My Life with Death

Nelson Street, Washington, D.C.

 I thought of a way to get to these things, even legally, without stealing them again. Thanks to my work, I made a lot of acquaintances on the street. Dealers, prostitutes, and sellers of stolen goods could help me. Fortunately, one of my contacts was located not far from where I used to go for psychological sessions, on Nelson Street, also known as a crime haven.

I walked through several dark alleys. The cold is all around me. The temperature was dropping, and the sun was starting to disappear. The wind hit my wounded face like steel spikes slowly piercing the skin. A street appeared before me as if out of a fog, with old apartment buildings with graffiti and teenage troublemakers sitting on the stairs in front of them drinking alcohol. The buildings' roads and roofs were covered in a snow-white blanket. Scantily clad girls stood waiting for rich and lonely customers by the broken sidewalks. But I wasn't looking for any of these people. I was looking for a geeky dwarf who could get anything you could think of. He was a known expert on illegal goods of all kinds. HE WAS MY BEST INFORMANT when I wasn't working on serious crimes. I was still at the academy and working as a profiler. One night, when I was sitting in the car not far from here, I noticed him, and he saw me. We started talking. I immediately recognized a particular potential in him.

"Hi, Bobby," I said to the thirty-something man standing in the dead-end alley behind the old diner. He was leaning his leg on the brick wall of the inhabited house and smoking a cigarette. His car was also there.

"Doc," surprised. "what about you?"

"I need your help," I said. "I'm in trouble."

"I already told you that I cannot serve. We are each on a different side of the street. I run this part of town, and you run yours," annoyed.

"You owe me, remember. I didn't betray you to the authorities. I set you free in exchange for information."

"But it's been a long time," he refused.

"You have to help me or else," I threatened.

He raised his hands non-offensively. "Fine, fine, lady. What do you need?"

"I'm in trouble. You have to give me some weapon," desperately.

"What? What? For what?" confused. "Hey doctor, we didn't agree on this," evasively.

I moved closer to him. I was so close that he could see the sweat running down the hairline on my forehead.

"You have to help me," I repeated, looking straight into his eyes. "They want to kill me. I can't go back home. I need to defend myself from them."

He unzipped his jacket and pulled out his gun – a Beretta M9. He handed it to me. I looked her over. The magazine was full. "Thank you."

He nodded in agreement. "a weapon like that doesn't come free," he reasoned. "what will you give me for her?"

"Do I look like I've got something?" disapprovingly.

He looked me over from head to toe. I wore ragged, bloody, smelly clothes, greasy hair, and empty pockets.

"How did you get here? Do you have a car?"

"Yes," I stammered.

"How is it?"

At first, I didn't understand what he was asking, but then it dawned on me.

"A silver sedan."

"Okay."

I cleared my throat. "I'd also need a disposable phone, some money, and clean clothes."

"What's going on? Who's after you?" he asked intensely.

"I need to solve a case. I have to get back to Northern Maryland," I answered evasively.

He dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out its entire contents.

"Will 50 bucks be enough for you?" he asked.

"Sure," I exclaimed.

He put a few bills in my hand and put the rest of the thick packet back into his jeans pocket. He walked past me to the car. He reached in through the window. He held the phone in his hand, still in its original packaging.

"Don't worry, he's untraceable without a GPS," he assured me. "no one will find you," he added.

"Thank you," gratefully.

He looked around.

"Hey, Ginna," he yelled at someone.

I turned to see who. One of the lightly dressed girls was heading towards us—a dyed blonde in a leatherette skirt, the same black boots, and a lace top.

"Bobby, what do you want?" she asked. "I just lost my boyfriend," she said with a stick of gum in her mouth.

"Shut up, Ginna," he said. "Hey, this is my friend. I have a problem. He needs help. Don't you have any clothes?'

She looked at me with contempt. She was still chewing very loudly. She was shivering with cold, which I wasn't surprised about given her wardrobe choice.

"I don't know, Bobby," she said dismissively, still giving me a cursory look.

He walked up to her and said, "You know you can't make it without me," threateningly. "Do as I say, or you won't get another gram," he added.

She rolled her eyes in annoyance but agreed. "Fine, come with me," she waved at me.

I went after her. We left the alley and continued south along Nelson Street for two hundred meters. She walked a few steps ahead of me. She turned to one of the houses, ran up three flights of stairs, and flung open the door of the two-story brick house. I went after her. I looked around me. I walked through the narrow corridor on the ground floor to the end of it to the wooden door. The wallpaper on the walls was tattered, and the floor was dirty. Ginna unlocked and opened the door.

"Come on," she urged me. I entered the apartment first. I looked around the two-room apartment. A small kitchen connected to the dining room and living room. Behind one door on the left was a modest bedroom, and behind the other was an even smaller, more modest bathroom with a toilet. Considering her profession, the apartment was humble and boring: no cheesy or bold decorations or outrageous accessories. Ginna went into her bedroom. I stayed in the living area of the main room. She came back in about five minutes with her arms full of clothes.

"I've picked out things for you that I think you'll like," with a hint of sarcasm. "you can use my bathroom if you want. I have to go; close the door behind you when you leave," she said confidently, placing her clothes on the leather sofa and leaving the apartment.

I went to the bathroom with a few pieces of clothing. I needed to take a shower.

I turned on the flashing light. I took off my clothes. I looked in the mirror. I watched my reflection. I felt disgusting but primarily vulnerable. I looked at the scars on my body. I was touching them. Memories of the pain that accompanied the events during which they arose were projected onto me. I let down my greasy hair. I ran my fingers through them. I smelled the ring. My hair got caught in it. On the edge of the sink, I placed the gun, money, and phone I took out of my jacket pocket. I stepped under the icy water stream but didn't feel the cold. I felt hot. Heat inside my body. In the heat, I had to cool down.

I couldn't let go of my mother's pendant. I constantly pressed it in my hand or touched it with my fingertips. He gave me confidence. He reminded me of things I must remember. Faith was the last thing that kept me from giving up. Belief in truth and justice, just like her mom believed her to be.