Chapter 70: Chapter 70

Chapter 70 It was time for him to take

He curled into his black jacket tighter when the harsh wind threw itself at him. Night had fallen and it was time for the king to reign over his kingdom. It was time for the predator to escape his confinement that day brings upon him.

He wrapped his knuckles in torn cloth and tucked his gun away into his waistband of his pants.

It was time for him to take.

His gang was his only family. His gang was the one who had named him when he was in his younger years. The name Colton means from the dark town.

They believed it was fitting for him, and indeed, it was. His name came with an identity attached to it, it gave him a meaning. His parents hadn't given him a name because they hadn't deemed him worthy of one.

So, surely, if his gang had given him a name, they must care about his presence. And, maybe he felt a sense of pride in that fact. Maybe he felt worthy for once in his dark, void life.

And he felt like he had purpose at times when he was breaking and evading the law. Even now, he feels oddly alive as he approaches a nearby gas station with some of his gang members. He pulled the black veil down onto his face, shrouding his features so that he will go unrecognizable.

It's the dead of night when he and his gang storm into the gas station.

Muffled voices strangle the silence. Guns aimed and hearts ablaze with the lust for money, the men swiftly approach the man behind the cash register. The man backs away, holding his hands up in surrender and mutters words of a different language.

Fear.

The fear to die runs in his eyes and Colton can't get enough of it.

"T-take money and l-leave!" The man stutters, eyes wide with panic.

Colton shakes his head and chuckles. "I'm afraid that's not how it works in this part of town." Colton makes a simple movement with his head and his men know what to do.

They approach the man, who's now begging and pleading to be spared, and beat him with their fists. Colton watches as their feet sink into his sides and he hears the sound of bone crunching when fists come in contact with his face.

But they don't kill him. Yet.

They tie him up and pin him to the floor as Colton raids the cash register. He greedily takes out all eight-hundred dollars from the register and shoves it in his pockets.

And then he makes his way to the ATM machine. He takes out his gun and beats the lock repeatedly with the butt of his gun. He did not want to shoot his gun and raise any suspicions about the robbery that was going on at the moment.

He brings back his arm again and it clatters loudly with the lock. Damn thing! He thinks to himself. This was taking too long, each robbery is to be done with haste and precision. Lingering too long will only attract unwanted attention.

When the lock finally busts open and reveals more cash, Colton breaths a sigh of relief.

"Shit!" One of the gang members suddenly curses. Colton abruptly stands up and sees the man behind the register running out of the doors of the gas station in an attempt to escape.

Escaping alive meant that the man was a witness.

No witnesses are to live.

It's the morbid code of the gang.

"You fucking take the rest of the money! I'll go after him." Colton growls with anger, his eyes narrowing at the men before him.

He turns and sprints into the vast darkness where even the lights cannot shine. His shoes pound against the cold sidewalk and his pace is quick. He's always been a fast sprinter, which is something he had found out in his later childhood. He remembers being able to outrun full grown men, and his mind brings him to times where he had to escape many times from law enforcement.

He could even outrun trained, professional law enforcement officers. Too bad his gift of speed was only used for poor situations. Perhaps, he could of gotten a scholarship in some type of a sport if he had been born of middle class or upper class.

Maybe then, his life would have had a better outcome. Maybe he would of have a family that would of have given him a real name when he was born. Maybe he could of have a family that actually cared for him, actually granted him with love.

Love.

What is love?

The word and meaning that comes with it is such a foreign, almost silly concept to him. The closest he's felt to some sort of feeling of.....not darkness was when he looked into that young woman's eyes. The eyes of the woman that he had purchased just the other night. There was something about her he was drawn too....attracted too.

But even then, it wasn't love. It just wasn't darkness. For once in his life, he didn't see darkness but....sympathy? Empathy? Perhaps, because once, he was like like she was. Trapped in sexual slavery with no way out.

The only difference was, that even though they've been through the same situation, her eyes held innocence and his eyes held darkness. Her eyes held fear and his eyes held vengeance.

And so their outcomes turned out different. He looked at the world with bitterness and she looked at the world with gratefulness. A gratefulness that she was finally free from sexual slavery.

When he became free....he was bitter. He was angry. He was depressed. He was broken even more than he already was. And rightfully so, too. He had been through a life that most people have no clue about.

But his outlook on life effected him after he was free. He made poor choices based on his life experiences, and just when he thought he couldn't travel farther down the road of self destruction, he did.

And he doesn't realize it, but he's slowly destroying himself. Or, maybe he does realize it. Maybe he does realize he's destroying himself and just doesn't care.

Maybe he's given up.

Maybe that's why he strangles the man behind the cash register. Maybe it's simply because he's given up and doesn't care anymore about his life, or anyone else's for that matter.

"W-won't tell! I-I didn't see!" The man wheezed as Colton's fingers dug deep into the flesh of his neck and squeezed. His eyes bulged from his sockets and his pale fingers dug into Colton's hands in an attempt to loosen his grip.

Colton chuckles, his laughter deep and cold. It matches the depths of the ocean and the coldness of the winter's air. "Only the blind cannot see. Only the deaf cannot hear, and only the dead cannot speak."

Strangled gasps of air and desperate jerking and thrashing movements followed for several minutes as Colton worked to suffocate the man beneath him. The man's pale face was turning blue and his eyes were becoming bloated.

Finally, he gave his last breath and he writhed no more. His hands that had wrapped themselves around Colton's hands became slack and fell to his sides. His flesh was gaunt and his mouth was hung open in a horrified, silent dead scream.

Colton stood up and wiped the blood off of his hands onto his jeans.

Another innocent's blood has been spilled. Another blood from an innocent covers his hands tonight.

And Colton feels numb.

He feels cold. He feels.....nothing.

What is the price of a human life? Eight hundred dollars? How about eight thousand dollars? Maybe eight million dollars? Colton could have all the money in the world, but nothing is ever worth more than a human life.

Human life is worth so much, it cannot be measured.

It is priceless.

And no amount of money can make Colton feel better about the life he's just taken. He could walk home with eight million dollars tonight in trade for the life he's just taken, and still not be satisfied.

Why?

Because another innocent has just died by his hands.

He sighs and scuffles away, leaving the body on the streets. Death is common on the streets he calls home, and he knows people won't be surprised by the presence of a body the next morning.

Feeling drab and depressed, he just decides to saunter home. He knows the other gang members know their way and trusts they will get back just fine with the cash they had stolen that night.

When he gets home, he rips the mask off of his face that concealed his identity. He goes to the plastic sink in his room and turns on the water, and like usual, it spits out dirt before it sputters out a weak stream of stained water.

Stained water that matches his hands. Only, his hands aren't stained with dirt, but something much more sinister.

Blood.

Blood that doesn't belong to him.

He gazes at his hands for a moment. The silence burns in his ears and he squeezes his eyes shut. In a flash, he has an empty glass cup in his hands and throws it against the nearby wall with so much force, it shatters upon impact. He runs his hands through his hair before he places them so that they clutch either side of the cheap sink.

And then he looks up into his reflection. His frown sinks deeper into his skin and brokenness is etched into his features. He looks tired and worn, and shame eats him alive. Not liking the feelings his own reflection is giving him, he shatters the mirror, too.

The glass cuts into his fists with each strike, but he doesn't stop. He won't stop until his reflection is completely marred, is completely unrecognizable, just like his appearance, his heart, and even his soul.

"Damn it!" He exclaims as he feels the warmth of blood running down his arm followed by a sharp sting. He growls and grabs a torn white towel from the drawer and wraps it around his wounded fists.

You deserve pain. You deserve to be miserable. You deserve hell. A voice nags at him in the back of his mind. That voice, though it riles him up, he couldn't agree more.

To cure himself from reality, he doesn't hesitate to grab a beer - as well as a cigarette - and sit down in the old, broken recliner he owns. He lets out a sigh as he pops open the beer can and lights his cigarette.

Smoke fills the room and the strong smell of beer is overwhelming, and, neither substances are working for him tonight. Nicotine and alcohol usually help sate his feelings and help him escape from reality.

But tonight, nothing is helping, and he crushes the beer can in his fist in frustration.

He turns his attention to drugs. A buddy of his had given him heroin, a drug that he promised himself he would never try because it's the same substance that drove his parents mad. It's the same drug that his parents turned their backs on him for. It's the same drug that, more than likely, had driven them to their graves.

The thought of his parents causes him to chuckle. It's a deep, throaty, and deranged chuckle. The kind that sends chills down people's spines.

His voice breaks the tense, dark silence. "May those two forever by tortured in the depths of hell for what they've done." He scoffs. He doesn't know if they're dead or alive, but chances are, they have long since passed due to their obsession for any type of drug they could get their hands on.

And now, he's faced with a choice and he greedily eyes the heroin needle sitting on the counter. He likes his lips in anticipation. Just once....one time won't hurt. One time to just....forget about my problems the entire day. One time just to temporarily cure myself.

Compromises. Compromises. Compromises.

Little did he know that a compromise would just throw yet another toxic turn in his life. He lines up the needle and shoves it into his vein. It was a slight pinch as the needle slid into his skin.

But the effects were almost immediate.

A wave of calmness crashed into him like an ocean wave. He felt warm - not uncomfortably warm, but pleasurably warm. Euphoria caught him in its hold and it felt good to just....feel good for once in his life.

The ache in his knuckles vanished, and along with it, his memories. Memories of the past and memories of the present. Everything felt peaceful and the feeling of...was it joy? He wouldn't know what joy is as he never has really experienced it truly.

Until now.

Even though it was brought on by the use of harmful drugs, he didn't care. He didn't care that his feelings were artificial and he didn't care that it was harmful to his body.

He just cared about the euphoric feeling he was experiencing for once in his life. He just wished he could feel like this forever - he wished he could feel like he was floating, safe and happy, for an eternity.

But all things must come to an end, and as he fell out of his high, his stomach turned. He felt nauseous, horribly sick, and sweaty. His heart was loud in his ears and he fell out of his chair and onto the ground.

On his hands and knees, he heaved the contents of his stomach up. The beer burned his throat and his eyes stung. He groaned in discomfort, and his heaving session lasted several minutes. It was like he was caught in a grip he couldn't escape.

And when he finally did escape, he slumped backwards onto the ground, panting for air.

He was exhausted.

His eyes fluttered shut, his dark eyelashes sweeping his cheeks. A lone tear slipped out from between his closed eyes.

But as he passed out on the stone cold floor, he couldn't wait to find his next dose of heroin that is nothing more than a temporary solution to sate his issues.

But he never thought his drug would eventually be in the form of a woman.