Swamp Murder

Swamp Murder. 3

The street stretching before me feels like more than just a road. It's a boundary, an endless gulf that separates two worlds. On our side, where life is just enough to scrape by, there are houses worn from years of struggle, patched with whatever we can find to keep out the elements. Families here do their best to make ends meet, sharing small, crowded spaces and hand-me-down lives. If it weren't for the small, weather-beaten house of my grandmother, we'd probably be on the streets.

The house is as old as my earliest memories, held together by sheer will and luck. It's a blessing in the midst of what some would call cursed living. But even that small comfort hangs by a thread as if one day a breath too strong would send it crashing down, taking all our fleeting hopes with it.

But on the other side of that yawning road? That's where life seems untouched by our struggles. There, people step out of their spotless, sprawling houses, strolling past pristine shops that sell things we can't even dream of buying. Expensive boutiques display the latest trends behind polished glass windows, schools boast fees our lifetime savings couldn't touch, and pharmacists and people walk briskly to high-end jobs, their clothes sharp and their shoes clean. Crossing that road is more than a matter of steps; it feels like a journey between worlds, where people on that side look at us as if we're only shadows.

Today, I find myself stepping into the creeping carpet chemist's compound, a place I dread but can't avoid. It's a beautiful building where desperation meets indulgence. People loiter around, eyes glazed or unfocused. Some sit, others lie down as if exhausted by the weight of the world on their shoulders. This place, this beautiful, miserable compound, has somehow become a haven of escape—a trap designed by a man known only as "Black." I've never met him, but I know his reputation. He offers the escape people here crave, though at a cost so steep it's impossible to measure.

I make my way to the entrance, where nurses go about their business, administering injections to those willing to pay for a moment's relief. It's a strange sight—the well-dressed rubbing elbows with the destitute, all here for the same purpose. Even the few glimpses of wealth here, the polished watches and tailored clothes can't mask the vulnerability that leaks out of everyone. Black's influence is palpable; he doesn't need guns or threats. Whatever he offers kills just as surely.

As I approach the door to his office, two security guards stand as sentries. Their faces are as hard as their words. "What do you want?" one of them demands, his voice curt.

"I need to see Black," I say, keeping my gaze steady.

The guard raises an eyebrow. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Yes," I say smoothly. "My mom sent me."

The guard narrows his eyes before giving a nod, signaling to the other to let me through. The heavy door creaks open, revealing a brightly lit room. Inside, a young man sits at a table, his eyes focused on a laptop screen. He looks up as I enter, and, in an instant, four more guards stand at attention, their eyes tracing my every move.

"Who are you?" one of the guards demands, his voice a low growl. His physique matches his voice—broad-shouldered and towering, a force of intimidation in a room where everyone is on edge.

"My mother sent me to collect her fix," I reply, trying to sound confident. My words feel stiff, but I force them out, hoping it's enough to satisfy them.

"Who's your mother?" he asks, eyes narrowing.

"Yi," I say, barely above a whisper. At the mention of her name, the man at the laptop stands up abruptly, striding toward me with a curious gleam in his eyes.