Bodyguard | #TheWattys2024

Self-Control

Upstate New York

He ached. His whole body ached, but the pain felt distant, dull, as if it belonged to someone else.

"I am a man of self-control," he muttered under his breath, the words coming out like a mantra. He took another swig of his drink, letting the liquid burn its way down his throat. The glass clinked softly as he set it down.

"She has no control over me. I control my thoughts. I control my feelings," he repeated, gripping the cigar in his hand. He took a long drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs, as if he could drown the chaos inside him with it.

"I am in control. No one else," he told himself, exhaling a cloud of smoke that drifted upwards, disappearing into the dim light. The room felt small and suffocating, but he didn't mind. It was his space, and in here, he was the boss.

He aimed his gun again at the target in front of him. The bullseye was already littered with holes, evidence of his relentless practice. With a steady hand, he pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot echoed in the room, the bullet piercing through the center of the target with perfect precision.

"You have no control. You are but a man."

The voice, a small whisper, echoed in his head, making him flinch. He pressed his hands tightly against his temples, trying to push the voice away. The room was silent, but the voice persisted, slithering through his thoughts like a snake.

"No! I am in control!" He growled, standing up abruptly. "I am the Don of Dons, the Capo of Capos. No one else!" His hands trembled as he raised the gun again, aiming at the head of the target. With one swift movement, he pulled the trigger, the shot landing cleanly between the eyes of the paper silhouette.

His breath came in heavy, labored gasps. "I am a man of self-control," he whispered to himself once more, though the words felt hollow, like an echo fading into nothingness.

--

New Orleans, LA

Meanwhile, Dove hadn't seen Devon in over a week. It was unlike him to disappear without a word, and every attempt to reach him had been in vain. His phone went straight to voicemail, and whenever she passed by his house, she was told he was staying at a friend's. But something didn't feel right, and Dove couldn't shake the growing sense of unease that gnawed at her.

She found him one evening at the basketball court on the other side of town. The motorbike her father had built her made the journey quick, a blessing since her mom's old bike would have taken much longer.

Her father was talented, resourceful, and thoughtful in the way he added little customizations to the bike. He added cute bells and whistles, customizing it to her taste. Every time she rode it, she felt his love and care woven into the design.

The motorbike purred to a stop as she found a spot between two sleek, black Dodge Chargers. She removed her light pink helmet, tucking it under her arm as she unwound her matching pink gloves. Dove shook out her curls, letting the cool evening air chase away the heat trapped under the helmet.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed a pair of men staring at her from their cars, their eyes lingering too long for her to ignore.

"You way too fine to be drivin' alone, ma," one of them called out, his voice smooth but laced with humor.

Dove turned, her gaze matching his curious one. "I can manage on my own," she replied with a light laugh, though she kept her distance.

The man grinned, flashing a set of pearly whites. "I'm Jabari, and this here's my brother, Hassan," he said, pointing to the passenger next to him, who gave a nod of acknowledgment.