January 25th, 1998
4 AM Friday Morning.
I wake up, staring at my alarm clock not wanting to actually get up out of my warm bed which I was embraced by. Scratching my neck, I sit up staring at my desk as phone's rhythmic buzzing draws my attention. I stand up almost haphazardly stumbling towards my desk as I flip open my phone.
It reads;
Unknown: You are needed, my son.
Unknown: Meet At Eden's Garden, Babel Tower.
Unknown: 1,099,348.53 Souls Are Waiting At River Styx.
Unknown: It is time for mass. We shall see you there.
I send my reply as I get dressed and then creep silently out of room, making way through the hallway and finally at the front door. I leave my apartment and sit down, waiting at the bus stop which is illuminated by the dawn of the rising sun. I flip open the cap of my lighter but the cold winds of winter extinguish the flames. After a short bus journey, I arrive at Saint John's Catholic Church.
Saint John's Catholic Church. An imposing building, towering over its surroundings. I open the two double doors to be greeted by a single man sitting in the first row of pews. The main lights are not on, and only a single oil lamp and a few candles next to neatly arranged sacred portraits shine any form of luminosity. Alongside the morning sun casting rays through the stained glass, it creates and gives the religious paintings an aura of beauty.
I sit close to the man and without looking at me, slides an envelope across the pew, then in following a blade. I open the letter with the blade and it gives a description of how the target got into the debt or in other words, where these 'lost souls' came from alongside his picture and finally his address. I make the sign of the cross and head for the door adjacent to the pulpit.
As I enter, the atmosphere changes from the lulling silence of the church to the cranks and beeping from slot machines. From the natural gleams of the sun and the candles to the flashy neon signs hanging on the walls. Ignoring the gamblers and hired guards, I reach the back door and am thankful to have reached the outside world once again.
Upon reaching the debtor's house, I pull up my neck warmer and hoodie. Tightening my gloves, I climb the wooden fence cautiously, sneaking quietly like an alley cat to the back door, searching for a spare key so I wouldn't have to waste any lock picks. I was in luck. Under a gnome statuette, I happened upon a rusted key.
I slowly open the door and enter his kitchen. I search the room, looking for any possible place where the debtor could've hidden anything of worth. The kitchen was empty. As I make my way towards the living room, I try to stabilise my breathing to remain unnoticed and again, the living room is void of anything valuable. Each slight creek of the stair's floor boards send nervous shivers up my spine. Reaching the top of stairs, I spot two rooms. I open the closest door to me and each sound the knob makes frightens me. "It's just a bathroom" I reassured myself.
I move to what I presume is the bedroom, readying my knife in case of an altercation. I peek around the door's edge to see a dark figure lying on a mattress, a stomach-churning smell permeating the air.
Drawing closer, I flick my lighter open to reveal vomit on the man's chest, still oozing from his mouth, which has also stained the mattress and floor. The air is thick with the stench of alcohol and smoke. While searching the room for valuables and fighting the urge to gag, the thought of a safe quickens my steps. With renewed confidence, yet still cautioned, I scour the room for the combination. Upon noticing a nightstand with an ashtray on top, I warily open the drawer. Inside, there's a 1911A pistol, .45 ACP rounds, a police ID, and a crumpled note. I pocket the pistol, ammunition, and note, then quietly shut the drawer.
I enter the four-digit combination into the safe, each click echoing retribution. As the door swings open, I'm greeted by stacks of notes and coins. I hastily fill my bag with the money, eager to leave. Exiting the house the same way I entered, I swiftly make my way to the church's back door.
Entering the backroom, I am met with the unchanged scene I left behind. As I make my way to the church door, a clearly intoxicated gambler blocks my path. I push past him and proceed to the door.
I return to the man who is engrossed in scripture, sliding my plastic bag filled with debt money across to him. "A donation for the church's efforts and the father," I announce. He opens the bag, counts the money, and while jotting in his notebook, he assures, "My son, your share will be with you shortly."
Exiting through the church's main doors, I am ready to embrace the day ahead.