My jaw hits the floor as her kid’s cries increase, my need to stop what the psychopath’s inevitably about to do to him unleashing fury across my skin with every nerve catapulting to life in my body. Helpless to do a fucking thing, I yell out into space, swinging my fists at a phantom recipient, sweat spilling from my pores as the chatter of the universe eats away at my pleas. Silence, long and menacing, chills me down to my bones before one final shot splices through the air, the child’s tiny cries fading into nothing as the bloodcurdling sound of his last, mangled breath pierces me straight to the hollow of my soul. A ball of grief tightens my chest, its potency wiping out the strength from my muscles, as I watch, tears hindering my vision, the cameraman produce a small canister of gasoline. An entertained chuckle strums from his mouth as he drenches Cindy’s bed in the hazardous liquid, a calculated strike of a match following the premeditated movement. Flames scream through the room, the screen shaking in sync with the cameraman’s quickened footsteps as he and the hooded figure bolt out of the apartment.
The picture fades to black and I slump onto the couch, mentally disturbed beyond repair from what I’ve witnessed. From what I know will consume my every waking thought. I’ve seen the destruction man can do, experienced its brutality firsthand. But there’s no doubt in my mind that this heinous crime, this horrifying, inhumane act of cruelty done to a mother and her child, trumps it all. Visions of Cindy’s unsuspecting face, the wretched sound of her innocent kid’s screams, will forever haunt the rest of my days spent on the gutless spine of this earth, the core of who I am stained by the vileness of humanity as a whole.
As the video restarts, my gaze widens on the mayhem unfolding before me. Hordes of families jumping from second-story windows, a father shielding his newborn daughter from a tidal wave of flames, and an array of household pets littering the streets blackens my line of sight. Limbs frozen, I watch a block of suburban row houses melt away into a skeleton of what they once were, the memories held within them spurring into the air in the form of ashes.
Shot taken from afar, the cameraman zooms in on the frenzied neighborhood below, laughter mixing with the howling screams from women and children. Blocking out stars for miles, flames lick the angry sky red, towers of smoke billowing into the frigid night air as though the devil’s fingers were reaching up from hell, painting the small town with his fury.
Helpless onlookers cry out as fire engines, cops, and EMTs descend upon the scene. Another cut to black and I’m left speechless as I bury my face between my hands in an attempt to keep myself from hurling. It’s no use as my stomach gives out. Knees hitting the carpet, I hunch over a wrought iron magazine rack and upchuck this morning’s breakfast onto a stack of Playboys, my body continuing to shake as I compose myself.
After a few seconds of blank white screen, the video begins again, my heart lurching up my parched throat as I glimpse Derick, Dom’s older brother, sitting at his desk. Calmly smoking a cigarette, an emotionless stare pinned onto his half-skeletal-tattooed face, Derick looks into the video camera, his deadened eyes crinkling at the corners as he screws his mouth into a slow sneer. Transfixed on the devil before me, I barely notice a woman massaging his shoulders, only her slender hands visible as Derick lifts a snifter of pale brown liquid to his mouth.
“Goddamn, I fucking love this shit!” Derick slams the empty glass onto the desk, his expression contorted with equal parts disgust and delight as another pair of female hands appears, refilling his snifter with Jack Daniel’s. “But I’m not making this video to tell ya how much I love me some whiskey, Brock.” A sardonic smile spreads his lips as he nods his head toward the doorway, dismissing the woman behind him. She, along with the second chick, obeys his unspoken command, the door clicking closed with their departure as he chuckles. “Of course I’m not.” Sobering, his eyes darken as he leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “But I’m pretty damn sure you figured that much out by now. Even if you are a fucking murderer, a coldhearted pig like me, I’m sure your IQ is capable of registering what exactly the purpose of this home movie is.”
Without pulling his attention from the camera, Derick takes a long drag from his cigarette, followed by a quick swallow of his drink, his voice eerily calm as he relaxes back into his chair. “Though I have to give ya credit for one thing, Cunningham. You were right when ya said the whore should’ve been disposed of. After ya killed my brother you remembered the cardinal rule for when the shit hits the fan for us dealers. Never. Leave. A. Loose. End.”
Out of nowhere, he explodes, all calm forgotten as he jumps to his feet. “Ever, motherfucker! You never leave a witness alive! But you did and I had to clean up your mess, had to make sure the little cunt didn’t spill details about what’d happened or the empire I run! You should’ve shoved your gun up her diseased pussy and made her pay for being there!”
As though he didn’t trip the fuck out, he calmly reclaims his seat and takes a casual sip of his drink, his demeanor all business. “What Cindy did was just plain wrong, Brock. Wrong, wrong, wrong. I mean, she knew who killed my brother, yet she never said a word to me. I gave her enough time to confess her sins against my brother, the man who saved her from her abusive father and dusthead whore of a mother. I kept waiting, patiently, which is terribly hard for me—though I already knew it was you—for her to reveal your name. But she gave me nothin’, kept her blow job–mastering mouth shut.” He stubs out his cigarette in an ashtray, and pushes off his chair to stretch, his eyes devoid of human emotion. “And her kid? Well, what can I say? Had you taken care of her the way you initially planned to, maybe, just fucking maybe, his three-year-old little ass would still be alive. Though I probably would’ve put a bullet in his skull anyway—I don’t need some cracked-out teenager seeking revenge on his mother’s killer fifteen or so years down the road—I’ll let his demise burn your conscience for a while.” He pauses, his grin returning. “But, man oh man, you sure as fuck missed one helluva show. There’s an epic difference between the complexities of how an adult’s skull explodes under the pressure of a bullet versus a kid’s. I won’t get into the details of it all, but it’s definitely something you’ll have to try out for yourself one day.”