Chris Wilkins

A fictional narrative of a non-fictional life.

Lucas

I am a hung over, unshaven, a failure. I only wish that somehow the last week could have been played differently. I had a job, a family, a life that rivaled that of kings. Now I sit here all alone, and space off into nothingness. It gives me a getaway that I cannot hope to wish for again, let alone receive. Everything was so wonderful. My wife, Veronica, was an apparation of beauty. She could turn heads in a club filled with blind people. She was a auburn haired, brilliant, hanging past her shoulders, down to her chest. The waves of her locks send my heart buzzing every time I see her. Little did I know that may not happen anymore. She was my everything…Is my everything.
My son, Lucas, is more than any father could ever ask for. He is an 8 year old blonde prodigy. He will accomplish more than I could ever hope to. I just hope I can raise him right, and not screw that up too. He is all that I have left. We will get by, we have to get by. We will run away if we must, but he will not suffer. I have to do it for him.
Now, he ceiling hangs above me like the brilliant shimmer of a midnight star. Staring at the same spot, the place never becomes uninteresting, never dull. Instead, with each passing fraction of a second, the bulged out crusty dots of the overhead protectorate turn into magnificent figures, a knight, a balloon, even hippos come dancing across the top of the ceiling as I lie awake for what seems like an eternity. Never before this week has anything plagued me like the problems that have just seemed to collapse on my lap. Sleep is no longer an option. I’ve given up on ever feeling rested. I have to think!
Brilliant colors encase my eyes as the burning sensation rips into them. So involved with my dancing masterpiece of nothing from above, I forget to blink. More like, I’m too stupid to blink.
This is all I can think of to do. I am going to write my story down, that way my family may know what has happened. I know I have failed them, but at least this way, they will know I had the best of intentions in mind. Too many times have I been lucky, too many times have I escaped my consequences. Karma, it seems, may have gotten the best of me.
So now, I am a hunted man. I am hunted by the most ruthless people in the city. Marshall, New Jersey, sounds ruthless doesn’t it? Well, as it may seem, the town is completely boughten out and run by the Russian Mob. When I decided to leave my job at the engineering firm in New York, I didn’t know I would be playing into the hands of the most powerful men in the state. Hanko Garovnik, the man has come to haunt my dreams. His payroll is so large, the police have literally bent over backwards for him. They are in his pocket. Four times he has been indigted for murder, arson, grand theft auto, the list goes on and on, and never is he convincted. Never has a person on his jury been stupid enough to cast a vote against him. They would never see their way out alive.
My son sleeps directly behind me in the sleezy hotel. Fifty dollars a night was worth it, no one would check here. It was located in the backwoods of some crappy town, and I don’t think I was followed. The beds are comfy, and they don’t ask a lot of questions, all are plusses for me. The only downside is it was basically a fourteen by fourteen box with only one window. Oh well, I don’t need anything more than this. Its just temporary until I can get out of the state, and then out of the country.
Playing with my gun, I reload and load it, waiting to use it. I know I will. It is a 9mm black Beretta. A standard 9mm, everyone uses them. The serial number has been chiseled off. I won it in a poker game against some Hatians a couple months ago, and haven’t been too anxious to use it.
“Room service.” A voice creeps through the doorway, and I jerk awake from what little daze I was in. I walk, only a step away from the door, pistol drawn, and look out the peep hole.
“Good morning.” The man says.
The door explodes in my face, and sends me down to my feet. The man steps through the shadow, his face not yet fully exposed. He points his gun at my face. I quiver and shake, my life flashing before my eyes. What do I do, where is my gun, I thought to myself. Oh my god, Lucas.
“Lucas!” I scream, as two loud pops ring out across the room.

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