Page 1 of Cruel Existence

One

AMARA

Ididn’t like new places. I pressed the tortoise glasses against my nose to block the light. It was invasive and unwanted. I scooted lower in the bistro chair, slouching under a palm frond. The shade was hit or miss on the outdoor patio, but it was too crowded inside. I wanted space. Quiet. I wanted to wallow in the feeling of isolation.

“Thank you,” I acknowledged the waitress softly when she delivered my espresso.

“Anything else?” she asked.

“No.” I winced. My head hurt as I lifted it to take a sip. I was paying the price for the party I attended.

I didn’t make good decisions in new places.

I dug through my designer bag for ibuprofen and swallowed a few tablets with the coffee. My blond hair was knotted in a high bun. It didn’t help with the headache, but I couldn’t bearthe extra heat it would cause falling around my shoulders. My phone chirped, but I didn’t look at the screen. I couldn’t. There were probably pictures. In fact, if I closed my eyes long enough and remembered exactly what I had done, I could see the cell phones freely snapping shots of me.

I didn’t care then. I only somewhat cared now.

The fake name I had given didn’t work. They knew who I was and tagged me in every picture.

My phone chirped again. My eyes moved to the two men posted nearby. I couldn’t go to a damn coffee shop without my father’s detail. Their heads leaned closer together, and one of them whispered.

Shit.

The taller one walked toward me. “It’s time to go,” he announced. His hands clasped in front of him. I saw the blunt edge of his weapon when his jacket was pulled to the side.

“I haven’t finished my coffee,” I argued.

“It’s your father,” he replied. “You can bring the coffee with you.”

“I’d rather drink it here.” I didn’t want to acknowledge my hangover to him, even though he had noticed it. It was his job to notice everything about me.

“That’s not an option.” His voice was flat without emotion.

The second suit had already walked inside the bistro for a to-go cup. He returned, dumped my espresso in it, and handed it to me.

I glanced to my right. The couple next to me stared. They must have been tourists. Surely, the locals were used to mobboss’s daughters being dragged through the city against their wills. I didn’t know New Orleans well. I didn’t know how to read people here yet. No one in Philadelphia would have flinched.

I glared at the suits. “What is the emergency?”

“We can’t discuss it. It’s time to go.” His answer was as vague and sterile as the first time he told me.

“So, it is an emergency?” I pressed. Only for a second, I let the possibility rattle around that my father might not be feeling well. He had more and more episodes lately. He wouldn’t tell me what the brown bottle of pills was that he kept in his breast pocket. I had stopped asking.

“I didn’t say that. Let’s go.”

I had options. I could kick, scream, and make a scene in front of the tourists. Or I could leave with the suits, follow orders, obey, and fulfill my duty. I hated myself for choosing the easier path.

The cardboard cup was warm. I clutched it and marched past the tall men, pretending I left because I was bored with the coffee shop. I was tall, nearly 5’9” but they still towered over me. That was how all the security was built on my father’s payroll. I wasn’t a threat to them.

“This way.” He extended his palm to shift me toward the sidewalk.

“I remember where we parked,” I hissed.

If he had been a family member, he would have spat back at me, but being on the payroll prevented him from stepping out of bounds. Instead, he held the door open to the backseat while the other suit started the ignition. I climbed inreluctantly, and he slammed the door. He tested the handle from the inside to make sure it was locked. Both men were new. I didn’t even know their names.

The leather seat stuck to the back of my legs. I reached overhead to adjust the vent. I needed cool air. Lots of it. I caught glimpses of ferns drooping in the stagnant heat. The driver took one turn after another. He wasn’t careful with the wheel. Maybe it was his way to teach me a subtle lesson. I was as lost as I had been when we left the house an hour ago. I didn’t have a great sense of direction. It was another reason not to like new places. It was easy to feel confused. Lost. Ungrounded.

My compass was off. The axis I relied on had been splintered and shredded. I stumbled through a new house, a new city, and a new life.

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