HAUNTING SERPENTS

9

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Aurora

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We've been driving for what's near thirty minutes now, and neither of us uttered a word.

I did not put up a fight when he asked me to come. Spooky might actually be a pain in my ass, but I am not in a position that allows me to be picky. So, if it doesn't directly kill me, I can bear. And whilst extremely intolerable, I feel some kind of secure in his company. Maybe it is the fact that he's an experienced killer. But his fighting skills are still mine to judge since i've only seen him flex his tattoos on a 13 years old, so far.

The red Impala finally comes to a halt. And I am left to wonder where exactly we are. It is a dark, sketchy alleyway in the middle of no-one-knows-where and I'm beginning to get chills. My temper is running short.

"you have your gun on you?" is the first thing he says all rides. My head snaps fool-ly to his direction and I take time to comprehend his question, and... voice. Why is it so strained?

My hands move up to my waist, and I grip to the gun I tugged in my belt. I open my mouth to mouth my positive answer but stop when I see his eyes followed my hand. He already saw my gun. But he doesn't stop staring until it makes me some kind of self-conscious. "you want me to kill someone?" I hope he says no. I am not a virgin to murdering, and especially not to shooting. But I like to avoid having the bloods of someone else on my hands. For the trouble that might haunt me, and for the mental prospect and consequence of it too.

My breath is held in deep because I do not hear a single word for answer for what feels like four hours. -but is in fact is 0.4 minutes-.

"no." my eyes lift to stare at him when his head leaves and focuses forward again. my eyes trail his shoulder down his flexed arm and settle on the tightness of his grip on the steering wheel. the way his hand is veiny and voice is strained tells me he's in deep thinking or in deep shit. Either way, it hurts me in no way now that he's confirmed he has no intention of ordering me to kill someone.

"I want you to go out there" my eyes dart to the space fronting the car again. empty. "and deliver those." he throws a brown paper bag at me. I did not even see him carry it in the car or hold it for the entirety of our drive.

And as if on que, a black Mercedes shows, blasting rap music, and portraying my worst nightmare of a ride. I sincerely despise rap music so much that I would actually not have taken the ride with spooky yesterday if he was playing it in his car. Which brings me to think, I've been in the car with him for atleast three rides now, and I haven't heard him play a single song. Maybe hes not into music. Or maybe he has an extremely weird taste that hes afraid- "Aurrora." Aurrora. My name never sounded more ghetto.

Right. Get it together.

I grab the paper bag with one hand, my handgun secured by my other. And waiting for a last instruction from spooky. Which he does not tease me with waiting before he gives. "you walk halfway, hand the puta his shit and wait till he gives you the damn money. It's 13,000 dollars, if it's anything short we will see him again and you will have to finish him." Jesus.

Yeah, ok. It cant be that hard or challenging. It is an easy balanced equation. I give, I get. Easy. "that gun is with you, you feel threatened, stick you hand under your shirt and grab it, I will see it and come for you." I mumble a 'good to know' under my breathe. "go" once more. As much as I feel like punching spooky right now, I don't. instead, I turn my back and leave the car like he'd asked me. I walk confidently a few steps in front of the car, in the midst of the space separating the two cars. I wait till a guy leaves the passenger seat of the black Mercedes and heads out with a certain kind of gangster walk. He is young, I could tell. Rap music devouring my ears now. god, I hate it here.

"Whats up" he winks. I get a closer glimpse of his face. His braids, the only noticeable trait when you first see him. But his skin definitely is his best one. When I don't say anything, he stretches out a hand with a paper bag similar to the one im holding, except it's more wrinkled. If I'm reluctant – which I am – , I don't show it and snatch the thing from his hand. I don't count the money, but I inspect the bag. When I make sure that everything is fine. I have the money, now it's my turn to give. My eyes look up to the new guy, and hes just smiling at me like a fool. I don't mind him, and open the bag I came with instead to make sure of the substance I'm carrying.

I'm the one that's in deep shit.