The obsession I didn’t even admit I had until now.
She’s real—she’s fucking real—and that can only mean one thing:
It was all real.
All of it.
I did sell my soul.
And now she’s come to collect her due.
CHAPTER 2
Ten Years Ago
- St. Claude Avenue, Lower Ninth Ward, New Orleans, LA (USA)
The street signs are blurry. The few ones still remaining, that is. I squint at the faded one on the next corner, willing the words to magically sharpen.
No luck. It’s either because that’s an old, piece of shit sign—in this old, piece of shit part of the city—or due to the fentanyl in my veins. The blood dripping into my eye doesn’t help, either.
The ground tries to rush up to meet me on my next step. I stumble, but I don’t fall, and that’s a good thing.
Got enough injuries for the night. No need to add more.
But seriously. What the fuck does that sign say? You’d think I’d know where I am by memory alone.
Hahhhhhh. Funny. As if I don’t refuse to pay attention to my surroundings half the time.
This side of town still lacks most of its streetlights, but the cops are big on their “No Loitering” bullshit law. Especially after the chaos of the post-Katrina days. Last thing I need is to be spotted by them in this state. I might be high as fuck—or probably in a universe well beyond that—but I ain’t stupid.
I’m fixin’ to get my ass to shelter and away from any chance of being caught by the cops. Not the actual shelter I’m staying at, of course. Don’t need Ms. Demie’s disapproving gaze or hear her telling me I’ve been kicked from the program for good.
Eh. They were going to kick me out anyway. I just made it easier for them. Saved us all the time.
I cross the street aimlessly, avoiding another of the potholes, and onto a street with only two of its homes remaining, spaced apart from each other by what seems to be an acre of empty land.
Another remnant of Katrina. A lot of the houses in the Lower 9th Ward were destroyed for good. We’re mostly too piss-poor around these parts to rebuild entire homes, especially when the government proved to not give a rat’s ass about us in the end.
Like it was a newsflash, am I right?
I remember our own rundown home, another colorful Creole cottage with its single story, two rooms, and more cracks on the wall than most of the streets around here.
Mom wasn’t the greatest; I’m a living testament to that. The outcome of her inability to be a functional human. Yet life with her was much better than anything that’s come since.
She did manage to get me on the roof before the waters took her. My last view of her is one I can’t erase. The only time I ever saw an expression of concern on her face. Then, she was gone, taken by a huge surge.
Believe me, she was the lucky one. Every day I wish the helicopters hadn’t rescued me off that roof. Should’ve just left me there. Put their efforts into saving someone worthwhile. Not the nine-year-old son of a lost heroin addict.
I mean, look at me now in all my fucked-up glory. Homeless, addicted to pills, covered in injuries and scars of fights past.
Maybe tonight will be the night I finally work up the balls to end it.
Maybe.
I look around, clueless where I’ve ended up now. It’s an even emptier spot, one I haven’t walked around in the past. There’s a single cottage down the road. The next home seems to be at least three blocks away.
It’s whatever. At least I’m in an isolated area. It’ll be easier to find a place for the night with even less people around.
I continue onward, the world lost in a fog around me. Makes finding a hiding spot to sleep difficult, but I did it to myself, right? The only clear area in this entire mess is that house and it becomes even sharper as I approach.
Man, it’s in great condition compared to most buildings in these parts. Like the Hurricane never touched it, nor the rampant poverty of the Lower 9th. The people who own it must have some serious money.
Yeah right. Why would anyone with money want to build or live around here?
The home appears to glow with its bright lights. A glossy, fresh-looking coat of aqua paint covers its facade, and the windows are highlighted in bright yellow. An assortment of lush, potted plants decorate the sidewalk just outside, and the entire aura of the place is homey.
Welcoming.
Not that I plan to waltz up there and knock. A shelter meant to take in lost souls like me didn’t want me around. Why would some stranger?
No one ever wants me. Until the end of my mother’s life, I never saw sign that she did. Only that one time she saved me before dying.
I blink, and the vision of the cottage warps for a second. Like something out of a gothic nightmare, I swear I see the exterior crumble, cracks forming, paint peeling . . .
Silently screaming faces bulge out of the walls.
Tripping on my next step, I right myself, but of course there’s nothing on those walls. It’s the drugs and liquor talking.
And the lack of sleep.
Shaking my head at myself, I keep it moving, searching in vain for somewhere to take a break. Sit down for a few seconds.
The basic things most people take for granted, most of which are denied to scumbags like me.
I’m so high that each step I take begins reverberating in my head somehow, the ground appearing to shake. It’s perplexing, nauseating. How the fuck am I supposed to handle the world tilting like I’m on a boat at sea?
Swallowing compulsively, I stop to wait for it to pass.
It doesn’t.
That isn’t my footsteps pounding, either.
Is someone drumming?
The rhythm sneaks through me, from the soles of my feet, up my quivering legs, to the top of my messed-up head. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly. Come on, man, you’re fucked up, but this is ridiculous. Get it together.
Bullshit, it’s getting worse. Now I’m hearing voices from every direction, chanting in indecipherable fragments.
I slap my hands over my ears. It does nothing. The noise grows, getting unbearably loud. I clench my teeth, curling into myself. What is this? Does it mean it’s finally happening?
Am I finally losing my mind for good?
“No, dear child. No. You’re finally finding it for the first time.”
I startle at that voice and see a small figure in front of me—an old woman, from what I can make out. She’s also blurry.
Blurry and colorful, like the house to my left.
Her hair is a frizzy, gray halo around her. Her features aren’t visible to me . . . until she smiles.
A black void stretches wide across her face, a grotesque display of missing teeth.
“Ah!” I let out a short shout, falling backward onto the sidewalk—
No. Not the sidewalk. I’ve crash-landed onto a brick floor of some kind. My hands scramble to make purchase, but there’s something slick beneath me. Thick and viscous.
I crab-walk into a wall, slipping at least two more times. Wherever I am, it’s lit by a myriad of candles, yet somehow their glow does nothing to ease the shadows that creep from every corner.
Lifting my hand, I squint at whatever is covering it.
Is . . . is that blood? What in the fuck—
A hiss rises, sharp and deadly. My eyes bounce up to search for the source of it. The shadows move, parting, reuniting, and I see the candles aligned on top of a surface. Figurines of some sort are also scattered throughout, and I might be high as a fucking kite but I grew up in this town. Its influences run deep in my veins, whether I like it or not.