The Isle of Sin and Shadows

by Keri Lake

He carries on his crooked back A ragged burlap gunnysack And in his hand he wields a blade Of children’s bones, from which it’s made He hunts the night for those who’ve lied There’s nowhere you can run, or hide He’ll swipe you up right out of bed And by first light, you will be dead.

“I have a job that I trust only to the elusive Black Wolf.” The nickname has me inwardly groaning. It isn’t enough that the locals refer to me as a fucking werewolf, of all things, but the cartel has adopted this showy supervillain reputation, thanks to Julio, who made it a point early on in my criminal career to use a childhood scar as a means of branding me a dangerous sicario.

“Do not incline my heart to any evil thing. To practice deeds of wickedness with men who do iniquity; and do not let me eat of their delicacies.”

There’s no passion in killing for money. You get in, you do the job, you get out. No enthusiasm, or pride, in the work. Nothing like a personal vendetta. Kills for money come in two flavors: eliminate, or intimidate. Some are meticulously crafted to look like accidents, or cover-ups. Others are meant to send a message, and those are probably the most creative of any, but still don’t quite measure up to the high of exacting your own personal brand of revenge. I was eighteen years old, the first time I killed a man. He was one of three who raped my mother in front of me, and when I finally wrapped my fingers around his throat, long after the nausea and shock of what I intended to do with him had worn off, an inexplicable intoxication settled over me. A buzz of fervor and anticipation.

Some say revenge isn’t worth it, that it doesn’t change anything, but whoever came up with that ignorant token of wisdom was either too scared to go through with it, or never gave thought to the alternative. The idea of the person who’d ruined your fucking life walking around free and clear, as if it never even happened. Killing even one of those men who ravaged my mother was the most reckless and thrilling thing I’ve ever done in my life, and no assassination I’ve carried out since then has ever given me the same feeling of satisfaction.

These days, I try to document as many moments as I can, because I’ve come to learn that the mind is not a reliable enough storyteller of the past. Its memories are an ever-changing landscape that moves and slides with time. Like a viscous liquid that can be poured into any shape.

For as long as I can remember, the ocean has always been a fascination of mine. It’s creatures, unfathomable depths, and mystery, call to me like a siren, and I would give anything to, one day, sail the open sea. Highly unlikely, seeing as I can’t afford a boat, let alone sail it, but hey, a girl can dream.

Unrequited love tends to be a wound that festers into a raging sepsis, if not treated right away.

It’s amazing to me, sometimes, how something I never wanted could fall into my lap, and I’d turn out to actually be good at the shit. Who knew money laundering was my great calling? Then again, maybe it’s not so much a mystery, after all. My father was known to dabble in shady dealings, which is essentially how I arrived in this hell, so I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

The bayou is active, but peaceful, with its cacophony of chirping, croaking, and grunting sounds over the distant hoot of an owl from the woods behind the boat.

I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.

Sometimes, the head gets bored, so it thinks up its own stories to keep itself entertained.

Everyone has a weakness, and mine has always been orange flavored gummy bears. And men who excel in ghosting.

The fact is, I don’t know what I want. Like I’m rummaging through life’s big pantry, trying to decide what tastes good. My heart is starving for something I’ve never had before, but the ache in my chest feels masochistically good. It’s a reminder that I’m still alive. That I still crave something from this world. And the beauty in all that rejection lies in never having to mourn the end of something that was never there to begin with. Like cutting open a dry vein with no fear of bleeding out.

“Are you kidding me? I don’t trust you now.” He doesn’t bother to contest that. Okay, I’m curious. “What’s the deal? I’m not working as a stripper for you, if that’s what you have in mind.” “Non, moiselle.” His tongue sweeps over his lips, and he backs up just enough to look down between us, presumably at my breasts, and back to me. “Je veux te baiser.” “I don’t know what that means.”

“Because it’s like any destructive force of nature. Too much creates imbalance. And a love that strong would consume a person. Put everyone around them at risk. Love kills.”

“My name is Thierry James. Bergeron is my mother’s name. My father is Russ James.”

The toll my father’s disappearance has taken in the last couple of months. Not that we were all that close, but I always thought he was a slightly better man than the kind who’d up and leave without a word. Must’ve been one hell of a piece of ass to make him skip town like that. No pussy I’ve ever had was that good.