Journey of No Return

I quicken my pace, left foot, right foot, as quickly as I can move. Like a deadly viper is chasing me. I turn my neck, in an attempt to look back, but I almost run into a lady. She's probably in her late thirties, and her beret is really green. I've always had a huge distaste for shades of green like that. They make your presence known in any setting. The last thing I want for myself.

“Hey, watch it!” she screams, her hands opening up, lifted halfway as though she’s about to open an invisible curtain.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” I blurt out quickly, my pace only getting faster.

I check my watch and it’s just 5:30 p.m., but it’s as dark as the roads that lead to hell. I've always imagined that path like that—no light, just darkness. I just know it has to be dark.

“Am I paranoid?” I ask myself. Yes, yes, you are. There’s no one following you. It’s all in your head. I try to convince myself, but I don’t buy it.

I was always taught to trust my intuition. It never lies. I remind myself of that, the words echoing in my mind, and immediately I start running. This is what I get for stepping out when the sun is out to play, showing its mighty self. But damn, I needed the sun. I spot Rosewood Hollow ahead—the street where I lay my head—and for a split second, I wonder if I should take Velvet Way instead. You know, to use the underground tunnels to lose whoever it is that’s following me. Yes, yes, I smile. That’s very smart.

I change direction, sprinting toward Velvet Way, where the poorest of the poor live. The roads there are pocked with potholes, left unfixed for years. The bungalows have rusted, dented roofs, and mini shops line the streets, selling all sorts of food that haven’t been inspected by the food board in years. Boarded-up cars with bullet holes in them litter the lanes.

This is my little vicinity for now. This is my home for now before I pack up again and find someplace new.

This has been my life since I boarded that fisherman’s boat about 5 years ago. A nomad.

Now, I’m sure you’ve two major questions if you’re the curious type. Firstly, who would be following me and secondly why would they be following me?

Let me take you back. Back to when I dined on foie gras, placed delicately on the buttocks of models flown in from Next Management. Back to when I spent my days aboard Lila Rose, our family yacht, sailing the Amalfi Coast, partying from dawn ‘til dusk. Back to when I constantly saw my mama, and she would kiss me multiple times on the cheek, that kind of love only a mother knows how to give.

I had a fantastic life, for the most part. The other part, I consider bleak because I had to work in the family business—and I hated doing it. Growing up, I was sure I was going to be a sailor. Anything that floated on water? Sign me up. I loved the way the tides would carry things peacefully, swaying it gently, left and right. I loved how a floating object would stand strong, braving the force of the ocean during storms. And when things went still, I loved the calming sensation and the quiet hum of the waves. On something that floated was where I belonged. That’s where I felt alive. That’s where I was truly me. But my family, they thought it was a waste of time. Every son of the Martell family, they said, had to know the ins and outs of the family business. It was law. It was an oath and it was serious.

I had no other choice.

You see, right after secondary school, that’s when the training began. I was a late bloomer in school, so I started training at 19 instead of 17, like my brothers. It was a slap to my face, starting so late. Papa didn’t believe in me. He said I was spoiled—especially by Mama. So, to prove him wrong, to prove everyone in the Martell family wrong, I did everything harder.

When they told me to take a mile, I took five. When I was sick and should’ve rested, I showed up anyway. I just had to put that brat title to rest, to its grave.

Alas, all my efforts were fruitful. Papa, especially, was happy. I remember that night at our dinner table, the servants standing at each corner of the room, chandeliers casting their golden light, dancing on the walls. It was then that Papa announced which part of the family business I would be overseeing.

“Work hand in hand with Jabez,” Papa said, a smile spreading across his face.

“With Jabez??” Mama reacted, her face stiff with disapproval. “Isi, he can stand on his own.”

“No, no, it’s okay. It would be an honor,” I replied, smiling in Jabez’s direction. He smiled back eagerly. He was the oldest, and we were very fond of each other. I loved him dearly.

All was going well and  I was a fast learner, but still, my heart yearned for the floating objects and the sea. Then, one night, some men from Papa’s rivals were captured in our compound. I was the first to run out—as my mini bungalow was closest to the scene. Papa was in a rage, like I had never seen him before, not in all my years of living.

“Finish him!” Papa instructed, pointing to the leader of the captives.

I looked to my left and right, trying to make sure he wasn’t referring to me. At this point, the rest of my family had gathered outside, all eyes on me, eagerly waiting. It was clear now—he was referring to me.

“Papa, please..” I begged.

“Don’t disappoint me!” he yelled. “Be a Martell!”

Hearing his words, I moved slowly towards one of Papa’s bodyguards, who had a pistol laid on a red plush cloth in front of him. My feet feeling as if they were chained to heavy rocks.

I grabbed the pistol and pointed it toward the leader while my hands shook. I closed my eyes, trying to steady myself, but just  as I was about to press my thumb down on the trigger, I heard a loud bang.

I  opened my eyes, and Jabez had done the impossible. My impossible.

“How many times are you going to keep saving his ass?” Malachi, my second brother, said, shaking his head in disgust as he looked at me.

“Isi, please, I beg,” my mother cried, immediately falling to Papa’s feet, her tears mixing with her desperate pleas.

“Daylight must not meet you here,” Papa said to Jabez, his voice cold and final, before turning and storming back into the house, fuming with anger.

As punishment, Jabez did not return home for five years. At this point, he was to turn 29 in a couple of weeks.  He was not allowed to contact any of us and was given no means to support himself—he simply did not exist. But I like to think Papa knew where he was. The night before he was to return was one filled with so much emotion that I couldn’t sleep.

He never said goodbye, and I remember walking into his bungalow, the best in the compound, and it was dead silent. I wept that day, cursing myself on his brown wooden floors, calling myself a disappointment as I realized my lack of strength had caused my brother to be banished—with no clue as to when I’d see him again.

That morning, to my surprise, my brother dragged me into his embrace, as if we’d just had a normal conversation the previous night. I apologized profusely and told him how happy I was that he was finally home.

“Good to see you as well, little brother,” he said, as he walked toward his bungalow.

He had a very different aura about him now, and he looked so much different from when he left—scratches and bruises marking parts of his visible skin.

Jabez immediately picked up work the next morning as if nothing had happened. I remember sitting at breakfast, wondering if Papa would say anything about his return, but there was nothing. Just the clinking and clanking of cutlery against plates.

After working with the horses—a task I had taken up since that unfaithful night—I would drive down to the docks and take my boat as far as I could. It was my escape, a chance to think about my life and brainstorm how I might finally move away from my family for good. I wasn’t happy. Everyone pretended to be happy and cordial with me, so it only made sense that I disappear.

Plus, I could finally be a sailor and have some joy in my life for once. I was young, just 25 years of age, and I would finally be doing something for myself—without the Martells dictating my every move.

On one of those late-night drives, I remember hearing sounds from the bottom section of my boat. Curious, I leaned over to see what the commotion was about, but before I could make sense of it, I felt a pistol pressed against the back of my head.

“Any sound, and your head will be shipped to your father,” a strange man, with the foulest breath, said.

“I think you have the wrong son,” I replied, almost laughing. “Papa doesn’t give two shits about me.”

“We’ll see about that,” the man muttered, and then everything went black.

I hear loud knocks, and it snaps me back into reality. I run to my door and hiss immediately. It’s just mail. Why would the mailman knock so aggressively? I ask myself.

Regardless, I open the door, glance left and right, pick up the mail, and slam the door shut, bolting it with all the locks I can find. I am also starving, so while I heat up some noodles, let me continue where I left off.

I woke up sweating profusely in a very dark, hot room. There was a small window to my left. So I got up, peeking out of it, trying to figure out where I was and how far away I was from home. It then hit me that I was in one of Papa’s enemies’ hideouts, and I’m being used as a scapegoat. A man I recognized from my boat walked in and ordered me to sit. I had no other option, no way to defend myself, so I sat like a helpless chicken about to be slaughtered for Christmas dinner.

“I’d like to know the rundown of your father’s business, top to bottom,” he said calmly, picking at his teeth.

“I don’t know. I’m not very involved in the business,” I lied, eyeing him.

“Not involved?” He chuckled darkly. “I want you to know, I have all the time in the world for this. I don’t care if it takes us 365 days. I’m ready and equipped for you. And make no mistake—by the time I’m done with you, you’ll be unrecognizable. You’ll beg me to end you.” He said and walked out of the room, leaving me alone with his threats.

Six months. That’s how long it took. Six months of severe beatings and starvation. Six months of having my dignity stripped away, my manhood, my soul. I had given up on the dream that my family was looking for me, that they would be successful in finding me. So, one night, when the man came again, the toothpick in his mouth as usual, I decided  to give him his heart’s desire—to beg him to end it all, to end me. But to my surprise, he came with a different offer.

“I can help you disappear. I know it’s something you want,” he said, a pitiful look on his face.

“What do you care what I want?” I asked slowly, barely able to believe what he was saying.

“Because I know what it feels like to be pulled into a life you don’t desire. Give me what I want, and we’ll both be happy.” He responded.

“I’m sure you’d be the happiest man alive,” I managed to respond.

“I guess it would be nice to do for someone what I cannot do for myself,” he smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.

“My brother Jabez, promise me you won’t hurt him. Promise me,” I said, almost weeping.

And that night, I sang like a bird. Oh, how I sang beautifully, recounting everything I knew about my family and the family business.

Bang, Bang

Another knock on my door, and I freeze. Two knocks in the span of an hour? No, no, no—something’s wrong. I tiptoe to the door, pressing my ear to it, trying to catch any words.

“It’s Asher. We’ve found him,” I hear Papa’s trusted bodyguard say.

I was right, someone was indeed following me and it should have occurred to me that something was odd when the mailman knocked but what does it matter now? I move quickly, straight to my bathroom where there’s a latch that leads to the outside life. I grab my duffel bag, packed with cash, clothes, and a pistol. As I’m about to shut the latch behind me, I hear the door to the apartment crash open.

I hurry down the stairs, straight into the underground tunnels, running as fast as my legs can carry me. I stop for a second to recalibrate, to figure out where to go next, but then it hits me—the pain, the guilt—all of it at once.

I collapse to the floor and weep, not caring if anyone hears me. I think of Jabez, because my captors had failed to honor their promise. They shot him dead and I was unable to attend his funeral. I think of Papa, who lost his favorite son—and a part of his empire—because of the weakness of his own flesh and blood. I think of Malachi, who I know hates me. He’ll never forgive me for what I’ve done.

I think of Mama for I’ve given her nothing but unimaginable sorrow. And I think of my life—the old one, and this new one, which I hate with every fiber of my being.

It hits me then: I might never be free. I’ll never escape this life. But then, I smile. Because maybe, just maybe, if I could see Jabez again, I could find some kind of joy.

I grab the pistol from my duffel bag, press it to the right side of my head—and it’s... silent..

Sage Roses ❁