by Erik D'Souza
***
And now here I am. The front of my head still hurts from the bang on the plastic divider. The car hits a bump and I crack the back of my skull into a metal object. It seems like we have left the city and are traveling on a country path. The air is scarce. My hands are bound behind me. My brain orders my eyelids to open, but they can’t. They feel taped shut. Surprisingly I am not gagged, so I scream. After several moments the attempt seems fruitless. Ok, regain composure. Think. Focus.
I can feel the comfort of my pistol, still tucked in the front of my pants. If only I could grab it.
I should turn a cell phone on, so that they can track me. But who is going to track me? I don't even know if anybody would even report me missing. That's pathetic, but no time to dwell on my sad life.
I should try and concentrate on details? How long have we been traveling? I couldn't have lost consciousness for that long. Where could we be, on a dirt road maybe thirty minutes from the city. The Everglades? No too bumpy. This feels like the back country?
The vehicle stops moving. I can hear voices. It seems like two males and pseudo-Sheila. I know that it wasn’t Sheila, couldn’t have been. Her voice is quite different. I don’t know what I was thinking; A temporary lack of clarity. It was my wicked brain playing tricks on me. Pain killers fueled by alcohol don’t let me think straight. But I need to sober up now or I won’t be getting out of this.
I hear car doors open and close. The voices are quarrelling, but their words are muffled. What are they arguing about? Let me out assholes. I bang my knee against the trunk until I’m certain that it is bleeding. Come on open up.
Almost on cue, the trunk door opens and I feel a rush of fresh air. We are defiantly not in the city. I rough pair of hands grabs my shoulders. They want me out.
“Come on dirt bag, no time to waste,” male kidnapper number one has a raspy voice, probably smokes three packs a day. He’s an older man, probably in his fifties and he sounds like he’s been around the block a few times.
“Wait, there has been a mistake. I was drunk. I thought that girl was someone I knew, but she’s not. She’s not Sheila.”
“No buddy, I’m not Sheila. I don’t care who you thought I was. You said you were going to kill me.” Her tone is not as pleasant as it was earlier, there’s anger mixed with the residue of fear.
“No you’re wrong. I said that that you were dead. I thought you were her. Sheila is dead. But you’re not her. You’re not dead. I know that now.”
“Your fucked up mister,” Non-Sheila remarks astutely.
“What do we do now?” asks male voice two. A younger voice, probably straight out of high school; maybe voice number one’s son.
“Look I’m not the guy you’re after. I’ve never hurt a cabbie.” It’s a true statement. As far as I know I have never killed a taxi driver. If I get the chance maybe I’ll shoot one of them today. If I can get them to untie my hands, then I could reach my pistol.
“Shut up, Daniel.” The older one says to the younger one. Shit I’m in trouble. Voice number one doesn’t feel the need to conceal their names.
“Look, I’m sorry guys for the harsh words I may have spoken earlier. I can understand that you guys are jumpy out there. The cops are probably doing dick to catch this guy, this sicko who has been shooting cabbies. I know you have to protect your own. But I’m not this guy. I’m just a drunk.”
“Fuck me,” Non-Sheila pants out in confusion; a hint of apology in her intonation. I’m getting to her.
A blast to my head knocks me to the ground. Kidnapper One isn’t convinced. “Stop talking!” he orders.
But I got to keep talking, it’s the only chance I have. Maybe I can convince Daniel. “I don’t know who you guys are. It’s still not too late. Just walk away, leave me here. I thought the girl was an ex-girlfriend of mine, I obviously have no clue who she is.” Damn I’m almost crying; Very convincing shit.
“Come on Mac, let’s get out of here. We can’t kick the shit out of every drunk who gets in our cabs.” I have Daniel; he’s on my side, that’s two against one. In a democratic society like ours, I should be alright.
A boot to the gut tells me otherwise. Fuck, I’m rolling around in the mud like a dirty pig.
“What the fuck is that?” Non-Sheila asks.
“Shit, the guy had a gun.”
Jesus Christ Almighty. My pistol fell out. “This is America, everyone has a gun,” I plead.
“Shut up.”
I’ve often suspected that my victims felt a moment of clarity, right before the end; the moment in which they abandoned hope and prepared to die. I just had that moment.
I’m a dead man. I’ve been dead for months, no big deal.
They’re screaming, arguing, yelling. I can’t tell what’s going on, it doesn’t matter.
I’m on my knees, as quiet as a prayer boy. “Whoever sheds human blood, by humans shall their blood be shed; for in the image of God has God made mankind.”
I can see everything clearly. Everything that I have done has been in vain. The lousy cops will never link any of my crimes to me. No one will ever report me missing and my corpse may never be discovered. My masterpiece will be collection of unsolved crimes that no one will ever care about.
An explosion to the back of my head cures me of my cancer. My body goes limp.
I’m in a dream. It’s not as instant as I always thought. I’m so sorry Sheila, but it’s not all so bad.
About the Author
Erik D’Souza is a stay at home father, who ignored his kids just long enough to write his first novel. He has penned half a dozen uncompleted manuscripts and hundreds of short stories.
Erik once studied philosophy and poetry, but he switched his major to fashion marketing. His poetry teacher took it very hard, but his philosophy professor was unaware of his existence. Erik hasn’t worn a pair of jeans since he was in high school, because he’s not a cowboy.
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