Death is a place called home. This would always linger in his head whenever his alone.

He  dreams of taking his life but he just can’t do it. He had one precious thing waiting for him at home, the single reason he must continue living, yet the same memory that racks up his mind. He thinks of his 12 yr. old son way too much, back there in their grisly shanty, the poor child’s sweet face thinner, his hair beginning to lose its luster, bedridden because of the progression of his disease. It was mild malaria, the town’s doctor told him 6 days ago.

He grew up in a milieu of laborers, slaves and plunderous land owners. He toils the same land his forefathers have toiled before. When he was still at a very young age, probably six or seven, he was that scruffy little boy who moves around and insists on helping his father work in the field. Since then, he had become his papa’s buddy and had a grubbing hoe as his sole property.

He had long since forgotten his wife, that lonely bitch, she who ran off with his comrade three bitter years ago, and left him and their son alone with all the town talks.  What he needs now is money, and he has to have it so badly. Aside from his ill son, he still needs to pay his debt to his master by tomorrow, or else he will be dismissed in working their in that field again.

A black pick-up truck is moving slowly and a man bobs up his head at his car window while calling him, a lone stranger asking for ways. This is what his waiting for. It will just take a single strike of his hoe on the head and he’ll filch the man’s wallet or anything worthy, hide the body in the car’s trunk and dump it down the bushes below one of the overlooks off LockCliff Drive a few kilometers away, and then flee like nothing happened.

He had made up his mind. God is but a name.