I could barely keep my eyes open as I drove my shitty car back to my shittier apartment. I took the last right onto the street, saw the apartment building looming up ahead, and parked right at the curb. For a second I just sat there, listening to the engine cooling, that clicking. I did this every day when I came home, dreading going in there, hating that I’d be alone.

No real friends.

No family that gave a shit about me.

One day a month where I let loose, where I pretended to be someone else.

That was my life summed up.

I stopped feeling sorry for myself and headed inside. The elevator was broken, had been for the last month. I doubted it would get fixed anytime soon, not unless a bunch of people complained. Which they wouldn’t, because anyone who lived here didn’t really care about anything.

The first two flights of stairs were easy, the third and fourth made me realize I was out of shape. Thighs burning, lungs seizing, I adjusted my messenger bag and took the last step. My head was downcast, my focus on the dirty ground with the cracked and peeling linoleum. When I lifted my head, the first thing I saw was my apartment door cracked open. My heart stalled. I’d locked it. I knew I had. This was a bad neighborhood, and although I didn’t have shit worth a grain of salt in there, having someone break in was an invasion.

I should have called the cops, but again this was a bad neighborhood, and even if the cops did come by, it would take forever, and they’d assume I just didn’t lock the door.

I had my keys in my hand, the metal sticking out between my fingers. I’d use it as a weapon if I had to. Creeping slowly toward the door, I pushed it open with my shoe. I could have maybe asked one of my neighbors to come with me, but with them being drunks, junkies, or senile, I didn’t think they would be much help. Besides, everyone here kept to themselves and didn’t worry about others…it was usually safer that way.

The door swung open, and I saw that my place had been trashed. It hadn’t been a looker to begin with, and I really had nothing of value…expect my coffee can. My heart started beating a static rhythm. I shut the door, my safety not coming into play at this moment as I rushed to the kitchen. The cupboards were all open, the few dishes I had crashed to the floor. And there, among the shards of thrift-store ceramic, was my coffee can. It was on its side, the lid a foot away. I knew it would be empty even before I picked it up with a shaking hand.

I’d been saving any little amount of money from my paychecks, putting a dollar in the can here or there, or a few quarters. It was sometimes my free-for-one-day-a-month fund, what I’d dip into to buy a few drinks if I had any extra. Hell, I used it to put gas in my car when money was really tight.

I sat on the floor, my legs feeling like they’d give out, my heart in my throat. The sadness was soon replaced with anger. I cried, hating that I couldn’t do better, knowing I deserved better. I tossed that fucking coffee can across the kitchen, the metal slamming against the cupboard. Then I put my head in my hands and cried, just bawled because there was nothing else to do. Maybe I didn’t have that much money in the coffee can anyway. Maybe I shouldn’t have even had money around, or hid it better.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

There were a lot of things I could have, should have done differently. In the end, my life was still the same, still broken, twisted and gnarled, with the light I thought I needed drifting further away. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to have that light. Maybe I only deserved the darkness.

Maybe that’s what made me stronger.

I lifted my head, wiped the tears away angrily, and realized what I had in my pocket. I pulled that slip of paper out, the address scribbled across it seeming so damn ominous. Everything in me screamed to throw it away, but the reality of my situation was I was falling deeper into a hole. I just needed to get on my feet, find a second job, and then I could look for something better for myself, something that wasn’t infested with hatred and anger.

My hand was still shaking when I shoved the paper back into my pocket. I stood, held my keys tighter, and headed out the door. I didn’t bother locking it this time. Because what was the point?

I pulled my car to a stop, leaned forward, and stared up at the building. It looked abandoned, decay and age written all over it. Glancing at the piece of paper again, I knew this was the right place, but it looked fucked up for sure.

This is stupid. Get the fuck out of here.

About to do just that, because I’d rather scrape by than end up dead, I went to pull away. The sound of someone pounding on the hood of my car had a startled cry leaving me. The man in front of the car was wearing a hood and a dark mask that only covered half of his face. He took a step back, my headlights illuminating him. He was dressed head to toe in black, his body still in front of my vehicle. I could have mowed him down if I’d really wanted to get the hell out of there, which I did. But the truth was I was scared shitless. And I knew he wasn’t alone.

The sound of banging at the back of my car had my heart racing so hard it was painful.

“Turn the car off.” The deep voice beside my car had me jumping. When I didn’t move, he held up a gun, tapping the barrel on the glass of my driver’s side window. “Move it,” he shouted.

I turned the key, shutting the car off. It felt like I’d unplugged my lifeline.

“Get out of the fucking car.”

I was too scared to try and make a run for it, the images of bullets flying through my car and slamming into me playing like a grotesque movie reel in my head.

I was out of the car faster than I thought I could move, and instantly pushed up against the side of the vehicle, the metal cold, hard, and unforgiving. The guy keeping me flat on the car started patting me down like I was packing a weapon. Surely they could see how terrified I was. I was spun around so fast my head swam. This guy was wearing the same mask, his eyes shrewd, dark.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I…I…” My mouth wouldn’t work, the words not coming out, not being formed properly.

“Speak up, you fucking bitch, or I’ll really give you something to stutter about.” He placed the barrel of the gun at my abdomen, pressing it in, showing me who was in charge.

“Marshall gave me the address, said a man could help me.” The words tumbled out of my mouth, and I was proud and terrified I’d spoken them. I could hear how scared I sounded. I was scared, shaking, my nails digging into my palms. I was surprised there wasn’t blood on my hands, a testament to the violence swirling in the air. I glanced around. Four men, all of them dressed the same.

Thugs.

“People need to learn to keep their mouths shut.”

He’s referring to Marshall. God, I shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have named him. I was so scared.

Before I knew what was happening, I was being hauled away from the car and toward the building. I tripped over my feet, but the guy holding on to my arm squeezed tighter. I wasn’t foolish enough to think he would care if I fell on my face.

We entered the building through this rusted-as-hell door. One of the guys hung outside, and the other three all but pushed me inside. The stench of dirt and mold was almost unbearable, and I coughed. Was that why they wore the masks? Or was it to make people like me know how low I was to them, how dangerous they really were?

I was pushed through a set of doors, then pulled down a long hallway. Another door. Another hallway. I felt like we’d been walking forever, going deeper, the chill in the air becoming more intense. Finally we pushed through a door, and I could see tables all around. Guns and drugs littered the tables.

It was then I knew that there was no going back. They’d let me see this, and although I didn’t know what their faces looked like, I knew where they holed up.

“Ricky, yo, we got a live one here.” The man holding my arm finally let go. He pushed me forward, and I stumbled again, catching myself on a table covered in large square-shaped bags wrapped in duct tape.

I glanced up at the one named Ricky, my throat dry, tight. I expected him to have the same getup as his thugs, but he was wearing dirty jeans, an equally filthy shirt, and sporting greasy hair. He had a cigarette hanging from his too-thin lips, and he eyed me up and down. I felt naked in that moment.

God, what have I gotten myself into?