I crack open my right eye. My glasses are sitting askew on my face. The left lens is cracked, the other is dirty. The thing that's wrapped around me is a tow chain, rusty and unforgiving against my skin. I'm slumped over in a plain wooden chair, in what looks like an office. As I expected, when I lift my head, it sends streaks of that hot pain from my brain to the rest of me.
I can tell by the chain that wraps all the way to my waist that my Desert Eagle is gone. Goddammit. I love that gun.
“Wellllll hellllo there, sunshine.”
The voice is so familiar it hurts. It's the last voice I ever wanted to hear again. I woozily scan the space, see him – rather several of him – as my head spins. The man I hate more than anyone left alive, the man who taught me everything. The one who fed me, clothed me, beat me.
He's wearing a black suit and a horrid grin. In one hand is a cigarette. Beyond his other suit sleeve, there's a mysterious nothing, my repayment to him for the nights of tossing and turning on broken ribs and swollen joints.
I glare at him despite the pain and, yes, fear. Perhaps I've earned this, a torturous end, and the worst thing of all, failure. That motherfucking kid, he's not in my pocket. He took my money, but somehow Derrik figured out my plan. He turned me over to the Reaps. The shipment will never make it to the warehouse. Gram won't die, Derrik won't die, and I will. I'm so sorry, Maria.
The Jester draws closer to me in all his lanky, lazy glory. He leans down so that his face is just a few inches from mine, close enough for me to smell the cloves on his breath. I want to rip his throat out, but I can't move. My legs are lashed to the chair legs and the chain restricts my lungs. I can't even speak to curse him. I'm completely helpless and it burns like the truck would have, if I had succeeded.
He says, “Now, don'tchu worry 'bout your handy work, I didn't touch a thang.”
He pats the top of my head, so patronizing I nearly head butt him, except the impact of his hand feels like a hammer to my swelling brain. All I can do is whimper against the tape. The sound makes him chuckle.
“Just a few more minutes and that shipment will roll on outta here, your little signature still intact.”
What the fuck is he talking about? I suck in a sharp breath through my nose and my one open eye flicks to him. That crooked grin makes me feel sick, or maybe it's the massive amount of pain ripping through my nervous network.
His fingers close around a handful of my hair and he pulls my head up straight to look him in the eye. The cigarette hangs in his lips, the acrid smoke drifting between us, making it harder to breathe. My vision spins, a full tilt that makes me think I'm about to pass out again.
“You've been most helpful, downright convenient, in sending Gram a nice thank you gift for leavin' me in the guttah, after your failure to keep your men alive. I couldn't have planned it bettah, Freddy. I taught you well. Too bad you decided to turn coat. And now, I get ta kill you, just after I'm sure your efforts are realized, a'course.”
I jerk my face away from his, the only pathetic rebellion I can manage. He laughs again. That laugh will haunt me into the afterlife. I'll be born into another lifetime with that evil sound dogging my every step. And, mother fucker, I can't do a damn thing to save myself. The only glimmer in this darkness is that I haven't let Maria down after all.
She can still pull that trigger, still exact her revenge, and maybe she'll never know what became of me. If she's lucky, she'll never have a clue.
In a rash of desperation, with the certainty of death pressing on me, I consider pleading to the Jester. Please, just drop me in a swamp somewhere. Don't make her see this. But I can't even speak. My head hangs, my pride in shreds, my resolve shattered.
Out in the garage I can hear the truck start, muffled male voices. He's not bullshitting me. He's going to let that truck roll out of here strapped with Gram's death note. I shouldn't be surprised, but it's not really surprise that churns my insides. No, it's shame. In the end, I wasn't able to outsmart my teacher. And he's using me, one last time.
“Oh, just sit right there, Freddy, don't go anywhere,” Derrik says with a leer, and he slips out the door.
I'm left to drift on my physical pain and mental anguish. The truck chugs laboriously, idling with an ugly sound. If I could shoot it to put it out of its misery, I just might do it. More voices, then the garage door lifting. I hear Gram tell his boys to wait outside, that he'll be along. And the noise dies. The truck leaves. The garage door goes down.
It will be an hour and fifteen minutes until we know for sure if our plan worked. An hour left on this earth and it will be spent with the person I despise the most. What if I deserve this hell that's coming my way? Maybe you can never really earn redemption once you've been a Reaper. Or maybe it's that you can never really disappear.
Sometimes I guess you just have to face your demons and your past. Sometimes you can't outrun your fate, you just run as long as you can, as far as you can, so that when everything catches up, you don't
