4. The Feels
4
The Feels
W alking into the warehouse, nothing feels different. This is more of a business transaction than a job. Marklov and his men are standing and awaiting my approach. I can’t help but notice one of his men holding another file folder.
“Your work was kind of… messy , but you got the job done.” He yells out in an amused voice.
“Yeah, yeah. What can I say? I like it a little messy.”
“Don’t make things too messy. It will be hard to cover up.”
I chuckle, a sound that barely masks the weight of my thoughts. If only you really knew, Marklov. The things I do, I’ve honed them to perfection over the years, to the point where I could execute them flawlessly with my eyes closed. Each situation I encounter is a unique puzzle, demanding its own specific solution. It’s like playing a complex game where every move requires a different strategy. The stakes are high, the pressure immense, but there’s a strange comfort in the familiarity of it all. Every challenge is a testament to the skills I’ve painstakingly refined, a dance I’ve learned to perform without a single misstep.
“You don’t have to worry about me. I’m a big boy. You stay up on your end of the bargain, and I will do the same.”
He nods.
“This is only the start of it, Ghost. Don’t be fooled by my generosity or niceness.”
The start, the end, and the journey in between are a tangled mess of significance and emptiness. It feels like everyone else is moving through life with a clear map while I’m stumbling around in the dark, lost and disoriented. Their lives seem so orderly and predictable, while mine is a chaotic storm, constantly pulling me in every direction except the one that makes sense.
Normal? That’s a foreign concept to me. It’s like a shadow that I can never quite grasp, constantly slipping through my fingers. My existence feels like a series of missteps and wrong turns, a never-ending struggle to find my footing. It’s as if I’m trapped in a labyrinth with no exit, and the idea of a “normal” life is just a cruel joke played by the universe..
Earlier in the day, I shoved the severed finger into a baggie, sealing it up tight to keep it from stinking up the place. Now, I yank it out and hold it up, giving it one last look. It’s nasty—discolored and gross, with a sickly yellow hue and a texture that looks both rubbery and decayed. Still, I feel a weird sense of pride, knowing what it represents.
I chuck it to Marklov. He doesn’t even blink; just lets it drop to the floor with a soft thud. His eyes are locked on mine, cold and unflinching, like he’s seen worse and isn’t fazed by this at all. There’s a silent challenge in his stare, daring me to react.
With a snap of his fingers, one of his guys steps forward, scooping up the finger without a second thought. The guy moves with practiced efficiency like he’s done this a thousand times before. No hesitation, no disgust—just business as usual. Marklov keeps staring at me, and the air between us feels heavy, with unspoken tension. It’s clear this isn’t just about the finger; it’s about power, control, and who’s really in charge here.
A couple of months later
Another file, another victim. Each time I feel like I’m getting closer to getting out of Marklov’s grasp, he blindsides me with more work. It is nothing I can’t handle but damn it, man. When will it end?
Esmé graduated high school in May. I made it there by the skin of my teeth, juggling deadlines and the constant jobs from Marklov.
The ceremony was a brief respite, a moment of normalcy in an otherwise chaotic life. But even then, the weight of unfinished tasks loomed over me, a constant reminder that my freedom…no. Our freedom was still out in a labyrinth. I have no idea how fucking long he plans on keeping this shit up.
I had to stay vigilant about my surroundings. When I looked around, I could just tell the dudes with the same looks were Marklovs men. He wanted me to know that he always has eyes on my little Esmé.
None of that didn’t stop me from cheering my little girl on when she walked across that stage. She makes life easier but also more complex. Easier as in she brings joy to my life, difficult as in if something were to happen to her, I’d lose my fucking mind, and I’d burned the world down with me in the process.
My sister is much more than someone who shares the same blood as me. In a way, she saved me. She helped teach me who I needed to be in life. I may have broken many of our family’s cycles for her, but I’m still getting myself in fucked up situations that put us at risk. She doesn’t need that. She doesn’t deserve that.
In the back of my mind, I still think she deserves better. She deserves safety and a place that she can happily call home.
I knew better, but I still did. You can’t change the past and can only create the future you want. It may seem impossible, but you will always have someone looking at your every damn move. Good or bad.
Back to reality. Life must go on.
“I told you, foo, you need to go get laid or something. The stress you’re feeling, whatever it is, will not fucking matter anymore.”
Raph’s voice cuts through the air as I look over my latest file. His suggestion is typical, always thinking a quick fix will solve everything.
“What’s got you so damn on edge anyways?” he presses, not letting it go.
“Don’t worry about it. The less you know about this matter, the better it is for us all,” I reply, trying to keep my focus on the task at hand. This situation is too complicated to drag him into.
“I can easily call up a couple of homegirls that I got on speed dial, and they will do whatever the fuck you want to do,” he insists, his tone half-joking but with a hint of genuine concern.
“Is that all that matters to you? You got the fucking club to look out for, not some damn pussy to be chasing,” I snap back, frustration boiling over. He doesn’t understand the gravity of what we’re dealing with.
“Hey, hey. I got my shit in order. Remember, you’re the one who left ME in charge. You obviously had your head in the right place at the time. You need to check who your enemies really are and realize that I am just trying to help you in a way I know best,” Raph retorts, his voice rising. He’s right, in a sense. I did trust him enough to leave him in charge, but that doesn’t mean he knows how to handle everything.
“I am starting to think that I should have been harder on you. Stop talking stupid and let me work this shit out, Raph,” I say, trying to end the conversation. The weight of the decisions I have to make is crushing, and his distractions aren’t helping.
“Suit yourself, amigo,” he mutters, backing off but not without a final glance that says he won’t let this go easily.
Raphael walks out of the room, slamming the door behind him. That’s fine with me. He’s right, though he is not my enemy. Just a friend that sees his brother going through it. It’s been months since I started working for Marklov. Months of my life that I will never get back. Months of hiding shit from my family.
I just need to get this shit done and over with. Marklov could have easily given me a list and let me do what I do best and handle things. Not give me homework like some overworked college student.
Esmé calls me at least three times a day to check-in. Hearing her voice and knowing that she is okay comforts me. Sasha has been nothing short of amazing with this whole situation. I know it’s a lot on her, and I can’t express my gratitude enough.
If I didn’t know any better, Marklov likes keeping around to do his dirty work. Work that his men could easily do, but he is giving it to the underdog. Someone he knows has a lot to lose and would do anything to keep shit right.