THE HARDEST: DARKEST CORNERS

The Hardest: Darkest Corners

Began with sounds of footsteps and voices enshrouded by darkness. The body though blind felt arms holding it, forcing it forward, so the legs had to walk along.

Ears picked up a door opening. Subtle force by arms stopped the walking. The pause brief for the body felt itself guided to sit on what felt a chair.

The blindfold removed. It's a man, who let out a fleeting groan.

He is held at a location by several armed men. These guys look rough...and like cops.

What came next wasn't long in coming, 'Who the other man for the coke is?' during this, thoughts take him back - was out and about when this squad picked him off the street, men dressed as cops relieved him of his freedom. Started out normal actually. He'd went with them. Then before you knew it the drive felt less a nightmare than inconvenience, blindfolded and brought who knows where.

Cigarette smoke, despite the atmosphere is registered by nostrils. Its expected they're armed but one with gold teeth?

His answer, 'Bruddah the coke shipped out the country a long time,' doesn't enlist satisfaction from the menacing men. He told answer the damn question.

Trinidad an island in the Caribbean's southern tip, some fools feel makes safe from hurricanes. God is a Trini, sings the phrase. The once sun kissed shores a drug transhipment point. The heat only turns up from there.

Oh yes in-between was alternating queries to him and a woman. He didn't recall her because he thought he was the one in the fire. The bewildered lady's hair and clothes dishevelled and more confused by questions and circumstance than anything. It's explained to her the guy a criminal who has to give something. 'How could police do things like this?' and repeats knows nothing and this time protests innocence.

The gang try a new tactic - non explicit suggestion of rape, the man averts, sarcastically asking if they know vagina is meant for sperm? To their puzzled faces explains experts can trace who put the sperm there. Meaning a rapist is traceable.

Angelic? Not even for 30 pieces of silver. Perhaps he could hardly care, so it doesn't transpire. 'No way they'll pin any of that remotely on me.' says he. Dehumanizing, calling the woman, Plain Jane - but he hasn't given what wanted.

The woman pleads let her go. Majority of attention shifts to him. He is questioned more: gun in the face, muzzle in the rib and denied water to pressure him - for a long time these tactics tried. Don't forget his cigarette request, his impertinent self noted - they prefer to throw the butts at him they admit. Finally the friendly questions end.

The idyllic locale occupies a part of Trinidad's extreme southwest. Offshore, pirogues sail the waters, while those waters lap the sandy Los Iros beach. The tranquillity in sight of the beach house, two lucky souls have the fortune being guests of.

He and the woman left alone have time to chat, 'The police approached and politely asked come with them, their ride wasn't in official police colours but it carried a flashing light.' The woman relaying how caught. Nervous at the time but cool. Never imagined she'd be scared, the fellow captive assured back then it's, 'No scene.' On the way the cars stop and they're stuffed in the dark trunk. In her mental state couldn't help but recount the past.

They barely knew each other, she wrong place wrong friggin time. He says he just made a wrong turn with some people is all - wasn't the sign of regret.

He jokes if the attendants had real CSR training, this beach would feel as nice as it looks.

She snaps he should takes his bullets by himself. Were it not him, she wouldn't be here. Death and hidden burial awaits.

Their impromptu vacation extends into hours, the tide changes gradually meantime.

She traumatized judging from her face, if were the big guns alone. The rest had their effect of course - smell of body odour and cigarette of their hosts, threatening language, tinged with rape.

One had gold teeth, genuinely they can smile more. When the men return they take both, but the woman is asked nothing, indicating she believed. Deposited to sit in a room, any thought of deliverance destined to be short. Given a last chance, impertinence makes him aggressive in voice and gesture. Funny how that gets you one step from being killed. The woman's visage reflected the same. For his attitude a host bluntly tells him he'd fit right in.

The men had a new strategy in case. A syringe has a white liquid not for him. If anyone expected bad things to continue, tends to be in cases like this.

Sensing, the woman stood and begins walking backward; physically her body changed to reflect fear and panic, mentally written on her face. Two men hold her fast. 'I'm not ready!' she says in a troubled inflection. The syringe gets closer to her skin. To break free, her body in the violent throes of struggle. To no avail. Once it merely touches skin and moments from actually piercing, a momentary yell is let lose, her face supplements by its shock expression. The needle pierces skin and the white poison begins to be less in the syringe. She screams at the man, 'I'll die. It's all on you!' The unfortunate quieted down.

The needle once the white poison is not seen any more is removed.

The already present tension is to prove wasn't finished warping the air. Waiting game is short before the body acts out of wack, as the man calls it. He knows very well - coke overdose. Singer Ras shorty I would know the substance well.

The man is confident he'll be just be roughed up - not killed by cutlass, they need him. Unmoved he was.

The woman's ill effects continues, her body behaves unnaturally. Inside, coursing through the system took a toll - constriction of blood vessels; metabolism increase; over activity of the nervous system.

When he shows hint of cooperation, is told a hospital their next destination. Stuff went through his mind - her wellbeing failed to make the list. Balanced with the chance they could pop them both. Final decision. Cracks he does before all these po-po do and gives the name. His motivation was what her death would look like to actual po-po. Gold toothed retorts, 'Who say we ain' police, eh?'

The man strikes back real police would be smarter.

Far from clear they are not cops.

At his urging both are rushed to a ride. Instead of hospital as agreed, it's the highway in south Trinidad, Sir Solomon Hochoy, where it's no different from a littering driver - left on the road. He correctly surmised well after the tires screeched and the ride sped off, that crew did not want their faces seen at a hospital of all places.

Any fearing the worst for her needn't apologize, she showed worse medical signs. The effects progress. Her body in a fit of spasms. If the woman didn't receive care soon, she's mash up for good.

Standing, she near collapsed, she sat on bare ground. Flagging down a ride, he remarkably tells an occupant what happened. The vehicle screeched to a desperate halt in front emergency. All he'd say to staff is she overdosed - and not his role.

Doctors apply emergency care. Emergency as in after some short talking leave the lady sitting for hours comforted with an IV for hours, long enough for it to empty, stuck in her arm, no attention granted.

This oil rich land was the worse medical reputation.

They were destined to talk again once she stabilized. A touch of humanity, a meter, not a mile long? He finds her outdoors on hospital property, away from the facility's bed and nurse surroundings. The sun's position that of late afternoon, it cast shadows on any object or persons that could. He takes his seat beside her on the bench.

He begins talking, 'Yeah was a mad scene I went through.'

She eyes him intensely, 'You?'

Changing his approach this stranger talks in a soothing tone, 'Was a mad scene what happened to you.'

Seems to break the ice because she says impressed he'd bother to visit. The man responds glad to know she not laid up in bed still. She responds Trinidad's hospital doctors talked scary that she wouldn't want to stay in the hospital. She wasn't discharged yet to tell the truth.

Names are exchanged when the fellow prodded gently. He, Brazilerre, the woman Lystra. He tells her more background on himself, he a criminal, as she might have surmised, a drug shipper, his life wasn't the lawful kind.

'The kind of thing cops attracted to,' she replies.

'Dem is too much impse to be police,' insists he.

The woman could have guessed he mixed up in something. Inside she felt a sense of relief he at least filled her in more, a ticket to clear up a mess that found her. This reminds to ask if he told them what exactly happened.

'People gonna hate but I ain' go but deal the cards I was given?' he asks. She eyes him.

He next requests she not tell the police what his whole scene about. Uneasy the po-po was gonna ask questions, not least cause could have bounced up real cops that time. Before he finished the sentence, her countenance began changing, her feelings rising, 'Damn it I actually thought you stopped being all about you!'

Author's note - You read a 'spiritual sequel' to Resolve's Malevolence - same beach and similar concept. Over months of development I reached that conclusion. I am a guy who likes doing unique stuff. The date is significant being my birthday. Never wrote anything that date. My motive for penning this today. For a second time I couldn't resist a prohibition on authoring anything else until my overdue novella Portrait of perdition lay complete. Indiscipline to a point.

Saturday, 10 August 2019.