Home > Shattered Ice (Fury #3)

Shattered Ice (Fury #3)
Author: Monty Jay


Prologue

 

 

KAI

 

 

I’d never quite understood the point of eulogies. I mean be realistic, who the hell cares?

I had already made my way to the podium standing in front of a room full of people, dressed in a pair of black slacks and matching button-down. A tie didn’t seem fully necessary for the occasion. Although I’m sure some would beg to differ.

I lean into the microphone knowing very well the people awaiting my speech are sitting on the edge of their seat to hear what I have to say about the loss of this loved one.

I clear my throat, wetting my lips that are already moist, just pulling my audience in closer like a spider to their succulent web. The front row was mostly women my mother's age, eyeing me up and down like I wasn’t sixteen.

In their line of work age was just a number anyway. It didn’t matter how low or how high as long as a profit was on the other side. Hook, line, and sinker, if I wanted them, I could have them.

Wickedly twisted, isn’t it? I’m not sure what’s worse, the fact I am so absurdly confident in my conclusion, or that it’s true.

Upside down, sideways, in a car, two at a time, right fucking here in front of my dead mother I could have them, legs spread, back shoved into the ground. I think they fed off the fact that I knew they wanted me, but I didn’t want them.

“Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.”

The words written by Norman Cousins glide effortlessly off my tongue. They may as well be my own.

I nod my head, pushing my palm through my growing hair. It's about shoulder length, so it might be time to cut it. But I probably won't.

Back to eulogies, why must I spend time writing out something for someone I should have told things to when they were alive? What was the point now?

The person I’m talking about is dead.

Cold as ice, or possibly room temperature because of the embalming fluid, but all together dead. Unless you believed in the afterlife. Which I, sadly, did not. She can’t hear anything I’m saying about her, not like she would care if she could.

My mother never was the motherly type.

The entire point of this for lack of a better word, morbid speech, is attention. People thrive off attention from these things. Death and freak accidents. Everyone wants to be the best friend of a lost loved one so people watch them cry and say,

“Oh that poor soul, they must be devastated.”

That’s what eulogies are. Just a public deceleration of your relationship with the dead so people know who to feel sorry for. But here is the thing,

I was never the son type.

I also didn’t need anyone feeling sorry for me. What did sorry ever do for me? Not a fucking goddamn thing.

I move away from my spot, headed down the aisle to exit the church. The funeral wasn’t over but my part in it sure as fuck was. My speech took all of three seconds. I did my part, now I could leave.

The minuscule group of people watch me in shock, evading my own mother's funeral. How cruel. What kind of son am I? Not even a single tear for the women who gave birth to me.

There are things much worse than death, I assure you.

Not to mention nearly every single person who is in attendance is either drunk or twenty seconds away from their next high. I’m not judging by their outfits or rotten teeth either, I know this for an absolute fact.

I grew up around these women and the men who are in charge of their bodies. I lived among prostitutes and pimps in the city of St. Petersburg. The hysterical thing about the entire situation is a church is what hides the money.

Holy ground turned sinister because of money. Drugs, sex, guns, didn’t matter as long as the check was signed to Saint Mary’s Church of Mercy. It was a don’t look, don’t ask questions kind of church.

I still found it funny watching from the rafters as the people piled inside for mass or to confess their sins. I’d sit up there with stale bread, a tattered book, wearing dirty clothes. They all walked in with fancy dresses, tailored suits, throwing their money onto the gold plate. They were worshiping a place that housed young girls being pimped, a house that kept people like me a secret, hidden in the shadows. The church was the face of hell.

I was a product of pimps and preachers.

I loved cackling at the priest who would lecture for hours about sins, how the world we lived in was a dirty place and how the Lord would cleanse it.

Maybe he was saying that to clear his own dirty conscience. Maybe if he said it enough in mass the Lord would cleanse his soul. I highly doubt it though.

Let’s just say in his free time he wasn’t planning his next bible lesson while he was reading the tattoo on Jasmine’s lower back because she was bent over his office desk while he tried to keep it up.

The joys of hypocrisy. Gotta love it.

I’m not knocking religion. If you want to worship a goat, I don’t give a shit. I don’t condone using something meant to be pure like religion as a mask or a gateway to do bad things. You don’t need religion to have morals and just because you are religious doesn’t mean your morals are right.

To those in charge of these working girls, they were helping them. Doing the Lord’s will by assisting them out of poverty. The church gave them clothing, food, housing, warmth. All in exchange for them to spread their legs. To them it was an easy trade.

My father, not sure of his name, don’t think I care either, was a random John. I’m not particularly sure why my mother went through with the pregnancy. Lots of women in that line of work get abortions. It’s more common than giving birth, but apparently my mother was adamant on having me.

I push the doors open to be met with the frigid cold wind that accompanies the wet snow pouring down from the sky. My breath becomes visible as I release a breath from deep inside my lungs.

“Where do you think you are going, мой мальчик?”

My boy.

I wasn’t anyone’s goddamn boy. I never had been. I’d always just been a bastard born in a brothel.

My shoulders tense, my jaw clenches tightly. The smell of her fruity cigar wafts through the air and I find it more difficult to hate her. There was something about menthol scents that soothed me. The smoke smelled like peppermint.

This woman who shared my eyes. I wanted to hate her, but I couldn’t. Which was odd considering it was odder for me to love someone. However, it was hard to hate someone who radiated so much love.

“Not with you, Nina,” I grunt, looking at the falling snowflakes and slushy covered streets with a bored expression.

My signature emotionless face. The boy without a smile they called me in school. Teachers, students, principals.

“Malakai, you can’t stay angry with me.” She exclaims, “I wasn’t even aware you existed until I heard the news about your mother! We weren’t exactly on great terms.”

I would give her that one. I believed her when she had told me she wasn’t aware of my existence. My mother didn’t need the police banging on the front door yanking me out of there and arresting everyone for prostitution.

I’m surprised she even let me attend school. I was her secret and their pet. Used and played with at their leisure.

I lean on the side of the building, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a hand rolled cigarette, lighting the end and inhaling deeply. I didn’t even like smoking. I look over at Nina.

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