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.

Superstitious, as I said. What other modern-day criminal hires a witch to sanctify a kill?

Angeltude. ‘Face of an angel with a fuckton of attitude,’

I’m the lone survivor of one of the most heinous murders in the state of Louisiana,

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.

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.

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

“The bible does not say, thou shalt not go to a bar and talk to single men, Jude. Live a little.

Sinners and Saints. The place looks like it might’ve been a church at one time, with its neo-gothic architecture, but the sign out front, flashing a woman with half her tits hanging out, tells me this is no holy establishment.

“If you must know, I happen to appreciate ugly things. Take your attitude, for example. I could easily tell you to piss off, but I can appreciate that being a jerk is as much a part of your genetics as that pretty face.”

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.

“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.”

“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.”

I’m certain now that the childhood stories I heard growing up, Red Riding Hood, The Three Little Pigs--they were all designed to scare me away from men like Thierry. Shady wolves. The shameless villains of the story who take what they want.

“You’re free to wear whatever you like, catin. Just as I’m free to kill anyone who looks at you in it.”

“Because all I think about is how badly I want to stick you into a jar and keep you for myself.”

It’s here, in this moment, that a ludicrous thought enters my mind, and I realize what lengths I would go to, to keep her. I would take on the most dangerous cartel in Mexico for this woman.

“Newsflash: psychopaths don’t fall in love.”

“Because I’m too fucking selfish to give up what I love for anyone. God, or devil. Heaven, or hell.”