyes rolled to the back of his head. He lowered his gun to the porch as Samantha continued to caress the tip of his penis with her tongue.

The guard placed his hand on the back of her head. His hands were abnormally huge and her head quite small. She was a petite girl and, after all, she was barely eighteen at the time, so he was able to palm her head similar to the way a basketball player does a ball.

He pushed his penis deeper and deeper in her mouth, continuously. Back and forth, back a forth, her head went.

Donnie watched from one end of the block in shock, and I from the other. Samantha paused and told the second guard to come closer as she cupped the first guard's penis with her hands. The second guard unzipped his pants then placed his gun on the porch as well. He used Samantha's head just as the first guard, slamming his penis down her lungs.

She gagged hard; saliva leaked rapidly from her mouth. Samantha paused again, momentarily stopping the guard from pushing her head. She realized the money on the ground was nearly all gone. There wasn't much time left. Whatever she was going to do, she needed to hurry.

"Why the hell did you stop?" shouted one of the guards.

The second guard noticed Samantha's eyes were focused on all that money the lookout kids were all fighting over.

"You don't worry no never mind about that," the guard ordered. "We got plenty more of that, you just keep doing what you're doing."

Samantha smiles. "Is that right?"

"Yeah, that's right, babe."

Samantha smiled once again. "You boys wanna see something else?" She placed her hands between her legs.

The guards nod.

"Well, I'm shy. You two go on and close your eyes."

The guards looked at each other and grinned as they obeyed.

"Count to three," Samantha said.

The guards counted at the same time out loud until they got to three.

When opened their eyes, they were greeted to the sight of Samantha holding two guns, one in each hand, pointing directly at their testicles. "Shut up. Don't you say one goddamn word motherfucker!"

The guards shot their hands into the air.

"Now listen, and listen to me closely," ordered Samantha. "You're gonna repeat after me and say exactly what I say. If you don't, I'm gonna blow you're undersized friends off. You got me?"

The guards nodded.

"Now I want you to call for the guard on the balcony."

The guards hesitated.

"Call his name now!"

The second guard obliged. "Uhh...Thomas?"

"Yeah?"

"Tell him there is something he needs to see down here!"

"There is something you need to see down here," the guard mimicked.

"Well, what is it?"

"Tell him I want to give him some sugar," said Samantha.

This time the guard hesitated a bit. Samantha cocked one gun and placed the barrel directly on his balls. "This bitch down here wants to show you her ass!" he shouted.

The guard on the balcony chuckled. "Alright. I'll be right down."

Donnie watched the guard on the balcony walk into the house. He hurried as fast as he could toward the stash house. I never seen Donnie run so fast, frantically running in and between cars. Meanwhile, the guard appeared at the front door, preparing to open it. Samantha saw the doorknob twisting. But Donnie, unfortunately, wasn't there yet. When the guard finally opened the front door, looked at the other guards, and saw them with their hands in the air and Samantha holding the two men at gunpoint, he immediately slammed the front door.

"Shit!" screamed Samantha.

Donnie finally reached the porch, covered in sweat and out of breath. "Where is he?"

"He went back into the fucking house." Samantha pointed both guns at the two guards.

Donnie moved to the left side of the front door as Samantha positioned herself on the right.

"Who else is in the house?" asked Donnie.

"I don't know."

Donnie faced the two guards. "How many people are in the house?"

The guard on the right laughed. "You know, right about now he's phoning Mantranga. Which means you got about just a few minutes before one hundred other guys come and hunt you down like the dogs you are. So I suggest you run, boy."

Donnie stared ominously at the guard.

"Donnie, we should...we should go," said Samantha.

Donnie smiled and shouted at the guard inside the house. "I'm going to count to five. And if you don't come from inside that house, I'm gonna shoot your men square in the fucking head."

The guard didn't respond.

So Donnie counted. "One!"

Both guards began to breathe heavily.

"Two!"

"What are you doing Donnie?" asked Samantha.

"Three!"

"Kid, do you understand what you're doing?" asked one of the guards.

"Four!" He cocked his gun.

"Wallace, come on out that goddamn house," one of the guards shouted.

"Donnie, stop this, please," Samantha said.

"Five!"

"Hey...wait...just wait a minute," one of the guards screamed.

The second guard shouted, "Wallace! Wallace! You come on outta that house right now."

Donnie aimed his gun at one of the guards.

The guards pleaded. So did Samantha. Donnie paused for a second. And then smiled and shot one of them in the face. _Bang_! Blood splattered everywhere, even on Samantha's face as she fell to her butt, shaking.

Down the block, everyone heard the gunshot. All their eyes whirled toward the stash house. I started the car and reversed back toward the house as Donnie pointed his gun at the second guard. After I pulled up to the house, I got out and raced up the steps.

"What...the hell...happened?"

Neither Donnie nor Samantha responded. Samantha's face was covered in blood and brain matter. I saw one of the guards slumped against the porch rail. The hole in his head was as if someone had drilled through it incorrectly, pieces had scattered across his face.

I turned back toward Donnie. "What have you done?"

He gave no response. Instead, he called again for the third guard to come out of the house. "I know you just heard what happened to one of friends out here. Now, I'm gonna count to five again and I'm gonna put a bullet the next one."

"Donnie. What the hell are you thinking?" I screamed.

But Donnie carried on as if he didn't hear me.

"One!"

"You can't just kill a man without just cause," I said.

"Two!"

"What have we become Donnie! This ain't us, man."

"Three!"

The guard on the porch was clearly scared; urine flowed down his pants, seeping through the cracks of the wooden porch. He began to cry. "Brother! Please come out the house."

"So that's your brother, huh?" said Donnie.

"Yes, that is."

"Well, answer me this. How many kids did yo mammy and pappy have?"

"Just two, me and my brother."

Donnie laughed. "Well, go on and tell your brother that he's about to be the only child."

"Donnie, don't," I pleaded.

The guard dropped to his knees. "Brother! Please! Please! Come out!"

"Four!"

"Please don't kill me."

"Five!"

"Noooo!" I shouted.

"Please," begged the guard again.

Donnie pointed his gun toward the guard. He smiled and moved his finger toward the trigger. The all of a sudden, the guard from the house yelled, "Stop! I'm coming out!"

Donnie aimed his gun at the door. The knob twisted gradually until it opened. The guard from the balcony appeared from the dark house with his hands in the air.

"Come all the way out," demanded Donnie.

The guard stepped onto the porch.

"Is there anyone else inside?"

"No. It's just me," said the guard.

Donnie placed his gun closer to the guard's head. "Don't you lie to me, asshole."

"There isn't anyone else. Now take what you gotta take and leave."

Donnie laughed. "That's good. That's really good." Then callously places a bullet in his head as well. His brother became hysterical and again pleaded for his own life as he wept for his dead brother. But Donnie did the same to him and sends him away with three shots to his chest. His body toppled forward in front of Samantha as she sat trembling. You could see the fear in her face as her mind raced.

"What have you done? You...you monster!"

But he turned to me as if nothing had ever happened, as if he hadn't just killed three people. "Help me find the money," he said.

"What?" I was in awe at his demeanor.

"Are you gonna help me not? We didn't just come here for nothing!"

"Donnie, you just fucking killed three people."

He looked at me and then turned and looked at Samantha. She had been in the same spot since this began. Her eyes were pointed forward, but they were looking past the bodies of those three men. They had traveled to somewhere else.

"Samantha, are you okay?" asked Donnie.

She didn't move. She didn't even blink.

Donnie walked in front of her and knelt. "Samantha, I know a lot of things happened, bad things. But right now, as we speak, Mantranga's people are headed this way. If we don't get those bags out of this house and leave now, we are all dead. You hear me? We are all dead!"

Samantha began to cry as Donnie attempted to comfort her. I know...I know you're scared, but right now, we need to get the money and go."

She shook her head as tears fell rapidly from her face. "No. No, I can't."

"Yes...yes...You can...You can."

"You killed those people."

"We had no choice! They saw our faces."

Samantha cowered at Donnie's tone as if he might hit her. In that moment, she seemed to fear him. And he saw it the same way I did.

"Please, get up, baby. Because if you don't, more people will die."

Samantha wiped her face and looked up at me.

"That's it, baby," says Donnie. "Let's go."

Donnie helped her up and they walked into the house. I followed.

The floors were littered with glass bottles. The smell of old hooch danced through our noses. Every step I took on those old wooden floors came the sound of splintered wood. The once-beautiful walls in that home were covered in dust and dirt, and the scribbled names of all those who had come and left.

I wondered who would make their mark on a place where the sun even hesitated to shine. Through the kitchen we walked, stepping over bags of garbage that had to have taken months to create. We checked them. There was no telling where the money was hidden. But every bag we opened led us to through the lives of the men that once guarded this home. Inside, lay portraits of moms and dads, and pictures of kids smiling, and letters filled with promises and hopes from far away places. There was everything in those bags. Except money.

"Let's check upstairs," said Donnie.

We walked up those steps. At the top lay everything we came for: three large duffle bags, one for each of us to carry.

"Ho-ly shit!" shouted Donnie.

And after seeing those bags, Samantha and I even cracked smiles. Donnie quickly opened a bag. The moment of truth was here. He pulled out two stacks of hundred dollar bills, neatly dressed in plastic. With that image in mind, we briefly rejoiced as we imagined our future lives riddled in all shiny gold along with the infamy that followed.

"Let's go," said Donnie.

We each grabbed a bag and Donnie headed down the steps first.

"When we leave, we need to split up. You two go out the back. I'm gonna go out the front. If you walk two blocks down make a left on Jena St. there's a silver Buick. The keys are already in the glove department. Get in it and drive as far as possible. We'll meet at my connect's house in Metairie around 10 tonight, the same one we went to last time. Remember, Mantranga is gonna be looking for two guys and a girl. We can't give him that. And whatever you do, don't go home. It's too hot. You hear me? "

"Where should we go?" I asked.

"It doesn't matter. Just stay out of sight until sundown, got it?"

"Okay."

Donnie look at Samantha. "You understand?"

"Yeah. I understand."

"Alright then."

With one last look at each other, Donnie opened the front door, In the light of the sun that cascaded in that dark home, a loud bang roared through our ears. All I could see was Donnie's body flying backwards. It was as if a rag doll had been tossed across the room. Samantha and I ran toward him. His chest was plastered with six holes seemingly in no particular order. Blood gushed from each hole; he made a gagging sound like he was choking. I looked into his mouth to find whatever he was choking on. I was thinking that I could pull whatever it was out. Then everything would be okay. There was nothing. All I could see was blood. More shots rained into the house. Samantha dropped to the floor. Her screams were filled with similar heartache I had felt weeks ago.

"Let's go!" I screamed. "Matranga's guys are here."

I grabbed her arm and pulled her away. She kicked and screamed like an insolent child. It was her right. She was heartbroken and there is nothing in this world that hurts worse.

I dragged Samantha out of the house into the back yard. The steel fences were low enough to jump easily. So, we did, running as fast as we could through the back streets of the 17th Ward with Mantranga's men right behind. In all of the commotion I'd forgotten where the car was. So we escaped on foot.

I still remember the sounds of their shoes scraping the concrete, and the thrumming motors of their cars as they flooded the streets.

But no one knew those streets better than us. For years we had rested on the same places where people spat. This was our domain. So it wasn't that hard for us to get lost in a back alley.

The question was, how long would it take them to find us? Mantranga had connections all over the city. The locals would say that he was watching even when he wasn't in the room, that even in the darkest places, he sees, and that he could touch places not even God could reach. We had heard all the myths and legends surrounding this one man, and yet we stood before him and his entire empire, and turned his legend into our own. Because of that, we knew he'd never stop searching for us. We had no choice, but to leave this great city and never return.

As I led the way, I asked her about what happened back there. I wondered how we could have fucked things up so badly.

She explained.

Not knowing how to respond, I ended on a point that became an old truism for me as I got older. "Sometimes hell just comes to you," I said. "And ain't nothing you can do about that."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

# Its End is the Way to Death

There are moments in your life—everyone's life—you wish you could get back, just for a second. I just want a second, only a second. It's funny how life works. I mean, look at the irony of it all. A man can live for eighty years and in all that time, in all those triumphs and disappointments, was the second that created the path to it all. Imagine the wonders a man could do with one second. Imagine all the lives that could've been changed, or the souls that could've been saved in just one second. We could take a second to say goodbye or I'm sorry, or take a second to say no. I should've said no. Samantha wanted to return home to get a few clothes and some trinkets with sentimental value. I knew we shouldn't have. Everyone knew we stayed in the house with all the fancy cars out front. Donnie made sure of that. But she had to go back. As always, I had to follow right behind her.

We made it to our home, and as the doors opened, all the memories of yesterday came rushing back. The realization of what had happened stung as we both knew it would.

Samantha hurried to her room. With emotions flowing I stepped onto that old familiar wooden floor, reminiscing about all memories we created there along with all the heartache we shared together.

But there wasn't a damn thing on this earth that has ever lasted. I remember watching Samantha throw everything in sight into those bags. She instructed me to do so as well. But I declined. There was nothing from that house that I wanted to carry along with me anymore. Every item I'd carry would hold a memory of the heart we shared coupled with the knife that pierced it. It would hold all the things I wanted to forget.

As I stood letting my mind drift to distant places, Samantha came into the living room. "Let's go home."

We walked toward the front door, carrying years of clothes in one little bag. A light suddenly shined through the living room windows. Samantha looked at me and I looked back at her. I ran and peeked through the blinds. A fleet of cars had pulled in front of our house. I turned to Samantha. She could see it in my face. I didn't even have to say it. Her bags dropped from her hands onto the floor.

Multiple lights shone through the house. We were surrounded. For the first time, we stopped running. I reached for my pistol. But as I touched it, Samantha placed her hand on my arm. "No."

'What are you doing?" I asked.

"There's no way we're shooting our way out of here."

"What? You want us to just die?"

"No. I want you to live."

"What are you saying?"

Samantha placed her hand on my face; her eyes became watery. "You have sacrificed everything for me. You have done so much, but you don't have to do this."

"Do what, Samantha?!"

"You don't have to do this with me. I don't deserve it."

"NO NO NO! I love you, Samantha."

Samantha lifted her head as tears gushed to the floor and stared directly into my eyes. "I don't love you."

I was stunned. Even after Donnie was gone, she still didn't want me. It felt as if a train had trampled repeatedly over my soul and I had no angel to guard me from it.

She grabbed my hand and led me to our living room fireplace.

"Stay here. When they're gone, you get as far away from this place as possible."

I remember wanting to say so many things. But my mouth wouldn't work. I just went along with whatever she said like I always did. Maybe because, at that point, I felt dead inside.

Once I crawled into the fireplace, she covered it with a dark screen similar to the one in this confessional. But unlike here, I could see from the inside. I watched for the second time as she unbuttoned her clothes and stripped completely naked. She stood against the living room wall holding a gun behind her back, Mantranga's henchmen kicked in our door, carrying enough weapons to invade a small country. They surrounded her. She showed no sign of fear. She just smiled.

"Where's your other friend?" one of the men asked.

"He's here," she said.

"Where?"

Samantha smiled again and looked away from the guards—toward the fireplace. I looked at her, wondering if she could see me crying.

The man grabbed her face. "Where the fuck is he?"

Tears trickled from her eyes as she stared at me through the dark screen. The man slammed her head against the wall and demanded an answer. She finally mumbled two words that I never wanted to hear her say. "Goodbye, Danny."

"What did you say?"

Samantha gazed at the man. "I know where he is."

"Where?"

"He's here." She revealed the gun from behind her back and shot the man in the face. As the man fell, she in turn, aimed at them all, shooting two more before they eventually gunned her down.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

It was if a small war was taking place right in our living room. When it was over, her body rested against the wall, riddled with holes both big and small while her eyes lay open.

That night, Mantranga's men searched everywhere. They even waited in the house several days after, hoping I'd come home. They had no clue that I was right under their noses.

My pants damped and sticky from urine and feces. The smell entrenched in my nostrils. I remember wanting to cough because some of the dust settled in my mouth. As the hours waned, so did my hope. Every day was longer than the one before.

After about two weeks, I overheard one of Mantranga's henchmen saying that I had left town. Soon, they left themselves, leaving behind death and the pain that comes along with it.

They walked out of that house as if nothing had happened. The way they talked and joked was as if they didn't just butcher that poor girl. She was someone's daughter, someone's friend, someone's lover. How is it possible for Him to allow such mayhem, such pain and sorrow?

"Who?" asks the priest.

"God. I'm talking about God."

The priest provides no answers. Just silence.

So Daniel weeps right in the confessional. And the priest allows him to do so, uninterrupted. He does this for about ten minutes. When the tears finally stop, the priest interjects once again, pushing the conversation forward. "How did you get out of the city?"

"I waited in the fireplace for a couple of days after they left. I wasn't sure if they would come back or not. Lucky for me, they didn't. There was, of course, no sign of the money. The bags had been removed from the house. On the floor just lay misery. I ran into Donnie's old room, grabbed a set of keys to one of his cars, and became nothing but a ghost to New Orleans."

"Where did you go?"

"Home. I went home."

CHAPTER TWELVE

# God's Storm

The ride back to Natchitoches was a horrid one. All those memories left behind as if they never happened. It was like we never existed. But we did. Now my friends' flesh is embedded into the city's soil, mixing with old gangsters that hustled before them. I'd imagine they spoke about certain trespasses and how life sometimes encapsulates us into roles we never really asked to play. But we have, unbeknownst to us, that the end is tragic.

I was lost. Who would have thought that this little city underneath the sea, would be the thing that found me, and at the same time, the same thing that drowned me?

The memory of their faces was haunting. It still is. Every day I am plagued with silent reminders of them all. It's usually the smallest of things, like the sparkling of the sun, that reminds me of the days we spent musing at Lake Pontchartrain. Or maybe it's the rain and how it drips from the clouds, similar to how her tears would fall.

The night I drove back to Natchitoches, I thought of her nonstop because it rained like never before. The winds roared like never before, and shook the leaves right from the trees. They cried the same tears the clouds provided. Right before me, the ground cracked its first smile ever when the concrete splintered. As the car tumbled down this chaotic road, the mountain that was never there before, rose and then fell. Soon the entire forest sighed was it lit up in flames. While the blaze intensified, I exited the vehicle and dropped to my knees, covering myself in an old blanket my sister gave me years before and closed my eyes. When I finally reopened them, I was greeted by a familiar voice that whispered, "What are you doing here, Daniel?"

After clearing my eyes and gazing closer, the face grew more familiar. It was my mom. She stood over me as I lay in bed. It was as if it was four years ago and I was still 14 years old.

"What are you doing here, Danny?"

"Wh-where am I?"

"You're home, son." She placed a warm towel across my brow.

"Home?"

"Yes, son. You're home."

I looked around. Nothing had really changed.

"We thought you were dead," she said.

"We'll I'm not, Mama. By the way, did Caroline ever make it back?"

She covers mouth with her hands as it tremors. "Son... You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"Your sister...she's..."

"She's what?!"

"She's dead. She's gone."

"What do you mean dead?!"

"She is, son."

"No...no...no...she left before me!"

"She is, Danny. And that monkey is gonna fry for that."

"Monkey?!"

"Yeah, you heard me right. The sheriff says your sister was palling around town with some nigger. He the one who killed her. He would've met his maker a long time ago, but we hoped the bastard would at least tell us where her body is. But he couldn't even do that. I only wish your father was here to see him burn!"

"Where's Papa?"

"Your daddy passed not too long after your sister. I guess his little old heart couldn't handle it."

"And you could?" I asked.

Her eyes stare into space. "You know I never understood."

"Understood what?"

"Why you blamed me for what your daddy did? You think I asked for him to hurt me, son? You think I wanted that?"

"No, I don't. But you never once stood up for yourself or for us."

"Us? Your daddy never put his hands on you!"

"But what about Caroline! And you...you just let him do what he wanted."

"I was scared! I'm so sorry, Danny. If I could have stopped him from hurting me and your sister, I would have!"

She became hysterical. Her eyes watered, her face red like autumn foliage, riddled with guilt from sins not her own.

It was right there the wounds my father had placed descended upon her. And as her old eyes filled ever more with bitter tears, I reached for her hand and pulled her close, laying her head on my shoulder. She cried out for all those years she couldn't. I consoled her just by repeating a single sentence.

"It's okay, Momma. It's okay."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

# Hands that Shed Innocent Blood

We sat in the same position for hours. Before we knew it, it was morning. I had lain in the same place, with my arms still wrapped around her. I rose, removing my arms from her shoulders, causing her to awake as well.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"It's almost seven o'clock."

"Dang it! I'm gonna be late!"

"Late? For what?"

"Today is the last day for him to tell us where he put her. That son-of-a-bitch knows where she is."

"Where who is?" I asked.

She pauses for a moment and looks at me with this glaring stare as if I should already known. Truth is, I had hoped it was all a bad dream.

"What are you talking about, Ma?"

"I'm talking about your sister. Your sister."

During the ride, I couldn't help but think how everything was going so fast. I don't even remember being asked if I wanted to come along. Somehow, I just ended up there, in a car seated next to my mom and Mr. Gaines as she sobbed the entire drive. That, in turn, triggered me to do the same. To think of all those beautiful memories that have, for so long, lain dormant and unaccounted for.

How could I spend all those years not thinking of her wellbeing? How could I have let her grow so far from me that I didn't once sense her hardship? She had taken care of me more than the woman I sat across from. Now, we both sat remorseful and guilty for being a thousand times more deserving than her. We were alive and well, full of sin and all its trappings. And she, she was pure as winter's day. Yet, she was gone to a place from which she could never return.

Why have I not suffered a similar affliction? Why did He come for her life, and no one else's? There was no one more undeserving than her. He took her without warning, devoid of any reason to keep our sanity at bay. This has all left me with lingering questions and concerns of how the world could be one big joke, played on us by something greater than our understanding. If it is, then I pray it be done with quickly, because God's humor has long been viewed with antipathy.

I wonder sometimes, how He actually views the world that He's said to have created. And if He truly did, surely this isn't the only one. Why would it be? There must be many more, maybe even thousands of planets just like ours where long-suffering souls alike create legends, both true and not, to tell to future generations. Just as it is with this world, he will have done nothing to persuade them otherwise.

We finally entered the grounds of the prison. I couldn't help but notice how that entire place caused a quiver inside of me that I could never fully explain. It was haunting. The prison itself was completely surrounded by the soiled waters of the Mississippi along with the mystic woods of Tunica Hills. All of this makes it a literal death trap for anyone who attempted escape.

Across its grasslands lay thousands of acres of crops, ripe for the picking as inmates bagged them while uniformed guards patrolled on horseback. In the sky, towers held men manned with sniper rifles, who probed back and forth, waiting for potential escapees.

Before we entered the facility, we were greeted by more guards who checked our persons, along with our pockets and shoes, for contraband.

As we entered the steel doors, the temperature moved from humid to sultry. There was no evidence of air, only the rays from the blazing Louisiana sun that seemed to target this place vindictively. Everyone—both prisoners and guards alike—carried sweat stains on their clothes causing the ghastly mixture of musk, coupled with urine and feces to plague this place. It was pure too, undiluted, as if no one had thought to mask the stench with some cheap perfume or glade. You could nearly taste it too. It crept up my tongue and down into my throat every time I inhaled.

"Welcome to the farm," said one of the guards after he saw me cover my disgust.

"Why do you call it the farm?" I asked.

"That's just the name. They ain't never said why. It just is."

"Oh."

"I don't remember going this way last time." my mother said as we walked passed the visitors room.

"Yeah, you ain't never been this way," said the guard. "We had to move our boy to the red hat block. He attacked his celly. Anytime we have too many problems with a prisoner, we put 'em right here."

"So there's another room for visitors?"

"Nope. These fellas don't get no visitors. It's restricted. But given the circumstances of your case, the warden put a green light on this one. I gotta tell you, everybody here is praying for ya. Hopefully that monkey can at least let her get a good burial."

The history of the red hat block is even more infamous than the men who occupied these cells. Just to think of all those lost souls who suffered here... This was not a place for humans. It was vile. As we entered, I noticed things were considerably different than the other side of the prison. The cells were extremely smaller than those in other sections of the prison. The smell was grander because there was no modern sewage system or even toilets, and no way for the smell to escape. Instead, the prisoners peed and defecated in buckets that were conveniently placed outside the cell when full for the guards to empty. Some even decided against the buckets, and used the floor. Others used their buckets as weapons against other inmates, with whom they had quarrels, leaving an array of filth and waste for us to step in. But as we were led closer to the prisoner's cell, it became apparent that it was the silence that was most disturbing.

When we first walked through general pop, the main housing section of the prison where most of the inmates were housed, they were loud and vulgar, and indecent. They even yelled obscenities at us. But here, in the red hat section, they said nothing. They made no sound. Those men were all broken. It was if they feared what other hell they could be taken to.

As we finally reached the cell of my sister's murderer, I remember thinking how much I wanted to see his face. I wanted to put an image to the animal that killed her.

He sat aimlessly in the cell, with his head slumped. He was huge and his body was riddled with muscles. I poked my head from side to side trying to see his face. But it was concealed by shadows as the sun only slightly illuminated a small square near the door.

"Come into the light," the guard instructed.

As the man rose to his feet and as his face gradually leaped into the light, his identity became even more of a puzzle because I knew him. I did. How could I ever forget his face! I had seen him, years before. He was the same colored man who saved me from Mr. Bailey after we robbed his store. I remember because he called me Danny. Only people who know me call me Danny. I was lost for words. All I could do was stare as my mother questioned him as to the whereabouts of my sister's body.

"Why don't you let me give my baby a proper burial?"

He looked her square in the eyes, and said nothing.

"Why don't you give us a chance to heal?"

Again, nothing.

His eyes seemed to be looking at her, but I knew he wasn't. He was looking through her. I imagined he was thinking about some faraway place that was everything but here.

"Just say something! Anything!"

And then he answered. "I told you I don't know nothing about your girl's body."

"I am begging you! You hear! Now tell me where you put her body you SON OF A BITCH!"

"Now, it don't make no sense taking this to the grave, boy! Free yourself of this so you may be in God's favor in the afterlife," said Mr. Gains, the same old man who scolded us for throwing rocks at his house. He came along with us to the prison, at my mother's request. After my father passed, she and him became very close. The inmate's eyes teared as he spoke one final time. "I have said my piece, you hear me! Now y'all can go on and take me to Gruesome Gertie. I don't fear it none, no way."

My mom began to bawl. Mr. Gaines comforted her as he pulled her head into his chest. She latched on to his shirt, fervently, pulling and thrusting.

The prisoner looked at me for a brief moment. His face seemed old and worn, so different from that day in New Orleans. I thought not to make eye contact. And surely I did, wincing at his coldness. He caught this and slowly backpedaled from the light to the dark side of the cell.

"Well, that's it folks," the guard said. "He won't be giving anything up today."

Just like that, it was over. For all the hours we drove, we came back with nothing. As for me, I came back with even more questions. Like, who was the stranger in the cell? And why did he save me years ago?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

# Be My Witnesses

During the ride home, I wanted so much so to question my mom as to the identity of that man. How did he come to know Caroline? What motive would he have to kill her? But she and Mr. Gaines chatted all the way back about subjects I couldn't quite comprehend yet because of my youth. To think my mom had detested this man when I was younger. It was always Mr. Gaines this and Mr. Gaines that. His unkempt house and boarded windows did nothing to sway her opinion. Now that my dad was gone, they seemed to be the best of friends.

After nearly five hours of driving, we finally made it home. As we pulled up to the house, Sheriff Hollis waited in our driveway.

Mr. Gaines was the first to exit the car. "How you doing there, Hollis?" he asked.

"I'm quite alright."

Mr. Gaines introduced me as if I had been a newcomer in the city of Natchitoches. "This here is Freddie's boy."

Mr. Hollis turned in my direction while wearing this colossal smile. "Yeah, I know Danny. He's the one used to be throwing them rocks at ya house back then. Always causing a stir, that boy."

"How you doing, sir?" I asked.

"Well, I'm good, son. I ain't seen you around these parts in a while. Way yo momma tell it, you just disappeared."

"No sir. I just took a little trip."

"A trip?"

"Yes, sir."

"To where, son?"

"Everywhere, sir."

"Okay. Well, next time, before you take a trip, can you maybe leave a note?"

"Yes, sir."

Hollis saw my mother, overcome by agony, slowly push herself from the car and again turned back to me. "You know we thought you were dead, son," he said in more grim tone.

"Why would you think that, sir?"

"Well, your sister... It was just a little strange having ya'll both disappear on the same night, is all."

"Hmm...okay."

"I'm just saying..."

"Why didn't you pronounce me dead. You did for Caroline and you ain't got no body."

"Well, we had no reason to do all that. But that nigger... H-he had a motive!"

"What motive could he possibly have?"

"Boy, yo momma didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

He turned to my mom. She just stood, looking toward the ground.

"Cindy, you ain't—"

"It's been a long day," said Mr. Gaines.

My mom walked up the porch steps as Mr. Gaines followed, helping with her purse. They moved inside and closed the front door.

Sheriff Hollis and I continued our conversation.

"Now what were you saying, Mr. Hollis?"

"There's a rumor going on that your sister and that colored fella running into each other was no coincidence."

"Yeah, I know, I know. My mom said they were friends. So what?"

"No, you'd be mistaken. They weren't just friends, I can tell you that! Rumor has it they were messing around. If you know what I mean."

"Noooooo... I don't believe that."

"Yeah, that's what I said."

"Well, did you ask him?"

"I did. But he didn't confirm or deny it. Only thing he been saying is the same ole crap. Talking about he don't know where nobody is. Just a bunch of hogwash, nigger bull shit."

"How can you be so sure if you ain't got the body? You said it yourself that you thought I was dead."

"Son, we got two witnesses who say they saw that monkey arguing with her over there by Cane River. The next day," he raised both hands in an I-give-up gesture, "she came up missing. The day after that, he fled the city. Now I don't know what they call it where you from, but in Natchitoches, that's called open and shut."

"You think he gonna ever tell you where she is?"

"Psssh. Probably not. He gonna take that to the grave."

"Why would he just not tell? I don't get it. He's gonna die anyway."

"Boy, it don't matter. You spend all your time worrying about why people do what they do and you gonna find yourself in a world of sorrow, ya hear me?"

"Yeah, I hear ya."

"Now go on inside and get you some rest. It's been a long-ass day."

"Alright Mr. Hollis. You have a good night," I replied.

Though as I walked inside, I strayed into my old room as if it was yesterday. Underneath those old blankets, a storm was taking place. The water to my soul was boiling because none of it at all made sense.

That morning, I awoke to the sweet smell of rolls and coffee, a delightful mix. It was stunning because all those years, she had only cooked breakfast twice. And there she was, clad in an apron and oven mitts, a new woman. I walked into the kitchen and greeted two smilingly faces: my mom, and once again, Mr. Gaines.

"Good morning," they said together.

"Morning. You're here early, aren't you, sir?"

"Uhh...yes! Your mother needed a carton of milk."

"Oh, and did you bring it?" I asked.

"Yes. Yes I did," he said with this seemingly artificial smile across his face.

"Well, thank you for all your help."

"I try to do what I can, is all."

"You want something for breakfast?" asked my mom.

"No. For some strange reason, I just lost my appetite."

"Well, alright," she mumbled as if disappointed.

Mr. Gaines jumped from the table. "Well, ya'll take care."

"You're leaving?" my mother asked.

"Yeah, I have some business to tend to. I'll see if can make it back this week to check on ya. Make sure everything's okay."

"Well, alright."

Mr. Gaines put on his hat and walked out the front door, leaving me and my mother alone.

She scolded me like never before. "Why you go and treat him that way?"

"Treat him how?"

"You know what I mean, Daniel. Mr. Gaines is good folk."

She stared at me with this look, as if she had so much to say but couldn't. So she just changed the subject. She grabbed a plate from the pantry and piled it with several biscuits and gravy.

"Eat up, boy! You a little too scrawny for my liking. I don't know what the hell you been eating, wherever you were, but you gonna eat here."

To hear that woman speak was awe inspiring in its own right. The person she had become was all that we wanted and everything she should have been, years ago. One wonders, why did it take us to be gone for us to become it?

I sat and watched as she repeatedly scrubbed the same pots and pans she cooked from. Her eyes focused, her mouth trapped in a sulk. It was if something grave depended on the purity of those dishes. That's how life is in a sense. We cleanse and cleanse, attempting to wash away all the foul smells and filth of yesterday. And one day we look, still green behind the ears, thinking we could become something brand new in a world that's centuries old, and the spot that should have been long gone still exists. It becomes a constant reminder about the mess we made. Just look what this house became. Caroline was gone and so was Dad. It all seemed conveniently linked to that fateful Christmas night.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Know what?" she replied as she kept scrubbing.

"How do you know she's dead?"

Her body came to a halt for a brief moment. Then she turned to me. "Why would you ask such a question, Danny?"

"It's just a question."

"Well, it's a foolish question."

"How is that exactly?"

"This is your sister for God sakes," she screamed. "What, you think, she just disappeared?!"

"Well, didn't I?"

"Yes, but—"

"How come you ain't never looked for me?"

"What...?"

"How come...you ain't never took the time to look for me."

"Child...I've spent too many nights worrying sick about your wellbeing! Don't you ever question that!"

"But you never looked!"

"JESUS! I KNOW! YOU DON'T HAVE TO REPEAT IT OVER AND OVER AND OVER!"

"What?"

"I said I know Danny. I know I didn't."

She looks to the floor.

"Why didn't you, Ma?"

"I don't know. I was someone else I guess. But I ain't like that no more."

There was a pause in the room. Her words had silenced me, not by their content, but by the conviction inside of them.

"You know there's a rumor going around town," I said.

"This is Natchitoches, there's always a rumor," she replied.

"Yes, but this ain't just any rumor."

"No?"

"It's about Caroline."

"What about her? What they say?"

"They say it wasn't no accident she was with that colored fella."

She turned away, her eyes tense, hidden in scandal.

"The say they knew each other personally. And they fancied each other."

She remained silent and aloof, stepping closer to the sink. In one hand, a silver scrub brush and the other, a plate.

"You think there's any truth behind it?" I asked.

In a fit, she slammed the plate. It broke and fell in the pool of soapy water.

"Jesus! Can we talk about something other than this?" she said.

"What's more important than this?"

She remained unresponsive, her face paralyzed by her gelid demeanor, shaking her in head in annoyance. She was bitter and angry; she loathed her own person for reasons I couldn't understand until that moment. It had everything to do with my own antipathy. You see, I wasn't only one who had met the man in the cell before. She did as well, a long time ago, long before he was arrested way before he saved me in New Orleans.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

# The Sum of Your Words

My mother stood there cleaning as if the world would end should she ever take a break. I remember staring as her back for a long time. From that position, she looked stern and forthright, full of zeal. But I imagined the other half of her body was the opposite. Her eyes salty, submerged in tears, cleverly hidden in thoughts that it may somehow cause me to break. She was in hell and I think I knew why.

"How long have you known?" I asked.

Her back bent as she leaned in closer to the sink. Her face still hidden. "Know what?" she asked.

"That they were seeing each other."

"She came to me."

"Who?"

"Your sister. She was wide-eyed and as happy as I ever seen her. She was in love. The way she spoke of him was so grand. He had her heart trapped inside this sparkling safe that could only be opened by him. She made me promise to never tell nobody, especially your father. And I never told anybody about him. I never did. I-I...just wanted her to need me. I wanted her to look at me like a daughter is supposed to. I never...I never knew he'd take her away from me."

She turned around and faced me, displaying to me all her agony, her eyes damp and swollen. Her cheeks glistened as tears seeped through those once-closed lids. There, an uproar inside of her came and went, a tempest. She bawled. There was nothing I could say or do to stop it. I just sat there in silence. And just as I knew she would, she shuffled all of her sorrow inside this old antiquated box that she subsequently pulled from around her heart, and cast it out to sea pretending all those shiny tears were just a figment of my imagination.

"Child, I'm fine," she said.

But she wasn't fine. Even as she bled from the beatings my dad gave her, she'd say, "I'm fine." Those old wounds are still there; right across her face lays a scar that begins and ends with her eyes.

"It's okay, Mom." I rose from the dining table to console her. I placed my hands on her back, gently, and rubbed back and forth. "It's okay, Momma. It's okay."

"Alright now...It's all right...Everything's gonna be alright." I repeated that several times until she stopped shaking.

Through those words, she found strength. She slowly opened her arms, and hugged me, and rubbed my hair, until my warmth subdued her coldness.

"I love you, Momma," I whispered.

"I love you too, son."

Quickly, from the embrace we came in such an informal fashion. I guess we just weren't used to speaking to each other that way. That night was a quiet sort with no words being spoken back or forth between us. All that could be heard was the wind dancing against the glass windows and a group of crickets that sang with no particular rhythm.

How did we get to this point? Oftentimes, I went back to that faithful night—to the moment I walked into Caroline's room to wake her. I tried to figure out what started it all what made me walk out of that house. Then I remember the letter she left behind and the stinging words that lay inside it. It was the note that pushed me out. And though it was painful to read, I had kept it all those years.

I went into my bags that night, pulled out the letter, and I read, and read, seeking answers to questions I have, for so long, wondered about. Questions like, what did she leave? And where exactly was she planning to run off to?

These questions plagued me. I knew just where to find the answers. But as fate would have it, it lay in a place I never wanted to venture to again—Angola State Prison.

The next day, I awoke to aromas, but this time, it was muffins, not rolls. Blueberry, in fact. Mom had made a whole batch just for me. She knew they were my favorite. Ever since I was a kid, I'd ask, "Can we have blueberry muffins today, Momma?" She'd respond with the same answer, "Soon boy, soon." I guess soon had finally came.

As I walked in the kitchen, an old familiar face caused me again to lose my appetite. It was Mr. Gaines...again.

"Mornin', Danny," he said.

"Hey," I replied.

"Good morning, son," said Mom.

"Good morning, Mommy." I checked her eyes to see if she had been crying once again.

"You doing okay?" I asked.

"Oh, never better, dear! Now go on and have a seat."

I didn't move.

"No?" The glee from her face melted. "But, I made your favorite. Fresh blueberry muffins." She picked a tray of them from the counter and displayed them.

"They do look delicious, but I have some business to attend to."

"Business! What business?"

"Something about a job." I tried to be as vague as possible.

"A job," she said in such a jovial manner.

"Yes, a job."

Mr. Gaines, of course, couldn't help adding in his expertise. "You know, I got a few connections down at the rail yard. I can put in a good word for you."

"No, thank you. I think I can handle it."

"You sure? 'Cause he got Rebecca's son, Nathan, a job there a few months back. Tell 'em, Mr. Gains. Go on and tell him."

"No, no. He doesn't have to do all that. I think I got this in the bag already anyway."

"You sure about that?" asked Mr. Gaines.

"Yes, I'm sure, sir."

"Alright then," he mumbled.

"I'll be headed out now, Mom."

"Alrighty, son. Good luck!"

"Thanks! But I don't think I'll need it."

I walked out of that home, knowing the entire story about looking for a job had been all fantasy. The real place I was traveling to was everything but holy. It was gloomy and nauseating, and fervent.

When I arrived at the prison, the guards greeted me with suspicious eyes as they had only seen me once, with my mother.

"What's your business here, boy," one of the guards asked as I approached the visitor's counter. My steps were slow, cautious, my body tense yet faltering."

"I'm...I'm here to see an inmate," I said.

The pulled a huge file folder from an overly packed cabinet. "What's the name?"

"Name?"

"Yes, the name of the prisoner?"

"Oh. I don't know the name."

"You don't know his name?"

"No, sir."

"Boy, how in the hell do you expect to see someone, if you don't know their goddamn name?"

"Well I—"

"Speak up, son!"

"He-he murdered my sister."

"Your sister?"

"Yes, sir."

The guard removed his glasses, his face rosy from embarrassment. "Forgive me, son. I had no idea."

"It's quite alright."

"You talking about the young girl from Natchitoches?"

"Yes, sir."

The turned to another, younger, guard. "Jimmy, go on, and escort this young man to red sect."

"Yes, sir," said Jimmy.

And from there, we went. I approached the prisoner's cell. He was once again secluded in the dark, seemingly lacking any life.

"You have a visitor," said the guard.

There was only silence in the red hat. The young guard grew irate. He smashed his billy club against the cell's rigid bars. "D'ya hear me?" he shouted.

"Can you give us a minute?" I asked.

"Yeah...You can have 'em. But I don't know point in it. He's a mute now. Nothing but a mute nigger."

"Thank you."

"I can only give you five minutes in private. We're really not supposed to let y'all alone, especially in no red hat. I'll allow it this time though."

"Thank you."

Jimmy tilted his hat forward in a gesture and walked down to the opposite end of the cell block leaving me and the prisoner alone.

The silence of the red hat section became even more prominent. All that could be heard were drips from the leaking pipes, and the buzzing of several flies that all called this place a home.

Inside the cell of the prisoner lay an even grayer picture, more gray than this place in its entirety. It was just the sense of villainy inside it. The room, half-lit, half-dark, allowed his downtrodden face to be hidden from the rest of the world.

"I have a question," I said.

"What may that be?" His reply came undaunted and quick. My mouth was frozen shut by wonderment as I rubbernecked through the cell bars.

"What is your question?" he repeated.

"You know me, right?"

"I do."

"A few years ago in New Orleans, you saved my life. Why?"

"It was the right thing to do."

"You called me by my name. But you never told me yours."

"My name is C.J."

"How did you know my name is the first place?"

"Because she talked about you like you were her own son. You were her sweet little Danny. She loved you more than anything in the world. The same way I loved her."

"You could have let me die. But you didn't."

"What is your point?"

"I wanna know why," I screamed. My voice echoed across the room, bouncing from wall to wall, drawing the attention of the guard from down the hall. He pointed at his watch, signaling me of the time.

"I saved you because that's what your sister would have wanted," he said.

"Is that why you came? Is that why you came to New Orleans?"

"She told me to look after you long ago, before she went missing—"

"You mean before she died," I said, cutting him off.

"I don't know nothing about her dying."

"You don't?"

"Look! I have said a thousand times over, I do not know what happened. I don't know where she went! I don't know nothing! You understand?"

"Look, I ain't here for no rehashing, I assure you. But she was indeed going somewhere the night she left. That is a fact!"

"Well, what's a fact anymore, anyways? All that matters is what is believed."

His mood changed, different from just a minute ago. His words were filled with rage and cynicism as the language of his body followed suit. Who could blame him?

Nothing could change his mind. He'd made it up the day they locked that cell door. Now his soul floats down the same river his tears concocted. No words could bring him back to life besides the two he'll never get to hear, "You're free." So every day, a soliloquy erupts that only he and God can hear, where he curses all those who've wronged him as he leaves from these prison gates and into the white pearly ones.

For some reason, there were so many words I wanted to say to him, but couldn't. He was accused of killing my sister and at the same time, remembered for being my hero, and he knew it. There was no reason to remind him of it.

"I have this letter," I said. "She left it for me. I've been reading it for years, trying to see the words between the lines. But I can't find them."

"This letter... Do you have it with you?"

"I do."

I rummaged through my pockets until I found it. I pushed the letter between the cell bars. He stretched his arms from a distance, attempting to grab it. The distance was too far. He was reluctant, but he rose anyway. Finally, from the shadows, he came into the light.

The light showed a face of a relentlessly beaten man, his eyes both yellow and red like the day's end. The history of his plight was jotted across his face. The saddest part was that he kept his tears right where they dripped; the residue stained his black skin. Imagine: he didn't even take a second to wipe them. It was if his arm had grown tired after so many times; and now, he allows them to flow free like the Mississippi.

"How did you come across this again?" he asked.

"She left it underneath her pillow. I guess she thought I'd look there."

He unfolded the letter. His eyes still, but moving, fixated on the words.

"What is it?" I asked.

He folded the paper back, slowly, as it was, and handed it to me.

"Is there anything you can tell me?"

His hands fisted. His eyes bolted in their lids as he sat, absent from here. "This letter wasn't written for you."

"What? What are you talking about? How would you know?"

"It was for me."

I reopened the letter, trying to find anything that would dispute his claim. If it was true, how could I have not seen it? "How are you so sure of this?"

"Because she gave it to me before she left. We had this huge fight about things not worth reminiscing. She gave it to me, but I wouldn't take it."

"By Cane River?"

"Yes, by Cane River. How you know?"

"I was told that two people saw y'all arguing."

He paused once again, there but silent, like a solemn shadow. He shuffled back to the unlit part of the cell and sat. "You believe in fairytales?"

"Pardon?"

"Do you believe in fairytales?"

"No, I can't say that I do."

"Why is that?"

"I don't know. Maybe because they never really happen in real life. They're just stories to make us feel better."

He laughed. "Well, you better watch out for fairytales in this town. Or you might find yourself stumbling in one."

"How do you mean?"

"Well—"

Just as he was about to answer, two words from the guard caused an abrupt end to our conversation. "Times up!"

I waited a few more seconds, hoping he would explain what he meant. But in the presence of the guard, he just looked away unto the dark side of the cell.

"Come on," the guard urged.

"Right away, sir," I replied as I kept my eyes locked inside the cell. I was empty, unfulfilled by the tale he told. It was if there was more, much more than the words provided. I just hadn't had the sense to catch it.

I arrived back home. The kitchen was candle-lit and dark, with the smell of Welsh rarebit dancing off the walls. There sat my mom and Mr. Gaines holding hands.

"Did he tell you anything?" shouted Mr. Gaines.

"What? Who told you where I was?"

"Ohhh...So he did tell you something."

I stood there, hands damp from sweat, puzzled. How in God's name did he know where I had been? Two—why the hell was he holding her hand?

"Who told you where I was—the guard?"

"Whose guard?" my mom said. "You're the one who told us."

"HUH?"

"Remember this morning? You came in talking about a job."

"Oh...yeah, yeah! I did!"

"Sooooo...What did he say?"

"It's probably not gonna work out."

"Really?"

She turned to Mr. Gaines.

"You know I told ya about those contacts at the rail," said Mr. Gaines.

"No thank you, sir."

"Now why not, Danny! It won't hurt none."

"Mr. Gaines, why don't you be like that old lady who fell out of the wagon?"

"What are saying?"

"I'm saying, shut the fuck up and mind your business!"

My mom jumped from the dining table in a fury. "DANIEL FREEMAN! HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND!?"

"I've had a long day. I'm going to bed!"

"YOU COME BACK HERE. DON'T WALK AWAY FROM ME."

I ignored her. "Good night, Mom."

I entered my room and secluded myself underneath the bed's wool comforters. I laid with my eyes open. I could not sleep. All I could think about were fairytales, nothing but fairy tales.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

# Through the Valley

The next day, I awoke about 8 a.m. Once again, I was greeted by the smell of coffee and biscuits. I entered the kitchen, happily, my face held captive by euphoric grins, only to be received by alarmed looks.

It was Mr. Gaines, as usual, along with my mom and Sheriff Hollis. They gawked at me as if I had made some foul joke they'd all found offensive.

"Is there a problem?" I asked.

"Yes, there is," said Mom.

She walked closer to me while keeping both hands interlocked at her stomach. Her face vacant, her eyes squinted as if she was trying to see something that wasn't there. "What the hell were you doing at Angola?"

"I wasn't."

"DON'T YOU LIE TO ME!"

Sheriff Hollis interrupted. "I got a cousin who works there. Now last night, he gives me a call saying a young kid was down there questioning the nigger who killed your sister. Now that's a mighty fine coincidence, if you ask me, son."

"I ain't your son, deputy."

"It's Sheriff," he said as if he was insulted.

"They let you become sheriff? HA! Well even a blind hog finds an acorn now and then."

"You watch your tone," said Mom. "Now, what where you doing there?"

I couldn't answer. My mind grew distant, tangled in sins—both mine and his. I couldn't tell her because, in truth, I didn't know why. It just felt like a place I needed to be.

"Boy, he ain't gone give you no answers about your sister,' she said. "We've tried that already!"

"It's because you sought answers to the wrong questions."

"What are you saying, Danny?"

"I'm saying...he didn't do it. He didn't kill Caroline."

"Have you lost your mind!" screamed Hollis.

"Why on earth would you say such a thing?" asked Mom.

"He has been found guilty in a court of law," Mr. Gaines added. "How can you refute that?"

"Because he saved my life!"

The room became still, locked in place as their befuddled mouths opened.

"Who saved your life?" asked Mom.

"He did."

"Who is he? What on earth are you talking about?!"

"Him! C.J! The colored man! He saved me, okay! He saved me!"

My mother, weakened by my words, pulled a chair and sat.

"A few years back, I was lost and alone," I said. "Before I even knew his name, that so-called murderer shielded me from a very dangerous man. He protected me when he didn't have to. For that, I owe him the same."

The room hushed; their faces were awed and bewildered at my words.

"I'll be back by supper." I walked to the front door.

But Mr. Hollis, a man who has never been lost for words, stopped me in my tracks and left me with words that I have carried with me ever since. "Danny, you know the devil can be many things. Just don't ever let him become you."

I provided the room with one final, contrived, smile and closed the door, leaving to find out more about the night my sister went missing. The destination was Cane River.

Cane River is a special place. Anytime someone goes there, it births this sense of journey, as if was a new place, different from Natchitoches. But it isn't. It's only a few miles down the road from my Momma's house. Though there's a reason why this sentiment is common.

Centuries before us, Cane River was a place, rich with culture, where natives both lived and harvested, creating in their own community, free from war and calamity, until a raging surge of a European Superpower conquered this very place.

Today, the blood of both slaves and Indians muddle this land. The homes they themselves help create, stand atop of their graves as they mimic those in Spain and France. But the seeds of their history still lie apparent.

The sounds of accordions and washboards, along with songs that are reminiscent to Indian prayer chants echo from one side of the river to the other.

The people themselves even seem different. Many fair-skinned blacks frequent this area. The history of war and slavery has long since been jotted across their awkward eyes.

Mrs. Sherroh, one of the state's key witnesses, lived in this very place. It didn't take long to find her. The music served as a guide directly to her front yard where several half colored folk laughed and danced, raucously. Along with the music, they chanted this common phrase in creole over and over again, " _Fe ke to regne vini_."

I was later told it means, "Your kingdom come."

In the midst of all the dancing and singing, it was hard to find her face in the crowd. I knew who she was even though we'd never actually met. She knew my father for years. In fact, he worked for her father and her father's father when he was young.

Everybody knew everybody in Natchitoches. Even if somehow you didn't, you had to know Mrs. Sherroh. She was always in someone's business. I wasn't surprised one bit when they said she was a witness. That decrepit bat never went inside. She could probably tell you who killed Jesus.

I found her sitting happily on the porch draped in a wide purple plush dress as she bobbed her head to percussion drums. I made my way up the walkway to the porch, and stopped at the bottom of the steps. I figured it rude to walk up without being invited. I waved my hands. The music, fierce and rumbling, was too loud to talk over.

She took notice and gestured for me to walk up. So I did. She immediately recognized me. "You're Cindy's boy," she said.

"Yes, ma'am. It's me."

"Well, what can I do for you?"

"I wanted to speak with you about a private matter."

"Oh, of course. Come on in!" She rose from her rocking chair, slow, using a wooden cane to assist her.

Inside her house, near the door, lay six wooden sticks in the shape of a hexagon. I nearly tripped trying to step over them.

"Would you like some coffee or lemonade?" she asked.

"No, thank you."

"Have a seat."

"Yes, ma'am. I must ask, what is the significance of those sticks?"

She smiled in a mocking manner as if the question itself was absurd. "Child, that ain't nothing to worry about. There hasn't been a sighting of the _rougarou_ in years. It's just some precaution is all."

"You mean the Loup-garu—the wolf?"

"Mmm hmmm."

I had heard those tales since I was a child. My mom used the story of the Loup-garu to scare me and Caroline from staying outside too late. Legend has it that during the French and Indian wars, Father Augustin Beatrice and his two daughters were attacked in the middle of the night by wild men who moved like beasts. The father and his family were left for dead, but survived. Under the care of a local man who professed to be a healer, their condition worsened. Soon, they began to grow hair in odd places all over their body and their teeth honed into those of a canine. Then one day, the townspeople noticed that the healer, the priest, and his two daughters had vanished into thin air. The townspeople, devout in their religion, lauded these events as evidence of witchery and that the healer had used his powers to transform the priest and his daughters into wolves. After this, several others have claimed to have seen them lurking in the woods. Thus, the term Loup-garu was formed. Loup, meaning wolf, and garu, meaning manlike creature, or, as we call it today, a werewolf.

"Now what is it you wanted to talk about?" Mr. Sherroh asked.

"My sister."

"Oh, child. It's a pity what happened to her. You have my condolences. I am truly sorry."

"Me to. Me to. But I have a few questions about the night you saw them."

"Questions? Well, son, I told the sheriff all I knew."

"I know. I'm just looking for closure is all. She's all I had."

She shook her head in pity. "What would you like to know?"

"You said they were arguing here by the river that night she disappeared."

"Oh yes! They were right outside."

"Where outside?"

She pointed to the left side of the room. "He looked angry too."

"Who?"

"That colored fella."

"Do you remember what they were arguing about?"

"I couldn't make it out. These ears don't work like they use to. But whatever it was, it was important. She kept trying to hand him some notepaper, but he wouldn't take it. That's when your sister stormed off. And that was it. That's the last I saw her."

"Did you tell the sheriff this?"

"Yes, I did. But I guess he ain't figured it to be important. Plus, they never could find that note."

"They said that?"

"Yeah. Maybe my old eyes was fooling me. I don't know."

I sat thinking about that note for a moment. The one that they couldn't find, had been in my possession for years, untouched. Now it's only use is a reminder of how life sometimes works.

"You okay, child?"

"Yes, I'm fine. There is, however, another person I would like to talk to by the name of Mabile Rioux. She lives here as well. You know her?"

"Well, I did. But she's been dead close to a year now."

"Dead?"

"Yep. Poor thing had a stroke out there in the heat mowing that grass. I don't why she was out there. She got two big 'ol brutes for sons. Seems a bit weird to me."

"Thank you for your help, Mrs. Sherroh." I rose from the sofa.

"You're welcome, sugar. I wish I could've been of more help. I should have known when I first saw him."

"It ain't your fault, Mrs. Sherroh. It ain't nobody's fault. Sometimes life just has its ways, and ain't nothing nobody can do about that."

"I guess so. By the way, sugar, while you're over there, can you fix those sticks back like they were?"

"Sure."

I must've moved them out of place by accident. Legend has it that in order for it to work, the sticks must be in the shape of a perfect hexagon. So, of course, I fixed them back. "There ya go. All fixed."

"Thank you, honey."

After walking out of that house, I just smiled. That's all I could do. This lady, the person whose accounts were the state's biggest reason for arresting that man, was still afraid of the Loup-Garu.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

# Test the Spirits to See

It wasn't long before I found myself back in the red hat section of Angola State Prison. It was just a few days until his execution. I came to tell him all the things I discovered, and how, with more time, we could find enough evidence so he can go home. But he was, of course, no fool.

"There be no freedom for me," he said.

His words jumped from his tongue in such a painful manner. The heartache inside him pulsated out from his cell into the rest of them like a virus. I knew this because it was even more solemn than usual.

Knowing they would never see daylight again, the other prisoners openly lived through him. They never said it. But you can sense it. Their eyes lit up every time I came and their eyes poked through their cells when we talked. The dream of freedom wasn't just his; it was ours. It was all of us. From the man who murdered his wife for lechery. To the rapist who butchered five little girls. A man's longing for freedom is understood past any boundary the world could put between us. Beyond race, or religion, or country. A man's need to choose whether he wants to walk with or against the wind is inherited in all of us. That need, that want, had been ripped from his soul in the cruelest of ways. Not even I could him help get it back.

"I just need some time to check a few things," I said, attempting to give his already-languished mind, rest.

But he saw no need for it. "Let me go Danny."

"No. I-I can't."

"You can. There ain't no point in fighting a war without soldiers."

"No! There ain't no point in giving up!"

"It ain't no use. I counted it in my head a thousand times over. Within everything that has been done to me, there's one thing they can't take—and that's my word. They can't force me to mumble those words because I'm more than not guilty. I'm innocent! Before God, I will see to it that they remember!"

"You will die in the process. So what will it all be for in the end?"

"No. You're wrong. I will live! And live far longer than the men who put me here because the truth lives in me."

His tone impervious, fixed and grave, showed a man reputed to be undaunted by death. But he was much afraid. The problem was, they had already killed him. He just hadn't noticed.

"Can you do me a favor?" I asked.

"Okay."

"Don't give up just yet. Even if there's only a second left. Revel in it!"

Paralyzed by his thoughts, his mouth became still, rendered frozen in silence. Thus I left him with that, hoping he'd use my word as an excuse to carry on.

After gesturing to the guard, I turned my back to the prisoner and walked toward the exit. And right as I reached it, he posed a question that, until then, I never sought the answer to.

"How are you sure?" he asked.

I paused, uncertain of what he meant. My back faced his cell. "Pardon?"

He repeated himself once again. "How are you so sure I didn't kill her?"

I turned and walked back toward him. "Come into the light."

He rose, hesitant and slow, and came close until he was able to lean his brow against the cell bars.

There, face-to-face, we stared at each other. And I assured him just as he did years ago when I was vulnerable. "I've spent some parts of my life surrounded by some of the most evil people you could ever meet. They were mean and coldhearted and selfish, all the things they claimed you to be. But there was goodness in your eyes that day. More goodness than I've seen since I looked into the eyes of my sister, the love of your life. You saved me! And ain't no murderer capable of that."

The prisoner smiled and reached his hands between those cold depleted bars. There, we bonded, shook hands, sealing the bonds of our unlikely friendship.

Late that night, I arrived home with a mind blanketed with a new load of consciousness. Entrenched in worry, I walked into the front door as Mr. Hollis was walking out.

"We need to talk, Danny." He hurried down the porch steps.

"About what?"

He was, for some odd reason, unusually vague. "It's really late. I'll swing back around, tomorrow."

"Alrighty." I rushed inside.

There was a cold wind, and truthfully, I wasn't in the mood for any words from him. It had been a long day. All I wanted to do was lie my head down to sleep and forget. Even if I awoke to the same grievances, at least I had the chance to pretend. Not many people get a chance to say that because it's true and it hurts. A long time ago, I'd live graciously in them because they were an escape—a way out without dying. But that fateful night, all of it changed because I did no such thing. This time, it was too real. It wasn't like a fantasy any more. It was life, and the setting was the wretched place I called home. There, I sat in the same spot, and I dreamed, except my eyes were open. The skies were too. Even the wind touched the glass in the same meticulous fashion. Everything was the same, everything except time. But that's hard to explain because it moved so gently, yet fast.

Imagine being conscious—and, I mean conscious to the point where you can sense everything around you, like feeling the earth move around its axis at exactly sixty thousand miles per hour, while watching those same seconds turn into hours at the same pace a mustard seed becomes a flower.

I felt and saw everything, even Him. He spoke to me. I knew it to be Him even though I had never seen his face but there was complete virtue behinds His words. Every time He spoke, the universe paused just for a second because His presence was greater than anything they've ever seen. They loathed Him, endlessly—and I, for some reason, could not bring myself to do the same.

"Why did you come here?" I asked.

He just smiled and whispered, "My son," in complete adoration.

His face was perfect in beauty, somewhat pale and old. Yet, He was neither white nor black. In fact, He was nothing because He transcended that. He was just Him.

"Why are you here?"

"Because you need me to be," He replied.

"No I don't. Not anymore! I did! A long time ago! But that was when I still believed in fairytales. I'm all grown up now."

"I know you have your doubts, Danny."

"Doubts? Doubts! There's no doubt that when I've needed you the most, you were always somewhere else—probably filling another poor child's mind with your stories. The same ones you told to Man."

"You may not see it, son. But I've always been right here."

"You've been here... Where? Where were you when that bastard was beating my mother every day? Where were you for Caroline, or Samantha, or Donnie, or C.J.? Where were you for me?"

"It's okay. It'll be okay." He grabbed my hand, firm but tender. "I've been right here, son. I've been right here."

The way He held me was unlike anything I've ever felt and my heart melted for every second His hands warmed my skin because He sullied me. And I mean that in the strictest sense of the word. So I cried. I cried for hours, and sure enough, He consoled me for the same length of time."

"I love you so much," He said.

"I love you too," I replied.

Together, we sat a while longer, discussing things about the world both big and small. Like, what's behind the stars, and when will Clark Gable make a good movie? He laughed when I asked Him that, which made me wonder if anyone had ever seen Him smile, because it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

We even talked about me. I watched as He gushed about the day I was born. He even compared me to his own son, though I was years younger.

I'm not sure how much time elapsed, but every word He spoke to me, carried with it centuries worth of knowledge that, for some odd reason, aged me by the second, until I was nearly as old as Him. And with that old age, came all the things we tend to forget when we're young. Things like emptiness and sickness, and even death. I was dying in my own dream. Every word from Him pulled the life out of me a tad bit more. But just as I thought he would, He made amends and told me the secrets of the universe that no one else knew. He even promised me my very own stake somewhere in heaven. I was special because He told me so. I believed it to be true because He was Him. To assure me that we were real, He pulled a shiny ruby from his own skin and offered it to me in return for one thing.

"There's a storm approaching," He said.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, one day down the road, if you're not careful, you will let your guard down and the devil will sneak in like a roaring lion. And he is not merciful."

"What will you have me do?"

"Stay close to those who love you. Find it in your heart to forgive them. Recognize when there's a child of mine in your presence. Sheriff Hollis is a good man, a holy a man. Go to him and listen. It will serve you well. Understand?"

"I understand, sir."

"Good. Very good."

He hugged me once more, wrapped His palms around my forehead, and blessed me. "Farewell, my child."

"Goodbye."

Before I knew it, He was gone and I was no longer sitting, but lying under the covers with my eyes open. It was morning.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

# The Devil Prowls

I went into the living room. My mother was sitting at the dining room table. She had again made tea and biscuits. I helped myself to some. Together, we ate peacefully, talking about everything except Caroline. She had lost her place at that table—not because she was no longer loved, but because it was too painful. For once, I'd like to smile candidly, without guilt. I wanted that for not only me, but my mother as well.

She had grown so tired and weak. I often wondered how long she could take it. I think maybe just a smile on her face would've saved her. Her heart was in pieces and all the small talk in the world couldn't mend her. She was an empty vessel and our fragile souls that seemed to have been woven from glass stones would soon take another hit.

Someone knocked on the door. Sheriff Hollis stood on our stoop.

As my mother opened the door, he greeted her with honest apologies, thanking her for courage and faith, while commenting about how "that nigger will fry."

Though I hate to admit it, she took comfort in his words. I could see it in her eyes. But that was just the times we were in.

"Thank you," she said as they softly embraced.

"Anytime, darling. Anything."

He then greeted me. "How are ya, Danny boy?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

"That's good. Real good." He paused for a moment, not wanting to talk around my mother. "Can I speak to you outside, Danny?"

I looked at my mother. And she of course, looked back in affirmation. Weary and listless, I dropped my fork causing this louder than normal clinging sound as it hit the glass plate. "Sure. We can talk," I replied.

He walked outside and I followed. I stopped on the porch steps, thinking we would talk there. But he kept walking until he reached his car and told me to get in. "Let's go for a ride."

"Where?"

"There's something you gotta see."

I climbed into the car as he started it. We drove seemingly forever, on this long dirt road.

"Here we are." He stopped in an old depleted neighborhood on the other side of town.

"Where's here?" I asked.

He pointed across the way. "You see that lil' ol colored woman sitting on that porch over there?"

"Yeah, I see her. So what?"

"I think she's someone you might wanna talk to."

"Why would I wanna do that?"

"She knows something about your boy."

"What boy?"

"The nigger...I mean, the colored fella!"

"C.J? She knows him?"

"Yeah. They're kin."

"But wait. Why are you helping me? You think he's guilty!"

He stared through the car window and looked away into the abyss. "I do and I'm not helping. I just thought you'd wanna talk to everyone you could. So, we're here. Now go on, I'll be right here when you get back."

I hesitated.

"Go on, boy!"

"Okay. Okay." I got out of the car and walked up to what struggled to be a house. But it didn't look like a home, at least not the ones I'm used to. It was small and dreary. The dirty paint seemed more grey than the metal fence that surrounded it. I walked through this tall bed of meadows that carried everything inside it along with these dingy yellow wildflowers thinking that no beauty could come from this.

To the right of me sat two infant children as happy as they could be, playing inside that very place, unbothered by the filth and muck that consumed it. I believed it to be a sign from God.

As I reached the steps of the house, the woman, startled and inquisitive, rose to her feet. "Excuse me! May I help you with something?"

"Yes, I'm here about C.J."

"Oh God!" she screamed as she covered her mouth with her hands. Her knees buckled.

"What happened? What did they do to him?!"

"No. Nothing, he's fine!"

"C.J's okay?"

"Yes, ma'am. I just had some questions pertaining to his case."

"You with the sheriff's department?"

"No, ma'am."

"You one a them reporters looking for a story? I told ya, I ain't got nothing to say!"

"No, ma'am. I'm not a reporter. My name is Daniel. I'm just a concerned citizen is all."

"Now why on earth would you give a hoot about a nigga who ain't got nothing to do with you?"

"The girl... She was my sister."

Her boisterous tone changed as she looked away, free of disdain, but with ire and pity.

"He ain't kilt that girl."

"I know he didn't."

"How?"

"The same way you do." She teared up and folded her arms, trying to keep composure. She whispered something, though I'm not sure if it was to me or to God. I didn't ask. I just looked away. I had seen enough tears for a century.

"Would you like to come inside?"

"Yes. If isn't too much trouble."

"No. Come on in."

She led me past the front door where I was greeted by a setting that was a departure from the common order of things. Everything was composed. The smell was graceful and washed, and the lights were dimmed aptly. Not too dark and not too bright.

She directed me to sit on the sofa a few feet across from her. She sat, then quickly stood back up. "Can I get you something? Tea maybe? Or would you like some coffee?"

"That's very kind. But, no thank you."

She finally sat. "So what can I do for you?"

"I was told that you would have some information about C.J."

"You were told that?"

"Yes. Sheriff Hollis brought me."

"Sheriff Hollis? The same sheriff who arrested him in the first place?!"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Now why would he go and do a fool thing like that? He don't give a damn about no C.J!"

"Ma'am, all I know is that not too long ago, my sister was here. Now she's not. And I can't ever bring her back. But maybe, just maybe, I can help an innocent man get his freedom."

"I told the sheriff what I knew more times than I can count. But that ain't the truth they wanna hear."

"Well, tell me!"

"What's the point? What can you do? There ain't no point in telling you!"

"Ma'am, what do you have to lose?"

"My time!"

"The way I see it is, time is the one thing you do have." But C.J...well, his time is quickly running out. All he can do is wait quietly for some dejected fella to flip a switch and plunge 2000 volts of electricity through his veins. If you can live with that, then it's fine. So be it! But I can't. So I'm asking you, I'm begging you! Help me!"

She looked away to assemble her thoughts. Her face was blank, but chock full of guilt from transgressions not her own. "That day. CJ had been out all night. He came in late."

"Around what time?"

"I'm not sure, but it was after midnight. He dashed through the front door in a panic, draped in sweat and covered in mud. When I asked what was wrong, he just kept repeating the same thing over and over. He said...He said, 'they took her'."

"Took who?! Caroline?! They took Caroline?!"

"I don't know! I asked who he was talking about. But he never brought it up again."

"He never mentioned anything like that to me...not once."

"That's just CJ being him. I bet if I asked him right now, he'd tell me to my face that he never said it. But he did. I saw his eyes that night. I ain't never seen him like that for as long as I've known him. He was a proud man. A strong one. He ain't never took shit from nobody. But that night, I saw him. And he was afraid!"

"What do you think caused him to be afraid?"

"I don't know. But I know he ain't killed that girl. I know he didn't."

She was convinced and staunch in her conviction with little to hold her steady. For the first time, I had met someone who believed in his innocence as much as I did.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

# Someone to Devour

We sat silent for a while, just looking at each other. Tracing the history of our stories from our faces as if the word misery had been plastered on us for the world to see. We did this for a while, until we were interrupted by the two kids from the meadow as they dashed into the living room full of energy. They had grown tired of playing, and waited anxiously for supper to be done.

"I'm hungry, Momma," one of them said.

"Yeah, me too," said the other.

Their mother, however, did not take their interruptions too kindly. "Where the hell are ya'lls manners? Can't ya'll see there's company here! Supper will be ready in a minute. Now get! And let Momma finish talking."

"Okay, Momma," said the little girl. She left as instructed.

The little boy, however, just stood there in a stance of defiance.

"Boy, did you just hear what I said! NOW GET! DO YOU NEED A WHOOPIN'? WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH YOU?"

The little boy pouted in a manner that could not have been contrived. "When is Papa coming home?"

She paused for a moment. For such a simple question, on the surface, it seemed so daunting for her to answer. My guess is, she didn't know the answer herself. Maybe she asked herself the exact same question every time she braved the night alone.

"Go play with your sister, honey. We'll talk about this later," she said solemnly.

"Okay, Momma." He hurried into the next room.

I felt compelled to say something because I too had lost a father. I'd lost him a long time ago, way before he died. Even though he was who he was, I still missed him. I still loved him. So I knew it hurt. "He'll find a way to heal when he's older," I said.

"You think so?"

"I know so."

"I'm so glad you're here. You have given us some hope."

"I have?"

"Yes! Because you're gonna be his pathway home."

"I will?"

"Yes. I believe you will."

Right there, I understood why the sheriff brought me here. It wasn't to help me or CJ. It was merely to shatter everything I believed to be true. She had no new information about this case. She wasn't just kin to him. She was much more than that. I should've known. Just by all those happy photos of them that sat in various places around the house. She was his wife and those were his children. All those stories about the majestic love he had for my sister had been proven to be a lie.

All I remember next is rushing back to the car frantically as the blood in my veins surely boiled over. I opened the car door and slammed it violently. Hollis didn't say a word. He didn't have to. My face told him all he needed to know. His gleeful look told me the same. He and the rest of this town had won. I was defeated. In the process, I had been fooled by a man who murdered my beloved sister and dared to make me revere his name in the process. Everything I thought I knew had been tarnished. The only thing I was sure about was that my sister would not be the only person to shed blood in that town. There would be, without a doubt, vengeance.

"What did you do?" the priest interjects.

Daniel begins to bawl in the confessional once again. "I'm so sorry, Father! I'm so sorry."

"Did you kill him? Your sister's murderer?"

"No."

"What then?"

Daniels words become a bit inaudible as he whimpers. "I don...don't ev...ever remember going in there. It wa...was like I...I woke up and I-I was at...their door holding th-this thing that ...that I knew was dangerous. But I-I just couldn't put it down."

"Who did you hurt?"

"I just wanted to make him feel the pain I felt. When that little boy opened the door, all I saw was his father's face. They had the same eyes."

"Did you...did you hurt him?"

"Oh my God." Daniel grows more and more distraught. But the priest digs further.

"Daniel. D-id you hurt that little boy?"

He continues to whimper.

"Did you kill him?!"

"He looked so much like his father. Why did he have to look like him?"

"Daniel! Did you kill him?!"

"I did! Father, I did."

"And the little girl?"

"Yes."

"And their mother as well?"

"I didn't see myself pull the trigger. All I saw was them hitting the floor. I would have left then, but there was someone else."

"Who?"

"Someone in the other room. A baby."

"What did you do?"

"I put the gun to his head as well."

"You did what?"

"I pointed the gun at him."

"You shot him? You shot a baby!"

"No, Father. I couldn't."

"You couldn't? Why is that?"

"I thought he might have been a sign from God."

"Just like the kids you killed," the priest says.

"Huh?"

"You thought they were a sign from God too. Didn't you?"

"Maybe He came and went."

After a brief silence, Daniel wipes his face dry of tears and continues with his confession. "After then, time went the same way it did in that dream, slow but fast. Soon, it was day of summation. His execution. The clock showed 11:55 a.m. We were told that the execution would take place at 12:15 p.m.—exactly twenty minutes away."

My mother, however, couldn't stand to see the death of another, not even him. So we sat at the dining room table, haunted by the arduous silence because it only allowed me to think. My mind wandered. I saw Caroline in an apparition, lost on this road, tormented and alone. Somehow, some way, she made her way back home, within arm's reach of me. But when she touched me, I couldn't feel her. And when she screamed for me, I couldn't hear her. I just kept walking, until she finally gave in and became alone again.

"You okay, Danny?" asked Mr. Gaines as he sat consoling my mother. She was a nervous wreck. Truth be told, I was sort of happy he was there. She seemed a bit more content when he was around.

"I'm alright. Just need to get some fresh air," I replied. "May I be excused, Mom?"

"Go ahead, son."

She struggled to even say that. It was as if it pained her to speak. Maybe it was all those prayers she spoke to Him. She had prayed that He would lead us to the place where she was buried. Now her mind had been thrust into a flurry bad demons. All the sweetness that came to fruition while I was gone, fermented. Soon it became acidic. Now her soul burns from the inside. Hard to live in her own skin.

Think of all those prayers and it never even happened. It made me wonder if she ever spoke to Him. And if she did, did He tell her she was special? Did He promise her things? Was He gorgeous? Did He touch her in a place that made her a feel a love that not even the sun could burn away?

"You sure you're all right?" asked Mr. Gaines.

"Yeah...Yeah. I'm all right."

"Okay. I'll be right here if you need me."

"Thank you, sir."

He was becoming somewhat of a father figure. At least that's how he saw himself. I guess he thought I needed that. Maybe I did. Though I'd rejected him at first, I was finally starting to see his goodness.

CHAPTER TWENTY

# Darknesse Not Overcometh

Wistful and blue, I left the dinner table and found solace in an unlikely place—one that reminded me of her the most. The backyard. Together, we'd tossed rocks at Mr. Gaines' house, trying to strike those boarded windows, one after another. Funny thing is, we never once aimed at that one good window—the one he protected and yelled about every so often.

When we were children, we hoped there was some hidden treasure in there. I don't why we never looked. Maybe we just wanted it to be just that—a dream. Something to think about. Or maybe we were just too scared to do anything. What fool would put such precious things in such a place anyways?

All I know is, I felt closer to Caroline out there—ever more so as I swung. More and more, I felt her. It was like she was helping me pitch by guiding my arms. Together, we were aiming for that one good window because I knew it would make her smile.

I picked up this nice sized rock. And I mean it was a nice size, nearly the size of a baseball. I tossed it around in my hand, measuring its weight. I aligned my body and aimed with my left shoulder. I imagined the crowd cheering and chanting as I gripped it. Together, they shouted not my name, but hers.

"This one is for you!" I shouted. "This one's for you!"

I swung as hard as possible, until I overheard the clinging of glass and wood.

I did it! I did it! I broke it. I don't know why it made me so happy or why it was so important to me at the moment. It just was. I guess that's how life is sometimes.

"Did you see me?" I yelled. "D'ya see me sis?"

I wanted her to know that I still remembered. I hadn't forgotten. And that she will forever live through me. Just as I thought to reenter the house, a voice cried out to me from a distance.

"Danny."

There, I froze and gawked at the clouds. It called for me a second time.

"Danny!"

She had been watching from the heavens, I thought. Her voice was exactly as it was when we were children, pure and full of grace.

"I thought you'd be watching," I said. "I miss you so much, sissy."

I missed her so much. And He'd allowed her to speak through me on this day. On this particular day where every memory pulled at the strings of our hearts.

"Why are you doing this to me!" I screamed. "I am your son! You're supposed to love me!"

He must've heard me that time because right after that, my hands quivered and my knees buckled. I fell to the concrete. My arms, for some reason, shot up in revelation. I was overcome by tears. "I'm sorry! I just don't understand!"

Right before me, I watched as his words were violently burned into the palms of both hands. In a fury, the scabs came and went, causing the wounds to etch into the skin.

It read: John 1:15- And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness did not comprehend it."

"What does it mean?" I asked. "I don't know what it even means!"

I cried for Him to answer. I even begged. Instead, He allowed the sky to rain on me. A black cloud nearly blanketed our entire house, blocking the sun's light from illuminating the earth for just a moment. In that brief moment, tucked away in the darkness, it was there. I saw it across the street. A light shined from that single window. The same window I had broken moments ago.

I hurried across the street. I kicked the remaining shards of glass from the opening and climbed inside.

The drop from the window to the floor was steep. So much so, I felt a pain in my ankle as I landed.

It looked like a long-forgotten basement or a storage room. There was dust everywhere. On the floor lay tools and chains, and old rusted instruments that seemed of no use. To the left stood a wall, on which hung more chains, handcuffs, and even a mask that seemed to have been created solely to keep individuals from seeing. To my right, the scene was even more haunting—a wooden concoction that held with it a slew of nails and rope, along with a human muzzle to stop screams. It was all covered in this burgundy and black substance that appeared to be blood. I'm sure it was. And it was everywhere.

I had stumbled into a torture chamber. From the looks of it, some poor soul had come here and gone.

But I came for that light. It was still there, yet subtle. I inched toward it, stepping over the nails and long pieces of wooden boards. The light was dimming. It came from the floor. I reached for it, extending my arms and carefully avoiding the objects that surrounded it. As I touched it and carried it from my fingertips into my palm, I discovered it what it was.

A necklace made from stones like the kind in our back yard. On it was a carefully handcrafted message that read, "My love."

The same necklace I gave Caroline for Christmas.

The very last time I saw her.

"Your sister's necklace?! How did it get there?" the priest asks.

"Because he was telling the truth," Daniel says.

"Who was?"

"C.J. He didn't kill my sister," Daniel continues with his confession.

There was something eerie there. It was much more than the weapons and the blood. Maybe it was the gagging smell of perfume that wasn't fitting for this place. Or maybe it was the cockroaches and how they scuttled across the left side of the room and never the right.

I remembered a conversation my mother and Mr. Gaines had around the dinner table the week before. One of those famous flying cockroaches that Louisiana is famous for had revealed himself as we ate peacefully.

"God dammit! I hate those things!" my mom had screamed. She had an intense fear of them just like Caroline.

"He ain't no harm to you, woman," Mr. Gaines had said. "He's scared is all."

"Scared? I didn't know such a hideous thing could scare so easy."

"Yeah! Just turn those lights on."

"Why?"

"Because there's nothing more frightening, more terrifying to them than light. They avoid it like the plague."

"Why is that?" I asked. "Why don't they like light?"

"That's just evolution, boy. They conditioned themselves to fear it because every time there's light, there's life. Human life."

He seemed so adamant about it too, like he knew.

So I watched them for a few minutes. Some went right, some crawled on the walls, some flew, and some even crawled right past my foot with no trepidation. But still, none went left. It was as if like they were conditioned to do so.

But...to the left was nothing. Just a long wooden board lying neatly across the floor. Standing on top of it was an old chalky chaise longue that carried with it the foul smell of waste.

Though the smell didn't come from the chaise. It came from underneath it.

With my hands trembling, I sank them into what felt like a gob of dust as all its inhabitants ran free. I remember the villainous feeling inside it as I touched.

Once pulled to the side, the wood itself became a mystery. There was no shadow from the chaise being there. And if you looked closely, you could see a metal latch on each side of the wood. It wasn't just a board. It was a place, and the board was its cover.

I moved it, exposing another door that had been carefully masked with a laminated cut-out that seemed to be styled with a water base finish the same as the oak floors surrounding it.

I had stumbled upon a secret underground passageway. What was hidden behind it changed everything.

"What was behind it?" the priest asks.

"The truth," says Daniel.

The priest gasps, and for the first time in all of his priesthood, he does not have a perfect response or any convenient words from scripture. He just gasps and says nothing.

Daniel continues. The remnants of death and woe haunted that lurid place. Along with its ghastly smell came with it scenes of dismemberment and torture. On the floor lay skulls, some big and small, positioned neatly against the wall like a hunter's trophy.

It was hell. A bottomless pit. From every set of bones I encountered, I caught myself asking the most trivial of questions like, which bones were hers? Could I find all her pieces? If I couldn't, would she ever forgive me?

Did she suffer? Could she hear me? And if she could, did she know I love her, because I did with all my heart. There wasn't a day that went by that I didn't regret leaving.

"I'm so sorry," I said in that wintry black chamber. "I'm so sorry."

There in the mist of my own sorrow and self-pity, she spoke to me once again. "It's okay, brother."

I looked up thinking it was again a sign from the heavens.

"I'm over here," she said.

And there, cuddled in a corner, she was. Her body naked and bruised, chained to the chamber's wall. I ran to her. "OH MY GOD, CAROLINE!"

"You came for me," she said.

"I did...I did."

I removed my shirt, covering her with it. Her skin cold, riddled in wounds both old and new.

I attempted to break the chain from her legs and arms. But the thick steel would not budge.

"It won't—" she said. Her body was so weak and frail, she was unable to finish her sentence.

"I need to...I need to get something to break it," I said.

"No... No... No. Don't leave me again."

"I have to! I have to!"

"No, please. Don't leave be alone again. He'll hurt me!"

"Listen to me, sis. Listen to me. I will not leave you. I just...I just need to get something to break you free. You understand?"

"Yes."

I hurried back up through the trap door. I remembered there being a metal rod that stood near that old chaise lounge. I snatched it up and returned to her just as I said I would. "Cover your face," I said.

I took one swing. But it only made a dent. Those cold hard chains were still anchored inside the wall.

I took a second swing. The once-small dent became a hole.

I took a third swing, and a fourth, and fifth.

It took exactly fifty-six swings to free her from her bonds. When she was finally free and able to move her arms at will, she struggled to her feet, hugged me and whispered in my ear,

"I knew you'd come for me."

I smiled and so did she. Together we left that wretched place behind us.

As we walked across the street, I found myself blacking out the same as I did when I visited CJ's family. All I remember was going through the back door, telling Caroline to stay behind me.

I heard Sheriff Hollis's voice coming from the kitchen. He had come to deliver us the good news. "The execution was went accordingly."

My mom didn't say a word.

But Mr. Gaines sure did. "Praise the lord and sanctify His name. This was done in His will."

I stood thinking of how He could allow such things. An innocent family to die. A young girl to suffer. And that sick twisted bastard to live free using His name.

Enraged, I walked into the kitchen carrying years of venom across my eyes.

"How ya doing Danny?" said the sheriff.

I kept walking toward Mr. Gaines.

"May I help you, Danny?" he said.

My closeness made him uncomfortable. I reached into pockets, pulled out Caroline's necklace and placed it gently in front of him.

His face was unmoving, as if the world as he knew it stopped for a moment. "Where did you get this?"

I gave no answer. I just glared at his beady little eyes.

"What's going on here?" asked Hollis.

I placed my right hand behind my back. I was reaching for something, and I think he knew what it was. I could see his heart pump through his shirt. I brandished my gun, the same way I did at CJ's house, and pointed at his head.

"Whoa... Whoa... Whoa," shouted Hollis. He pulled his gun as well, and aimed it at me.

My mom lifted her head from the table. "Son! What is this! What's going on?"

"I found Caroline, Mom."

"Wh-what did you say?"

Caroline staggered into the kitchen, filthy and emaciated.

My mom jumped from the table in rejoice and ran toward her.

"You had that poor girl all along," said Hollis.

"Now wait just a minute," said Mr. Gaines. "This is...this is all a misunderstanding! You know me!"

Sheriff Hollis lowered his weapon. "Do what you gotta do, Danny."

"What! Wait a minute," said Mr. Gaines. "Hollis! Hollis!! You know me! Hollis!"

The sheriff turned his back. And with that assurance, I pulled the trigger and watched as pieces of brain danced across our kitchen floor.

"He just let you kill him?" the priest asks.

"I guess he felt a little guilty. When the other deputies arrived, Hollis told them that Mr. Gaines's death was a suicide. He had professed over and over that the man he arrested was guilty. And that his execution would be God's doing. Now it all came tumbling down. Even worse, he watched it fall over those he sought to save. Hidden under the wreckage were all those broken promises and unwiped tears. Not even the blackest of hearts could withstand such things.

"This whole time, she had been only a few yards away with th-that monster. That devil. She wasn't the only one. For the ones he tired of, he let them starve until they eventually died. They were the lucky ones. Those he became fond of, he kept them around longer, using their little bodies for his own gratification.

The police did a search of his home and found the remains of twenty-three other children. The town couldn't believe it. No one could. They had vilified an innocent man while the devil stood ominously at their doorsteps, seeking someone to devour just like a roaring lion.

"Soon the town was in an uproar. The NAACP filed a series of lawsuits. There were protest and riots ensued, and looting. I watched as that town, my home, went to hell. The tensions from these events still exist today. And it was all because of him."

"Wow. That was..." The priest is lost for words. "Where are they now?"

"Who?"

"Your family," says the priest.

"My mother passed a few years later. My sister said it was guilt that killed her. Her cozying up to the same man that kidnapped her daughter did a number on her heart."

"What do you believe?"

"I think it was the loneliness."

"What about your sister?"

"She passed also. Four years ago in Bogalusa. She'd lived a long life. Married this rich fella and had five kids. One of them is named Daniel. But at long last, it's just me. Me and my wife."

"Your deeds. They were great in length, Daniel. I'm sure your proximity to all that evil and pain had some bearing as well. But there is nothing...nothing that God cannot forgive."

"I killed four people. Three of them were innocent. I'm nothing but a murderer."

"So was the apostle Paul! But He forgave him and even brought him into his kingdom. So he can forgive you, if you truly seek it. But you must, you must place your faith in Jesus Christ as your Lord and savior."

"Can you forgive me, Father?"

"Excuse me?"

"I was never here for God's forgiveness."

"You're not?"

"No."

"Then why'd you confess? There has to be something inside of you that would make you come here. There has to be!"

"Because my confessions were not to God."

"Then what were they for?"

"Ya know, the one thing I remember most was his eyes."

"Whose eyes?"

"That baby. They were so beautiful. So pure. I think...I think I loved him from the moment I laid eyes on him. And they never changed."

"What never changed?"

"His eyes. You got the same eyes, Father."

"Wh-what?"

"I've followed you, Father. Your life. I've watched after you for so long. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You have grown to be a great man. The things you do and have done. The people you've helped. I'm so proud of you."

"What are you s—?"

"The family who adopted you, treated you as their own. They put you through school, and college, and there you met a woman who would've professed to be your wife. But you chose God instead."

"How do you know this?"

"You were a son to them. And every time they could, they held you up high over their shoulders even as others stared with wary eyes because a white couple holding a black baby just wasn't that common at the time. I'm sure you call her Mom and him Dad. They were never your real parents, as you know. Your name, Clarence Jackson comes from your real father, Clarence Jackson Sr., or as his friends would call him, C.J."

"Wh-what?"

"Your mother, Doris Jackson was the eldest. Your sister, Debra Jackson. And your brother, Roger."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Thought you should know. It's your right. And I am sorry. I wanted to say that for so long. I'm so sorry." Daniel rises from the confessional stool.

"Where are you going?"

"Goodbye, Father." Daniel hurries out of the confessional.

"Wait! Just a minute!" the priest shouts.

Daniel walks out, shutting the door to the confessional behind him.

The priest leaves his booth, and follows after him. "Hey. Stop! Stop there!" The priest runs out and sees the door to the church shut quickly as if someone had just left. He runs along the aisle and thrusts the door open. But no one is in sight.

He hurries down the steps and into the middle of the street where everything is covered in blackness. The streetlights had yet to illuminate the roads. So they sit, dim and empty, with no humans to inhabit them.

There, somewhere beneath that darkness, Daniel remains hidden.

Worried after hearing the commotion, a group of convent girls rush outside to aid the priest. "Father Jackson, is everything okay?" one asks.

He takes a few moments to compose himself. "Yeah...yeah. I'll be alright."

"What's wrong, Father?" asks another.

"I think...I think I just met the devil."

The girls hurry down the steps. They grab father Jackson's arms and help him back up the steps while reciting scripture. "Peace shall bruise Satan under your feet shortly. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ _be_ with you," one said.

"For everyone born of God overcomes the world. And the victory that has overcome the world is our faith," said another.

They kept going until they all recite at least one line. Shortly, they reenter the church.

As the doors close behind them, the lights from outside finally lit up and illuminated all the dark corners of the street, exposing the dejected old man hiding behind a vehicle adjacent from the church.

He tears up. The wounds of fate are still etched across his eyes. He was arrogant enough to think his soliloquy would heal him. I guess the devil dances with such a rhythm, that all those horrid dreams dissipate, when he's in bed with him.

He takes one last look at the church building, and walks back down the road from where he came, disappearing as he walks further into the dusk.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

# Finally, Be Strong

Later that night, Father Jackson enters his front door, carrying with him the weight of the day. Along with his coat, comes a brown paper bag that conceals a bottle of German vodka and the cheapest pack of cigarettes one can find.

He hangs his jacket and makes his way to his study, a place usually reserved to read when he feels some sort of affliction. But this is different. Never since college has he touched worldly things such as these. He enters his study and turns on a lamp, lighting the room moderately. He places the bag on this wooden cabinet where he kept most of his bibles.

He sits for a moment, thinking about what has taken place. He goes over it again and again in his head. And Daniel's words repeat themselves at the most opportune of times. That is, "Be careful or the devil may sneak in like a roaring lion."

He looks back at the brown bag then removes the bottle of liquor, unscrewing its top. He walks into his kitchen toward the cabinet where several wine glasses sit, unused. Father Jackson takes one last look at the bottle, and pours its remnants down the sink until the bottle is empty. He goes back upstairs and trashes the cigarettes as well.

He grabs a bible from the same place the brown paper bag once sat and takes a seat in his favorite chair. He rummages through the pages until he finds a fitting chapter to read from. The chapter is James 1 and 12. "Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial, for he who have stood the test will receive the crown of life, which God has promised to those who love him."

He smiles and looks up at the wall...at two old pictures of his adopted parents. Right next to them lays an empty space that prompted him to wonder about the family he never really asked about. But this moment of wonderment is brief as he smiles again in exhilaration, knowing he had been tested—and won.

THE END

# About the Author

Malik Will is an educator, novelist, and spoken word poet. He came to age in the 90s -00s in New Orleans, LA. It wasn't until 2005, he discovered his passion for writing; and, it came from the darkest of places.

Many years ago, in the dark of the night, Malik and his family lied helplessly on the steel floors of the most costly architectural structure in the bayou—the New Orleans Superdome. They were stranded in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.

After surviving this ordeal, Malik sought to prove to himself and everyone around him that he could become something greater than his surroundings because the past is forever the past; and the future is always God's word.
