Roots of Evil

Her eyes focused on the tattered white dress on the floor. With every thud of the headboard the dress’s crimson stain danced in her vision. Was it wine or blood that had caused it? She could no longer recall and no longer cared.

That dress had seen many a motel floor. Greedy hands had torn it off her body, roughly exposing her naked flesh to cold air. Rushing feet had streaked mud over it while it was stomped into the carpet in the whirlwind hurry the men had been in to shove her facedown into a dirty mattress. Every wrinkle, rip and stain was a memory she attempted to numb with the sweet release of gin and a needle in her arm.

When she suffered through these nights she always focused her eyes on that dress. Her mind would wander back to the little girl who dreamed of being a ballerina. “When making your turns, you must pick a focal point to hold your attention while you spin. That is what will keep you from getting dizzy and sick,” her instructor had advised. Did the same hold true when it was your world that was spinning out of control? The nausea rising in the pit of her stomach suggested otherwise.

With a loud groan tonight’s service was complete. He stood, zipped his pants and threw a wad of bills on the bed before hastily rushing out of the door. $300 was her hourly rate, set by Big John, the wolf who lured her in with charm and a seductive smile before slowly tearing the image of herself apart shred by shred until she could no longer recognize the woman in the mirror. As she pushed her tangled blond hair out of her eyes, she remembered a study she had read about before her dreams of higher education had been dismantled. Two groups of people listened to music at a reasonable volume. One group had the music cranked up ten notches. They ripped the headphones from their ears at the drastic increase and refused to continue listening. The other group had their music raised one notch at a time, with long intervals in between, until they were at twice the volume of the first group and did not notice the change. That is what Big John had done to her. Slowly, incrementally, sadistically turning what she thought was love into increasingly dehumanizing acts until her sense of self was completely shattered. She prayed John wouldn’t find out she cheated tonight’s client as she picked up the $400 dollars from the bed. $100 slid into the waistband of her silk panties. $20 would cover her next fix. $40 would cover this week’s appointment. The rest would go towards her monthly donation to the women’s shelter on Main. It wasn’t much, but she did anything she could to keep others from straying down the same dark path that had led to her desolation. Her bloodshot eyes fell on the red numbers blinking at her from the side of the bed. “An early finish,” she mumbled, as she reached for her cell.

Ashers’ phone screeched for his attention as the streetlight flickered overhead. “I have 30 minutes before I need to be back. Where are you?” He told her the street corner where she could find him and he leaned against the smeared plexiglass windows of the bus stop shelter to wait. This corner was where he met most of his clients. Only a stone’s throw away from his dingy, one bedroom apartment, it was certainly a convenient commute to work. Although he himself wouldn’t touch anything harder than a little bit of weed, Bones was one of the most successful dealers in the area. “A junky will never turn a profit,” his father told him and he had learned from the best in the business.

“Hey, Babe,” He greeted her as he saw her quickly walking towards him. Upon meeting his eyes, she started to cry. His heart grew heavy in his chest, watching the woman he loved being stuck in a world she hated that she couldn’t escape. He understood her emotions, as he

himself yearned to get out but couldn’t see a path. For them, there was no guiding light. They were doomed to their dark existence, the gravity of their businesses continuously sucking other souls down into the black hole that defined their daily lives. He held her close as his phone continued to demand an answer. 13 missed texts from Carl the jockey greeted his eyes when he pulled out his small, black phone. “Meet me at the track tomorrow. 3 PM. Don’t be late.” Pretty demanding for a soul in desperation, Asher thought to himself. But a true business man never disappointed a paying client. He ran some quick calculations through his head. After he sold to Carl, Steve, Alex and some of the other regulars from the track he should have about $1,000 in cash. $800 would cover this month’s rent. $100 would cover this week’s appointment. The rest would go toward his monthly donation to Nar-Anon Families. He wasn’t proud of what he did for a living, but a smart boy with no opportunities did what he had to in order to survive. His customers chose their sins. The children in their lives did not. He shook his head, knowing his donations were small, but if they helped one family heal from daddy’s addiction it was worth it.

Asher drove to the track and welcomed the rhythmic thudding of galloping thoroughbreds kicking up dust on the grill of his jet black Nissan Accord. “That car doesn’t quite blend in around here,” his long-time friend, Jim ,called to him from the fence. “What brings you down here on a Wednesday, Asher?” Jim inquired. “Oh, just business,” was the answer. “Me too,” Jim said with a smile and walked away.

Jim climbed into his Jeep Wrangler and drove home. There was a comfort that came from living in a neighborhood where the doors were left unlocked, children played outside with no fear and rode their bikes up and down the street until dinner time. Growing up in the inner city, this wasn’t the life Jim had envisioned for himself, but he was content. Walking through the door, his eyes fell on his wife. Her long, blonde hair caught the glare of the sunlight and her blue eyes sparkled when she saw him. “Dinner will be ready in about half an hour,” she said with a kiss hello. “Perfect, that will give me just enough time to finish up some business arrangements. Call the kids in. I’ve missed them all day.”

He walked into his home office and closed the door. He pulled out a little black notebook and studied this week’s odds. K’s Alias was Saturday’s favorite with Carl on board. Winndotcom was this week’s longshot, going off at 100-1. After he paid Carl and some of the other jockeys to throw the race he would still be able to turn a solid profit. He pulled out his phone. “Hey, it’s me. Put your money on Winndotcom.”

He hung up the phone. $2,000 would be his profit this weekend. $100 would cover his son’s class trip. $200 for this week’s appointment. The rest was going towards his monthly donation to children’s cancer research. He knew his living was illegal, but it gave his children a life better than the one he had known. Still, a childhood in a rough neighborhood was better than a childhood ruined by a self attacking body that destroyed the worriless innocence most children get to enjoy. His career was not admirable in many eyes, but it gave him the freedom to donate to a cause that would help end the suffering of so many. Picking up a photograph from his desk, he ran his finger over his young daughter’s face. She was still so beautiful even with a bald head. How he missed her.

Saturday’s morning sun shone bright through the stained glass windows as Father Chad folded his purple stole and headed towards the confessional. Taking his seat behind the screen he patiently folded his hands and waited. They would come. They always came.

She was first. “Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It’s been one week since my last confession.” With tears spilling from her eyes she told him of the men she had been with. She relived every repulsive touch as she begged for forgiveness for the way she made a living. “My child, your lifestyle fills your father with revulsion. You give life to lust and you perpetuate the festering decay of men. You must repent. To save your soul, say ten Hail Mary’s and you must tithe ten percent of your earnings to the church.” Leaving the confessional, she did as she was told, slipping cash into the poor box. She left, with her head hung low in shame. Father Chad walked over to see how much she had given. With a wry smile he slipped the cash underneath his robes. It was enough to cover his hour with Lindsay. He may have taken a vow of celibacy, but a man had his needs, he thought to himself.

He went back to the confessional and waited for his next visitor. It wasn’t long before he heard the door shut and a throat was cleared. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession.” Asher told him about the crimes he had committed. He reflected on how he was using people’s weaknesses to make a living. All that he wanted was a way out, a better way, but this was all he knew. “My son, your lifestyle drags people into the underworld of society. You have created a cloud of darkness that they cannot escape. Not only are you damning your soul, but you are damning the souls of others with you. For your penance, say ten Our Fathers and tithe ten percent of your earnings to the church.” Asher said his prayers, slipped cash into the poor box and quickly walked out. He could not raise his eyes to the statues of the saints around him. When he was gone, Father Chad went to the poor box. He grinned as he counted the cash. Enough to cover his next fix.

Father Chad wandered back to the confessional knowing that there was one more client who would come. Every Saturday Jim sat across from him, the only one who chose to see him face to face. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. But you already know that, don’t you?” Father Chad did not answer. “I fixed that race for you. So we’re even now. You will never tell my wife how I make my living. $20,000 in a win should be more than enough to guarantee that.” Father Chad chuckled. “Yes, yes. Go now, my son, you have been forgiven.”

One month later, Father Chad lifted the veil on his latest purchase. A solid gold tabernacle glistened before his eyes. His goal was to make his church ever bigger, grander, more impressive. Wealth begets wealth, he thought to himself, as he thought of the type of congregation that he wished to fill his pews. He had no interest in catering to the slum lives that filled the streets of the inner city. The upper class was his ambition, where confessions of marital affairs and sins of vanity would keep the cash flow strong to support his nights of drug induced adultery with beautiful whores. He knelt before his altar and as he did so a little black book fell from his pocket. Picking it up, he ran his hand over the cover, tracing the letters that spelled “Holy Bible”. Outside, the church bells tolled thrice, drowning out the desperate, final cries of a starving newborn baby as he took his final breaths in his mother’s arms.