I could still hear the police sirens blaring around the corner, as I trudged across dragging my mutilated leg, trying to keep as quiet as I could. Not succumbing to small injuries such as these, has become too small of a deal for me now. For what reason, other people make such a fuss about them, I would never know.
Hey, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Rob Sterg, a wanted drug supplier and the number one criminal in the so-called America's most wanted list for the past six years. I guess that explains my current situation quite well. Yep, I am on the run from the authorities yet another time. On my way, I have injured my leg quite a bit, nothing much, just a skirmish with an overzealous freaking pedestrian.
I have been standing in the darkened alleyway between two deserted houses for the past twenty minutes. I am not even putting that much effort into hiding any more. I am quite a bit sure that those wretched lazy policemen wouldn’t bother looking again in a place they checked half an hour ago. God, the people of the state put their trust on an inefficient and ineffective body, calling themselves the police. Much like their belief in God.
Another five minutes have passed by, and I finally hear the police sirens retreating. I wait another ten minutes before I get out of my hiding place and start moving. I have got the whole plan figured out before me. From here, I go straight to the shack, one block from here, do something about my leg, maybe take a small snack, and then continue on my way to the harbour. With time, my leg is becoming numb, but that does not worry me. Its seen a lot worse than this.
A fifteen minute careful exhausting walk through the shadows take me to my destination- a small shack, the exact one that had hidden me two years back, when I was in a similar situation. They say, it belonged to the caretaker of a very rich family decades ago. But now it is abandoned, much like a certain wounded wanted criminal in this selfish ruthless world. I quickly take out my dirty handkerchief from my pocket, wet it and then tie the soggy piece of fabric around my wound. I know such injuries like mine warrant more attention, but then again it’s me. I have gotten used to this lifestyle ever since I was 17 years old.
My stomach rumbles with hunger, but I decide to let it wait. I have far more important things to do before I treat it. I have to get to the harbour by an hour and take the next ship away from here. I have acquired quite a few contacts, being in my business, and am proud to say that I have used them well. I have got it all arranged, my escape plan, route everything. Now my only hurdle is making it to the port in the designated time.
I start out again with new found determination. It has been two weeks since I decided to flee from this country. You see, with quite a few accidental sightings, and even more evidences of drug trafficking, all linked to my name, it had become increasingly difficult to survive here. That is when I decided to move to a place where I can conduct my business more freely. And that’s when I decided to move. It had taken me two weeks to carefully plan out everything, arrange for everything, but finally here I was.
I have been walking for almost 45 minutes and I would reach any moment now. My leg hurts like anything, but there was no way I could risk taking any form of transportation. Another perfect example of how unfair the world is, how partial it is to some of its people, even when they are wounded.
I have reached the port, and after talking to a few required personnel there, I have climbed on a cargo ship, and am finally resting on a wooden plank, at the very back, at a very dingy part of the ship. As I lie down there, suddenly all the memories, well hellish memories come back to me. This is the place where I had grown up, the place that has given me so many scars, so many enemies, so many demons.
I think I had a good enough childhood, though I only vaguely remember it now. But then one day, when I was 14, my mother got hospitalised and then ultimately passed away from cancer, and from then on my life changed completely. My father and I were not only reduced to being almost ghosts with grief, but also we were in heavy debt. For the first few months, we both grew closer to each other than we ever were, but then slowly things changed for the worst. My father, my dear naive old father started doing drugs, maybe to cope up with the grief, maybe to pent his frustrations. At first I didn’t mind it much, but then he turned abusive towards me, blaming me for everything that went wrong with him. Every father son discussion suddenly turned into heated arguments, corporal punishments, etc. Slowly all the neighbours who had once been so supportive towards our family, turned sour. I suddenly became the kid, whom parents asked their children to stay away from. And though my father never knew it, he became the locality’s very own crazy Uncle Scrooge.
Then when I was sixteen, I ran away from home, in search of a better life. However I quickly found out, that the rest of the world didn’t want to be very kind to me either. But I couldn’t very well go back to my father now, could I? So I started running errands for people, working low paid part time jobs, and just when I thought I was on my way to maybe build a happier life, I was brought back to my father, by the policemen.
My father was furious with me for pulling off such an act of what-he-called betrayal. Needless to say that the next few days weren’t easy for me in my house. By that time, my father had started being on even more drugs, owing to me going missing, he said. He started having quite a few body complications and died later that year.
When he died, I, who had promised to never become my father, to never even touch drugs, started doing them. I first told myself, I am using them to cope up with my losses, but then I got addicted, and I never stopped to realise when. Like father, like son, they say, huh? I guess, in my case it’s very much the truth. I slowly took up more addictions, and then in a year I climbed ranks to become a supplier myself. What an irony! The person whose life got destroyed due to a thing, cannot himself live without that thing.
And after that, this has pretty much been my situation for the last six years. A few friends that I had at the time, said that these would spoil my life, but I never stopped to pay heed. How can something I find solace in, how can something that makes me forget my traumas, my sorrows kill me? Now years have passed, but this belief has persisted. Quite a few times, I have tried to quit, but I have always ended up either wanting to kill myself, or to start it back. And as you can say, I have always chosen the latter. I know all of this is making me inch closer to death, but honestly I am not afraid of it anymore. It isn’t like I have a normal happy life waiting for me here. That opportunity got snatched away from me the day my mother died.
I sit up as I hear the captain shouting instructions to the few crewmen, that we are about to set sail. Ah! Finally, I am leaving this place for good. I no longer have to worry about being caught every time I am on the road in daylight. I guess that is what freedom would feel like. I don’t know, I have never really known it. But what I do know is, that you have to live somewhere you aren’t afraid to die, be it physically or mentally.
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