Confiscated, Chapter 1 **WARNING: OFFENSIVE**


Chapter 1


            My eyes are closed, but I still hear sirens in the background.  The penetrating noise made its way in the crawlspace of my subconscious.  The hardwood floor is doing a number on my back, but I try to ignore the sounds and fall back asleep. I was having such a nice dream too.  Or I think I was.  It doesn’t matter.

            As my eyelids slowly start to function again, I think I can hear muffled yells of several men.  Are they screaming at me or each other? It sounds as if they are outside.  As color starts to fill in the white spots of my vision, I hear a noise of a small object being thrown from the outside breaking my window.  My head turns towards the commotion just as the small device explodes and I am blinded all over again.  Fuck that hurts.  I can’t hear or see anything except the exhausting sound of ringing in my ears, but my arms are dragged behind my back and are bound together.  The unknown assailants forcefully pull me up to my feet and start pushing me towards what I assume is the exit of this shithole.  I don’t even try to fight it, they can see, I’ll let them guide me.

A breeze of fresh air and the midday sun smacks me in the face and my vision slowly starts to recuperate.  Police caution tape is surrounding my house, civilians hiding behind barricades spectating as if they have never seen a police raid before.  Then again, have I, and why were they raiding me?  I look back towards my house to see the broken window where the flashbang awoke me from my sleep and I just have one question to ask. Are they paying for that or am I?  I’m sad to find out that my door won’t be surviving the renovating process after being banged harder by a battering ram than a goddamn slut on Sixth Street.  It was more of a fixer upper house than anything, but a home is a home. 

What am I wearing? These aren’t my clothes.  I don’t think I would own some jokester blue striped shirt with white bird outlines on it.  The jeans might be mine, but definitely not the shirt.

My head is killing me, I swear I could be part vampire because the sun is draining all ounces of strength that I can muster.  It’s either that or the coke.  Most likely not a mythical beast. I’m not overly surprised that I was caught, it was only a matter of time.  All they have on me is possession, I already sold most of it so there is no proof of intent to distribute. I’ll be free in no time. Why was I on the floor though, was I snow-blind?

My friends wave goodbye to me as they pass, they were all loitering around the grass, but they weren’t where the rest of the civilians are.  They were close enough to interfere with the police raid, yet they are standing right there. Confusion makes its way into my facial expression, but the cops ignore them.  Jimmy’s face is smirking, lips almost breaking into a laugh.  His eyes are staring me down as if I got caught watching pornography at my mother’s house.  Mira is standing close to Jim with an arm around his shoulders.  Her face matches my confusion and we stare in each other’s eyes for a couple of seconds.  Simon’s ugly mug has always been dismissive. Simon doesn’t care about anyone but himself and the only reason we got along was because of Mira.  Finally Laura, the only one who looks concerned for me.  If it were feasible I know she would be trying to free me from my police escort. She always cared too much.

 A sharp pain in my kidney disrupts our staring contest and I lose all control of my left leg.  Struggling to recompose my balance, I hear the scrawny black cop say, “On your feet, asshole.”  Of course I’m the asshole.

At least they politely shoved me into the back of their tiny, run of the mill, cop car.  My friends are still in the grass as if they were told not to leave.  The cops walk right past them and completely ignore all of my friends as they start dismantling the police barricades and tape.  I wonder if they were the ones who ratted me out or if it were my own stupidity that I got caught.  I turn to see my fans as well as cops attempting to disperse them and they are staring petrified in my direction.  I’ve never been the center of attention before.  I’ll try to imagine they are cheering me on instead of what is actually painted on their disgusted faces. Heh, one of them is overtly obese. I can see his wrinkles jiggling from a moving car.  I wonder if he has to clean under the wrinkles like a pug.  He is happily eating a snack like he is watching a fucking movie.  At least it isn’t a bucket of chicken, I suppose.  I wish I could see him die of a heart attack, but the truth is, he will probably outlive me.

The cops probably don’t want to talk to me, but that’s alright, I’ll keep to myself.  Cookie cutter houses greet me outside the dirty window I am sitting next to. Some homeless drunkard from last night was most likely in here before me, licking the window and leaving annoying smudge marks.  They probably let him out to endanger himself and the public.  These cops seem to be tidy about every little thing they do, like it’s against the law to have your car a bit dirty.  How are people content, no, proud even, to live in a house and pay two hundred thousand dollars for an unoriginal by-product of mass consumerism? Where’s the goddamn chaos that causes a double take and generates a moment of confusion?

People try so hard and pay so much in order to be like someone else.  They even assume the thoughts of someone far more intelligent than them to sound smarter than they actually are.  Is it so hard to derive a complete and original thought anymore? The world may never know.

            I see Jimmy’s smirk at the corner of my eye, almost out of my periphery.  I turn to meet his mocking face, but it fades as my eyes adjust.  I must still be half asleep.  I wonder if they serve coffee in jail.

            They spent no time at all rushing me to Derunde County Jail.  No pit stops to bash me up or for smoothies. Strait to business.  I comply with the officers’ fetish of pulling a limp body out of their back-seat.  They show their amusement by kicking my shin with their steel-toed boots. I deserved that, I suppose I am the asshole of this relationship.  We take the main entrance in for booking and half of the police staff look impressed with the hunter’s catch, and the other half, I assume the bitches of the police force, look unamused at all the paperwork that they will have to do.  Prison isn’t the only place for that mentality it seems, quite ironic.  They show off their prize by pushing me abruptly into filing cabinets and desks to knock me off balance and cause a bigger scene, as if not enough people were staring.

            After the boring booking process of being admitted into jail, I get assigned to cell 312.  Comparable to a luxury 6 by 8 condo with an outstanding view of three stone walls.  My neighbors across greet me with stares and cold looks instead of freshly baked cookies.  They are as untrusting and cautious as I am.  The cell on my right has a blonde meat-head who probably landed in here for aggravated assault or burglary.  The other one a ginger who looks to have been the butt of everyone else’s jokes.  I can see why, the meager build of a computer hacker who probably trespassed onto a government server doesn’t fair well with the common jail folk.  Not to mention the fire-crotch and woman-like physique.  But, if I want to make friends in here, I suppose I better make it with these two so I can sleep better at night.

            “Hey meat-head, what is your name?”

            I think I made him agitated. I could hear him get up from his uncomfortably small bed, “Tha fuck did you just say punkass?” I see a hand grip the metal bars stopping him from making me his bitch. I reply nonchalant, “I said, what is your name?”

            He did not think I was very clever, for he ignored me and I could hear his massive flesh hitting the tiny bed from the edge of my cell.  I turn towards the ginger’s cage, “Hey kid, do you have a name?”

            “Ron,” said the man of many words. I was waiting for him to say something in return, but to my surprise nothing came uttering out of his mouth.  Well no need to give up my name if this clown doesn’t want to ask. I continue and judging by the tone of my own voice, everyone should be able to tell that this was the first time these words came out of my mouth, “So, uhh…what are you in here for?”

            “I set fire to an elderly home; 13 dead and at least twice that with second degree burns.  Well that is what the news said,” Ron said bluntly with no remorse or unwavering emotions.  I was taken aback by his answer to say the least. This kid an arsonist? I misjudged him by a landslide.  I think I trust Mr. No-Name more at this point.  I can’t predict anything this scrawny guy could do or say and I definitely do not want to meet him outside of this place.  Damn, I already hate being in here and it hasn’t been a full hour yet.

            I decide that it is in my best interest just to shut up and wait.  I doze off for a couple of hours, maybe more.  Heavy footsteps approaching my cell pulls me back from my dreams.  Judging by all the clinking of his gear, I’m guessing it is a cop.  He walks past my cell and a couple more down, then doubles back to greet me in my cell.  “Oh, your bail has been posted. Let’s get you up front.”  He clasps cuffs around, but he seems to be a lot gentler than the men who snatched me from my home.  He leads me towards the front of the station.

            Bail, who would bail me out?  Was it Jimmy or Mira?  Must have been Mira.  The officer leads me out of the holding cells and into a processing center.  He removes the cuffs from my hands and says, “You didn’t have any personal effects on you, or else I would give them to you now.  I think your wife is up front waiting.”

            I have that dumb confused look on my face again, “wife? I don’t have one.”  The cheery officer replied, “Well damn, you should marry her. She’s drop-dead fucking beautiful.”  Hell of a compliment, I walk out to meet this mystery beauty.

            I wouldn’t say angels were singing or a spotlight was shining down on her while a fan blew her hair mildly back, but goddamn was she a sight to see. She had long silky black hair, pale and a slender but curvy body.  Her shirt is very tight around the chest and she is wearing those jean shorts that allow her legs to be shown to the world.  She is talking with an officer, or an officer is hitting on her.  Either way I feel like I’m interrupting when I walk up to them.  Her face brightens as she sees me and throws her arms around me in a hug.  My arms instinctively go around her back, but sadly, I do not remember this woman.  Judging by her face it appears we are friends.  I’ve never had a good memory, it could be all the drugs or brain damage from the drugs, I don’t know.  She interrupts   “So, Dean, are you ready to get out of here?”  Indeed I am, but all I’m able to muster is, “Ya, let’s go.”

            She walks in front of me, leading me out and towards her car. She has a happy-go-lucky waltz as she is leaving the station.  She looks back to me several times and smiles, almost as if glad that I didn’t just run away or get lost like a puppy.  We arrive to a run-down, faded, cherry red piece of shit excuse for a car and I get in the passenger seat.

            The radio is playing some annoying, overplayed pop song.  Even if you don’t listen to the radio, somehow you still know all the words to the song.  Not very innovative or creative writing to say the least.  We pull up to an apartment complex that supports low-income families.  “Come on inside, I’ll make you a drink,” she says, awfully cheery.  Well I think it’s time to break the news to her, “Sorry, but what is your name again? I must have forgotten.”  This must have ruined her mood because that precious smile went sour.  Not with anger, but a little hurt and it took her by surprise. “You forgot again, didn’t you?” 

I look away from her and to the morbidly depressing scenery surrounding us.  I couldn’t stand looking into that sad face, “Unfortunately, yes.”  She lets out a sigh and then lifts her spirits in attempts to raise mine, “Well let’s get going! My name is Evelyn, but you call me Bunny because I sell White Hare and I’m the best damn friend you have!”  Now White Hare I remember.  It is a specialty hand-spliced cocaine.  Not sure exactly what it is spliced with, but it’s legit.

“Evelyn huh? That’s truly the perfect name for you.”

Evelyn is starting to blush, it’s quite noticeable with her pale-like skin.  She says coyly, “Thank you, Dean.  You say that every time you forget, it’s sweet.”

That statement goes without precedent as she is the one who bailed me out of jail so fast.  For which, I realize now, I never thanked her.  “Thank you. I mean it.”

There’s that damn smile again, “You’re welcome. After all I’m the one who was selling to you, and you ended up getting nicked.  I feel kind of responsible, you know?  We got to stick together.”

            We head inside her relatively plain accommodations.  She is obviously hiding the fact that she is loaded with her booming business.  There are many raggedy bicycles loitering the rack with their heavy metal locks, yet the front wheels were all dismantled and stolen.  Empty bags of chips, old newspapers and other small items of trash surrounded the sidewalk.  As if the lack of maintenance in this place didn’t scream “ghetto” I think the heap of trash tells the story.

            We arrive at her plain puke color door and she struggles with the four locks she installed to keep out all the degenerates.  Once inside, I am surprised to find that it is extremely well-kept.  A vast improvement from the scene outside.  She has at least a 32” flat screen TV, a leather three seater couch, small shirts are strewn about the coffee table and floor, but other than that, spotless.  Surprising for a junkie and a dealer.  Usually there would be drugs and paraphernalia strewn across the place, not just clothes.  As I’m looking around her place, Evelyn goes back to the kitchen and whips me up some whiskey and coke.  Coke as in the soda, I think I’ll be off White Hare for a bit.  I smile appreciative at her and drink as if it were my last drink that I would ever have.  I start to think, which always ends badly and make my way to the couch to silence the thoughts with the television.  Some stupid doctor show is on, but Evelyn seems to get excited and joins me on the couch.  She screams, almost louder than that flashbang from earlier, “I love this show! Do you want to watch an episode with me?”

            Well it’s the least I could do, I suppose.  I get more restless as the show goes on, just realizing that my head is killing me.  The sun is going down already.  Too much excitement for one day? Possible.  In the middle of my thinking about how this all happened, I realize I’m dozing off and my eyes are struggling to stay open.  Well I feel safe here. I may as well give in and not fight the promise of slumber.

            In the dream world, pain and desires recede into the edges of the landscape.  I can find solace when my mind is not constantly berated by thoughts or whispers; by suggestions or seductions.  I can open up to be free, where no one, not even myself, can stand as a god and judge. 

I can see several children playing at the park across the street from my newly furnished window.  I know I am still dreaming, you can almost always tell this is the fake world, but this is nice sometimes.  I lay my burdens down to see the carefree nature of the young.  Nothing to lose, nothing to prove.  The only thing that matters is what is for dinner.

I am unsure if it was my desire for a hot meal that woke me, but Evelyn is sleeping on a pillow that rests on my lap.  She looks so calm and at ease, like she doesn’t have a care in the world.  Or anything left to worry about.  Did I mean this much to her, or did she really feel responsible for me ending up in jail for the brief time before I was bailed out?  I could not move.  Who would dare wake this sleeping beauty that has made her home nestled on top of them?  Certainly not I.  It is still dark outside, but judging by how much light is emitted from the far-rising sun.  It is about 3:00 am.  I am awake between the time the drunkards are passed out, and the early birds are chirping.

Green cloth catches my eye at the end of the couch, and being the chivalrous gentleman that I am, I attempt to cover Evelyn with the blanket.  I disturb her as she shifts uncomfortably, still unconscious though.  I stroke her soft black hair that covered a portion of her face to rest on the other side of her.  Hair like fucking silk.  As enamored as I am by her hair, I fail to notice that her emerald green eyes are staring up at me.  A faint smile creeps about her lips and I can feel my chest slipping further in a downward spiral.

She has the power to make a man weak with those warm inviting eyes. Her head comes up to meet mine coming down and we kiss.  Lips in a waging war on the battlefield of lust and desire.

Another morning nausea of waking up. Unfortunately I was not able to come to on my volition.  This time Evelyn smacked the back of my head and giggled mischievously.  I guess us falling asleep and kissing was all in my head. I could have sworn that was the real.  Waking up I see how truly messy this shit-hole really was.  There was no way she could have made this mess overnight.   Broken beer bottles were loitering the floor, needles and an ashtray were hidden under some of her clothes upon the coffee table.  Unfortunately last night’s depiction wasn’t the reality.  I think I am finally awake now.

She noticed how confused and disoriented I was feeling and her arms snaked down my chest from behind to grip into a hug.  Warm and inviting, but this can’t be real.  Her seductive whisper fills my ears with even more desires than I thought were possible.  The tone of her voice was begging me to fulfill her wishes, “Dean, hun.  I need you to do something for me.  Can you do me this favor?”

Her fingers slipped to the hair on the nape of my neck and pushing upwards, slowly massaging all capable thought from my mind, “Yes. Uh, anything you need.”

“I need you to take care of something for me,” I could feel her waistline gently touch the back of my head where her hands were.  I am in no position to argue, I would do anything at this point, like any man would.

Her voice got real stern and serious, almost breaking the trance, but not quite, “I need you to kill a man named Jilaha Orbena.  He works at a convenience store off of Jody Ln and Hestia Rd.”


“You want me to wh…” she had cut me off by planting her tongue inside my mouth.  The warm brooding feeling from last night re-awakening. My vision starts to fade into a black whirlpool, the darkness is coming back.  No no no, I wanted to enjoy this moment with her.  Why does it have to be now?

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Confiscated touches on several problems from drug abuse to mental illness.  This is complete fiction, written in the eyes of another.  Some people may be offended by the material, and if so, I apologize but I will not re-write.  This is intended to be for a mature audience. This is a first draft of chapter 1 of my novel Confiscated.  I have been working on and off for a couple of months and currently have about 50 pages written.  Here is about 10 pages. 

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ashes_twisted's picture


was good. You play confusion very effectively with the beginning. Putting myself within the characters shoes, I felt myself getting disoriented as well. I kept reading wanting to know how it all was going to play out, and what the hell was going on, lol. So, kudos to you for keeping the reader enthralled, and I also loved that tid bit about I’m sad to find out that my door won’t be surviving the renovating process after being banged harder by a battering ram than a goddamn slut on Sixth Street.   I laughed at this. 

Working on books can be very hard, and challenging to the writer/author. You may find yourself dropping it, picking it back up, re-writing it several different ways, but you have something going here, and I hope you don't give up on it. I know there have been times when I just wanted to throw my shit in the trash and just say the hell with it, but im happy i didn't. 

Keep up the great work! =)

"We are, Each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing one another." -Luciano De Crescenzo

Carcass's picture

Thank you, I like the concept

Thank you, I like the concept and I've drawn the mysteries in my head.  I wrote about 40 pages in a week and stopped for while, but picked it up / edited it again recently. I'm glad you like it, I tried to put some humor in there, and its hard to be funny and dark xD