Page 43 of Volatile Waters

Crash was never the same after that. I had broken him that fateful day. He only spoke one more time to me, and it was only to ask for another tattoo. I stood behind him and watched the gun ink Death 1995 on the back of his neck. It was the year his brother left this earth. Crash didn’t even flinch as the gun needled directly over his spinal cord. I guess I had already caused the worst pain he would ever endure. During the whole agonizing inking process, his hand gripped Sam’s collar and leash, another way he had been marked forever.

There was no point for Crash staying any longer, so I called his father to come and retrieve him. When the man who once treasured his son arrived, I was stunned to witness him lift Crash’s chin to get a good view of the Life 1982 tattoo. The kid was now almost fifteen, but there was no warm embrace, only hatred and disgust. “Now, every time I look at you, I have to think of my lost son.”

A menacing grin formed on Crash’s face. “Appropriate, since it is your fault he’s dead.” He switched to Russian, “You fucking drug dealer.”

Crash saw the punch coming but never moved nor protected himself, even though most capable. No, instead, he fell to the ground where he had been when his Sam-world fell apart.

After recovering, he got to his knees, facing me, not his father. He pointed to the tattoo on the back of his neck while telling his father, “Now, you can be reminded of his death every time I walk away from you to sell drugs.” He stood, then turned to the man who’d spawned him, something Crash clearly regretted. Again, he reverted to Russian, “You piece of shit.”

After Crash left, I sunk further into my role as Master, soon to take over this organization. There was no more light within my world, so I let the darkness win, positive it was where I belonged, anyways.

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Six years later…

Lying in bed, it was in the middle of the night when my cellphone rang. I fumbled in the darkness, searching my nightstand, then answered, “Hello?”

“Yuuuury?” I heard ice clink in a glass.

I sat up straight. It was Mrs. Thompson. “Yes.” I was dumbfounded when I heard myself asking, “Is Crash okay?”

Her drunken exhale echoed over the receiver. “I nee’ you to protect him.”

“Why? What happened?”

She started to cry. “Who… does this leash belon’ to? It was hidd’n in his room.”

I was still groggy from waking up in the middle of the night—opposite hours of America. Rubbing my burning eyes, I simply replied, “A friend of his. One he lost.”

She slurred, “He foun’ another one.”

My ears perked. “Who? He found who?”

“Whitney.”

I shoved my blankets off me and swung my legs off the side of my mattress. “You said he had given up the search.”

She cried even more. “He had. There were too many S-Summers in the US with s-sons named Timothy.”

“Then, how?”

“M-Movies. Accidental meeting at the movie theater. Popcorn. She likes butter on her popcorn…”

At the age of twenty, Crash had finally found his promise to Timothy.

Mrs. Thompson was too intoxicated for me to get much more information, but one thing was for sure, the Curse had been brought back to life. Mr. Summers had never made another threat, and Uffe’s wife stayed in hiding. Father and I decided to let snakes lay where they rested. But this news, I knew this was going to bring complications. Crash had broken one promise to himself by not saving Sam. There was no way in hell I’d live to see the day this kid broke another. His stubborn streak gave me no choice.

I was headed back to America.