THE TRUTH - CHAPTER 4 HAUNTED BOY

 

 

Blog 4

Topic 2

Chapter 4

The truth

 July 14th. The night the world bled, and I was stuck in the gut of the Central Jail. The air in that place is thick—tasting of copper, old sweat, and the echoed screams of psychos who’ve forgotten their own names.

"Hello everyone! I’m Johnny Reynolds!" I’d snarl at the bars sometimes, just to drown them out.

I’m a skilled cowboy, a decorated MMA fighter, and a wrestler who could snap a man's spine like a dry twig. Yet, here I am, playing babysitter to the dregs of the earth. My anger isn't just a mood; it's a physical weight behind my ribs. Murderers, thieves, dealers, rapists—they all cry the same when they realize I don’t care about "prison reform." I’m not just a guard; I’m the janitor cleaning out the trash of society.

The phone didn't ring with Albert’s usual tone. It was a blocked number, a digital ghost. I picked it up, and the voice on the other end was like sandpaper on glass. He gave me an address and a single instruction: "Wear something classy, Cowboy. You’ve got a front-row seat to the end of the world."

He wanted status? I’d show him status. I went to my garage and pulled the tarp off my soul: a vintage Impala, midnight black with gold-leaf pinstripes that caught the moonlight like liquid fire. I drove for hours, the engine’s roar the only thing keeping my temper in check, until I reached the hotel at 8:00 PM.

The lobby was a sea of silk and champagne. As I stepped through the doors, a waiter brushed past me, his touch as light as a feather. I felt the weight of a slip of paper slide into my pocket. I pulled it out.

Stand still. Watch. Don’t blink.

Before I could process the message, the glass ceiling shattered.

It wasn't a party anymore; it was a slaughterhouse. Men in tailored suits wearing twisted, grinning clown masks emerged from the shadows. The gunfire was rhythmic, mechanical. For fifteen minutes, I stood frozen—not out of fear, but because I was watching a masterpiece of carnage. They moved with a terrifying precision, silencing the music with the lead of twenty AK-47s.

Then, he descended the grand staircase.

He wore a mask of black, white, and gold—regal and demonic. I didn't wait for an introduction. I drew my piece and leveled it at his heart. Instantly, twenty red laser dots danced across my chest.

"Lower your steel," the masked man commanded his men, his voice echoing in the hollow hall. "Bring a table. Two chairs. I want to look my witness in the eye."

We sat amidst the smoke and the scent of expensive perfume turned to iron. He leaned forward, boasting of his grand design, bragging that he was the architect of every tragedy I had ever witnessed. Then, with a slow, agonizing flourish, he unlatched the mask.

My heart stopped. The face staring back at me was the one person I thought was incapable of such darkness.

The shock broke my paralysis. I lunged across the table, my fist cocked back to shatter his jaw, but the guards were faster. A muzzle flashed. A bullet tore through the air, grazing my side, and the impact sent me spiraling into the marble floor.

I lay there, gasping, watching their polished boots retreat into the night. I tried to scream as the distant wail of sirens grew louder. I saw Albert burst through the doors, his face pale as he found me in the wreckage.

I tried to tell him. I tried to scream the name of the monster. But my tongue was a block of ice; my jaw was locked in a silent plea. My vision tunneled until there was nothing left but the rhythmic strobe of red and blue police lights and the frantic thud of my own heart.

Now, I’m here. The ICU.

I hear the doctors telling Albert I’m in a coma. They say I can’t hear them. They’re wrong. I’m screaming inside this skull, pounding against the walls of my own mind. I’m a prisoner again, but this time, the bars are my own ribs.

Everything depends on Albert now. He has to see the clues I left behind. He has to find him. Because the killer... the man who ruined everything... was...

TO BE CONTINUED...