I’ve never used drugs, I don’t smoke, and I don’t drink. I had an average childhood. I was raised in the South by both parents and an older sister. We were never rich, yet not truely poor.

When I was young, after finishing Highschool, I decided to enter the military. I figured it would be a noble way to earn a few bucks and see a few sights, what could it hurt, when was the last time Mexico was in war?

I served my time and came home with a small savings that I used to start my own business. I make furniture, rustic furniture. I loved my simple, average existence. It was a hot summer day and I was just about ready to close up, when a beautiful woman entered my shop, she took my breath away. She was shopping for an average rustic bed for her newly acquired apartment on Eloy Cavazos Avenue. Who could have known that I would soon being sharing that rustic bed, made by my own two hands, with her, the beautiful Mayela.
Mayela and I were married 4 monthes to the day of meeting one another. Our first child, Jose Fidel, was born eleven months later, conceived in our average rustic bed, made by my own two hands. Two years later we were blessed by our second child, Luis Fernando. Life was grand for our small family of four, we were never rich, yet truly not poor. For almost eleven more years we lived as so: simple, average and happy, then it happened.

Luis Fernando began having stomache pain, his belly was swollen and Luis couldn’t stop scratching himself. Within days my boy barely moved and his skin began to yellow. Mayela and I rushed our son to the emergency room at our government sponsered local I.M.S.S., it was there, after many tests, the Doctor confirmed our fears. My son’s liver had ceased to function correctly; without a transplant he would soon die.

He was admitted to the hospital, Mayela stayed with him while I went home to care for Jose Fidel. That night, as I laid alone in our average rustic bed, I felt sick. I.M.S.S. had told us of patients on the organ doner waiting list for over 10 years, Luis Fernando doesn’t have ten years, we don’t even know if he’ll have ten months. I cursed myself and my blind stupidity, how could I have been content being average, never rich, not truly poor.

I couldn’t possibly risk the wait for an organ doner. We’re talking about my son, mijo, Luis Fernando, mi Fer. We would have to raise the funds needed for a transplant in a private hospital. I talked to the news, the banks, the entire community. We held non-stop benefit dinners, dances, and bingos, but still were not even close to saving my dying frail son. I felt helpless and alone. What type of Father am I? It was with that thought, my telephone rang. I couldn’t believe my ears, I nearly fainted as I was told an anonymous donation had just been received to cover not only the transplant for Luis Fernando, but all follow up treatment, care, and medications. My boy will survive. Gracias a Dios.

Luis Fernando was operated on 17 days later and eventually made a full recovery. Our lives were grand once again: simple, average, and happy, until my phone rang once again. I was to meet the unknown caller at 5:00 p.m. in the plaza to receive instructions for repayment of my debt. No delays, come alone, I was instructed. It was there, in the town plaza, at 5:00 p.m., that my world changed.

My noble military service, a lifetime ago, came full circle. The sharp shooter skills and my time as a military police had always been meaningless, now for some reason they have been highlighted bright. I was given a picture, a weapon, and a small sheet of paper with basic geographics, El Gato, told me I had 24 hours to complete my task, or else.

I came home after completing my first assigned task and wanted to die. I was unworthy of life, love, and happiness. I couldn’t look at my Mayela or the boys without seeing the awful crimson color flow through my visions. Blood, so much blood, what had I done? That was almost three years and over 42 payments ago. Mayela and the boys continue to live happily, thankfully ignorant to my debt installments. What are my choices, the man, a man, some man payed to save my boy, mijo, now I must be a man and payback my debt.

It’s incredible how trainable and resilient the human mind is. I’m not really sure if it was from my self-induced mental training or a type of primordial instinct protecting me from sure mental and moral disaster. Although I do not eagerly await the next phone call announcing a new payment installment, I no longer fear it. I no longer think about murder, it is a simple transaction. The same as going to the local bank to deposit my loan payment, the only difference is my deposit will be a .44 slug to the back of a nameless someones head.

The crimson red blood no longer makes me recoil in panic and sickness. I have trained my mind to block color, now when I make payments, the world seems average and calm. I am at ease knowing I will be enveloped in non-threatening tones of sepia. No longer do I come home ill and ashamed. I am not proud, but I am a man repaying his debt, a debt that gave life to his child. I look my beautiful Mayela in the eyes with love, stare longingly at my boys, Jose Fidel and the now strong and handsome, Luis Fernando. I am making things right, taking responsibilities, paying my debt.

There is only one detail left that I have yet to find a way to train my average and simple mind. When I make my payments, I have a quirk I just can’t seem to shake. It might seem odd, being as a dead man can’t talk, much less scream his killers name, but EYES still deeply disturb me, they haunt my very average, simple existance.

I read the newspaper, I hear people talk. While nobody knows about my secret installments , they obviously know people are dying. There is so much wondering: “what is it that this killer doesn’t want them to see?” The answer is simple and average like me. I’m not taping their eyes to keep them from seeing me, I tape their eyes to keep me from seeing. We all know that eyes are the windows to ones soul, I simply don’t want to see and be reminded of what I no longer have.

NOTE: This post is reality based, yet fictional.