Jesse

25: Uncertainties

 25: Uncertainties

            The following Sunday, the first and front page article covered none other than what had happened the night before, in the shady apartment complex, Black called home before he went and shot himself.

            When I first saw it, the headline was like a bullet into my brain, shocking back the painful flashes, the haunting shadows of memories. I wrenched my eyes shut, forcing myself not to feel or think those horrible thoughts of what happened. I heard Black's gunfire echo last night in my dreams: in my nightmares—saw his harsh face burn through the darkness. I felt all the same pain as I did, laying there on the bed, petrified with the worst horror I had ever felt in my entire life. Feeling the tears bleed, and hear my silent scream…

            It read:

            SEVEN ARRESTS IN JADE COMPLEX LEADS TO MASSIVE DRUG BUST

            The Jade Complex was the name of the place. Below this bolded headline, there was a smaller headline that read in italics:

            Anonymous kidnapping suggests foul play may be involved

            My stomach roiled with discomfort, and I felt like I was going to be sick. I sat there trembling as I held the newspaper at the dinner table. Harold wasn't even up yet; it was his day off, on Sunday. I had to see the paper, and read the article. But now, I wasn't even sure I wanted to. I remembered I had adamantly asked to remain anonymous with the kidnapping; and the policemen assured me I would; I told that too—to this reporter who had called the police's office, while I had still been there. Word got around fast. It always would.

            I realized that had been a smart move on my part, to make sure my name was not mentioned at all. Harold could NEVER know of this. He would really beat the life out of me. Then. I skimmed through the long article, searching for the names of those who had been arrested. Jose Amarillo; he had always been a faithful customer of Black's—I detested even thinking his fucking name anymore—Jose was in his late fifties. There was the big fat Indian (Not Native American) guy with the mustache and a baldhead who was underground drug provider as well, who bought off of Black Swann, the monster.

            His name was Ajil Malakar. There was another one I recognized: Damian Cohen. He was the mobster type; all bark, no bite. And a good customer too. All of them middle-aged. The other two were younger, and I didn't know them. But the last struck me breathless. Seth Brogue, 18. Tom Boy's older brother of course. J.'s fucking shadow. My eyes snapped opened, and now I could feel my heart thud into my throat, pound behind my ears.

            Frantically, I tore through the article, ravenous: reading it over and over. Dammit.            Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Fuck. Oh no.

            James Gray was nowhere to be seen in the article. What the fuck? He hadn't got arrested? He had escaped? I remembered nothing past vomiting of that night. Oh shit. This was awful. I wanted to just burn the entire newspaper. But that wouldn't make the problem go away. The unbearable truth lurked with the same missing name, over and over, and over:

            J. was still out there. Somewhere. And I bet more than anything he was out to get me. To kill me. I had cost him his half-brother. His money. His drugs. Oh shit. This was bad. This was really bad. I stood up, feverishly, not knowing what to do. Sat back down. Stood up again. Paced. Paced. Paced. What to do. What to do. What to do. Don't panic. Shit. Shit. Shit. Panic.

            I needed to calm down. Catch my breath. Yes. Calm down Jesse, I thought to myself. Panicking won’t help any. He could have committed suicide or something. It was possible right? Black had? Who knew what he was up to. He could no longer be in this town. Or he could only be feet away. Watching. Waiting. For when I was alone. Oh God! No. Don't think about it Jesse. You're fine. Nothing's wrong. You're okay. Think reasonable now Jesse. Yes, think reasonable. I needed to breathe.