Until We Die

By Stephen R. Isaac

Events in Damon Drake's past lives caused him to kill a girl in the present day.

Detective Davis was merely looking for viable information on a cold case.

Instead they take a dive into the darker side of history, in this epic thriller.

The world's possibilities revealed; the blindfold removed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen R. Isaac
• Release date: Jun 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9780741494481

Stephen R. Isaac

I was born in Utica, NY on March 7th, 1983, and lived in central New York until the beginning of 2007. In Jan. 2007, I moved to Jacksonville, FL, and lived in the northeast Florida and southeast Georgia areas until 2017. In April 2017, I moved to the Waterville, Maine area until now. As of April 2022, I am currently employed in the Admissions office at Colby College, located in Waterville, ME.Graduated high school from Whitesboro High School.Graduated with an Associate's degree in Liberal Arts from Mohawk Valley Community College.Graduated with a Bachelor's degree in Psychology from Ashford University.Influences:Anne Rice: My favorites novels being Memnoch the Devil, Blood & Gold, and Merrick.Jeff Lindsay: The entire Dexter series; my favorite is his first novel, Darkly Dreaming Dexter.Edgar Allen Poe: Short stories such as The Cask of Amontillado, The Tell-Tale Heart, and The Raven.Non-fiction: I am also influenced by philosophy, and various religions. My favorites being the Quran, books on Buddhism, the works from philosophers, psychologists & mystics such as Plato, Socrates, Aquinas, Piaget, Vygotsk and Sadhguru.My work:Until We Die: Novel that was published via Infinity Publishing in 2011.Self-imposed Exile: Collection of poems that were compiled and self-published in 2014.

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Until We Die

Copyright 2023 Stephen R. Isaac

Published by Stephen R. Isaac at Smashwords

Disclaimer:

This book has not been professionally edited. You will find errors. If you would like to make me aware of any such errors, email me at [e-mail].

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

About Stephen R. Isaac

Connect with Stephen R. Isaac

Prologue

March 7th, 2002

Dear Jacob,

I have a challenge for you. I challenge you to pick up a newspaper and find me a page that does not contain the dismal attributes of our human existence. Death, violence, hatred, greed… Those are just a few words we use, to sum up our despicable actions. Whether it is a simple domestic dispute or the governmental organization of genocide. Death is everywhere. You can find it among the rich and the poor. You can find it in city crack houses or your local elementary schools. From serial killers to church preachers, acts of unspeakable proportions are occurring at every moment. As you read this, someone on Earth is being raped or murdered.

I believe that most of the violence is driven by the unconscious fear of the unknown. Yes, that great unknown of which we try so hard to reach. Have you ever stopped to think about such things? Have you ever wondered about life, death, and so on? Or are you one of the sheep, that let the masses lead you through life by the end of a stick? I ponder the world until my head is on the brink of explosion. I forced myself to peel the blindfold from my eyes. This blindfold that, our parents placed there, hides the truth from us. It hides the pain, the suffering, and most of all, it hides the one inescapable fact; death. Death is the one thing that everyone in the world shares. It's funny to think that you share a common thread with all the murders, rapists, and terrorists in the world. Yes, you will all die someday and none of you know what will happen next.

I would, however, rather spend my time thinking about other things. Life as we know it, does fascinate me. However, the endless possibilities that lay beyond the here and now intrigue my mind the most. Ponder this. If one is born, and one dies, where do they come from and where do they go? It is said that matter cannot be created or destroyed. It can only be transferred. Maybe, just maybe, we are souls drifting from body to body, or life to life. Think of it; is it out of your realm of possibilities? Have you never thought of a life before this one? In your childhood, you must have explored these possibilities. Maybe you were a ninja or maybe an animal. I'm sure you pretended to be such things. All the while, thinking of those endless possibilities of what could have been. Do you know why these thoughts come so naturally? They give us hope. They trick our brains into thinking, If I was alive before this life, I will return after this one. It is the perfect solution to the inescapable truth.

You might say, But wait! If I was alive before, then why can I not remember it now? The answer to this question is very simple in a physical sense. To remember, it would imply that there are stored memories in your brain; a brain that no longer exists. Tell me, if you could remember your past life, would you really want to? Could you honestly tell me, you would? What if your past life was not a pretty one? What if it was filled with terror, despair, and death? I could see it now, events spanning thousands of years, filling your sheltered mind, driving you insane. Perhaps even driving you to murder? Now what if every life you ever lived was this way? What if you just returned time and time again, to a life full of misery? In this world, I have learned one thing; anything is possible. While it might not seem probable, it will always remain possible.

If you are reading this, by now, you have realized why I have explained to you my lives. You must now understand why my actions were necessary and why so many have died at my hands. The world's possibilities revealed and the blindfold removed. I just hope you can forgive me.

Regretfully,

Damon Drake

PS: If you open the door, she will die. Remember patience, my friend.

Chapter One

So, where shall we start?

Perhaps we better start at the beginning, again.

Very well.

It began early one spring morning.

Jake… honey, get up… I awoke to the soothing voice of my wife. Your alarm clock is going off. Time to get up.

I’m up… I’m up! I answered groggy as usual, at that time of the morning.

Good morning, Jacksonville! I heard the voice coming from the radio on my alarm clock. It’s now 7:25 am, March 7th, 2002 and it’s looking like a beautiful day ahead of us.

Here… My wife said, pushing a steaming hot cup of coffee in my face. Breakfast is on the table.

I quickly sat up and sipped the hot coffee.

Mmm… I murmured. That’s good stuff.

Your clothes are all laid out. She replied, scurrying around the apartment, trying to get ready.

What would I do without you? I said as I grabbed her, pulling her close to me.

Probably die. She answered sarcastically.

Probably true… I replied, with a laugh.

I put the coffee on the dresser and retrieved the clothes that were laid out for me. I quickly got dressed and made my way to the dining room for breakfast. As I ate, I remembered dreading the thought of going to work that day. Not that I hated my job, it was just mundane sometimes. I was usually fine once I got there. The hard part was getting me there. If only I would have known what the day had in store for me. Sadly, I did not, so I went on my way. It was just like any other day.

I grabbed my black leather jacket and walked to the door. I passed my daughter Amber in the hallway on my way out. She was busy getting herself ready for school. Her hair was in a great messy bun and she had her jacket half on her back, as she frantically searched for her school books. I grabbed her before she could slip by and planted a kiss on her forehead. She smiled and hurried away, as I continued my way toward the door. My hand was on the knob when I heard the phone ring. I sighed and paused to see if Jenny, my wife, was going to answer it. Sure enough, she was yelling for me, before I could escape.

Who is it? I asked, as my wife handed me the phone.

I am not sure. She answered. He asked for Mr. Davis.

I gave her a cockeyed look and grabbed the phone. No one ever called and asked for Mr. Davis. I was immediately thrown off guard.

Hello? I said, hesitantly.

Yes, is this Mr. Davis? I heard a soft, well-mannered voice ask on the other end.

Yes, yes this is, I answered. Who is this?

Hi, my name is Damon. He abruptly answered, followed by silence.

Umm, OK? I replied, at this point, I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck raise. What is it that I can help you with?

Well, detective… He paused. I believe I have some information about your case.

Is that right? I questioned.

It is a missing person’s case… He paused again. Her name is Stacy Finn.

A jolt of excitement shot through me.

Oh really? I asked, trying not to sound too eager.

I had been working on her case for about seven months, at that point. Every lead I received turned up cold. The family was growing impatient with our, well I mean, my effort to find her. I thought maybe this could be the big break. Then something dawned on me.

How did you get this number? I asked. It’s not published.

Oh… umm, I called the station and they gave it to me.

I paused for a second and thought about it. It must have been Marilyn, the old hag; she was terrible at stuff like that.

OK, well, what do you have for me? I asked, pleased with his explanation.

Yeah, He said. I was thinking we could meet up and talk about it. It is kind of a long story and I am on my cell phone. Damn minutes, you never seem to have enough of them.

Well, yeah I hear that, I replied. So, how about you come down to the station?

Can’t do that either, Damon answered. It is kind of far for me to take a cab. I can’t afford it. I am what you would call… poor.

He admitted this with an awkward, little chuckle. I could do nothing else but laugh along. I did not want to offend someone of such informational value.

How about I meet you at the Utopia Diner? He answered. It's on the corner of Plymouth and Cassat Ave.

Oh… yeah, yeah, I know where that is, I said pausing for a second. It sounds rather familiar.

Yeah, the diner is pretty well known, Damon replied. Their ads are posted on almost every street corner. It’s kind of hard to miss.

Must be where I know it from, I replied. I was actually heading out the door right now. Should I meet you there?

Yes, that would be preferred, Damon answered.

Ok, I should be there in about twenty minutes or so, I stated.

Sounds perfect.

We said goodbye and I hung up the phone. My slightly nosy wife was patiently waiting behind me the entire time. As usual, she was eager to find out who the strange unknown caller was. I could not blame her this time. The call was weird and random. She always worried about my well-being. Nothing bothered me much. I was 6'1 and 190 lbs. Needless to say, since I was a cop, I was a bit built and armed.

Who was that? Jennifer asked.

Who knows? I brushed it off, handing her the phone. It is some guy who claims to have some information about a case I am working on. I’m just going to meet him for some coffee, I guess.

OK… She said in that semi-annoying, slash semi-sweetly concerned voice.

Psst! I hissed. It will be fine honey. I love you!

Love you too, punk. She said with a smile.

I walked out the door, with my tongue stuck out at Jenny. I made it down the rickety, mildew-scented elevator and headed to the lot. Since it was still early March, it was not very warm, but the sun was out and it was warmer than it had been all winter. I did not have my patrol car with me, so I jumped into my red, 1996 Chevy Beretta. We lived in an apartment complex in the Riverside area, which was not the most expensive area of the city, but definitely not the cheapest. We did have a little, black, automatic gate, which made me feel fancy. From my apartment, I was within walking distance the Riverside Park and Memorial Park, which was located directly on the river. Distance-wise, the diner was not very far away, but Jacksonville was notorious for traffic. Traffic could easily double your driving time, if not triple it. I pulled out onto my road and quickly took a right down Riverside Ave. The avenue ran parallel to the St. John’s River, which sliced Jacksonville in half. I passed the beforementioned Memorial Park as well as the St. Vincent’s Medical Center.

The Riverside area was beautiful and full of history. The two-family homes that lined the avenue were built in the 1930s and 1940s, during the housing boom that occupied World War Two; Jacksonville has a large Navy base. The neighborhood is also home to the Five Points area, which is a series of roads that converge to a point. The streets are lined with restaurants, bars, boutiques, and even a cinema. It was a great place to raise my child. The further you get down the avenue, the fancier the houses are. These are larger, single-family homes, made of brick with large arching windows and rock walls. There is a weird phenomenon in Jacksonville when it comes to socioeconomics. Unlike many cities, that have a bad side of town, Jacksonville had pockets of bad areas, within a short distance to a nicer neighborhood.

After a couple more turns, I made my way to Roosevelt Blvd, which served as a barrier between the Riverside and Westside areas. Once you traveled into the Westside of Jacksonville, the homes become smaller and more rundown. There is also an increase in crime and violence in many areas of the Westside. Thankfully, the diner was located in an area that was not too bad. Except for the Eureka Garden Apartments, which were a quarter mile further down Plymouth Street from the diner and had a bad reputation for violence and drug use.

I made my way down Plymouth Street and I parked my car down the street a little from the diner. I could see the sign for the restaurant from my window. It hung from a pole attached to the brick building. The sign was as worn out as the rest of the building. Faded red letters spelled out the name and the R at the end of the word diner was nearly gone. Above the diner appeared to be an apartment building. Air conditioning units hung from nearly every window of the building. As I stepped out of my car, I could hear the sound of loud Latin music coming from one of the windows. Even at this hour of the morning, someone thought it was an appropriate time to let out the stale winter air from their apartment. As I approached the front of the diner, I realized that I did know where I was, as I had dropped a friend off at the diner once or twice.

As I approached the diner, I could see neon lights in the window that ensured me that they were open. I enter the foyer of the diner and on either side of the entrance, there were a few posters on the wall. I stopped briefly to check them out. It was a cluster of wanted and missing person posters. One immediately caught my attention. It was that of a little girl; she was such a cute little angel. It read; Myra Ramirez, age three, missing since January 26, 2001, was abducted from her parent's residence. She has long black hair, brown eyes, and dark skin, and was last seen wearing pajamas with moons on them. She has a birthmark on her left upper arm that is the size of a quarter. If you have information concerning this child, please call your local law enforcement agency.

I stood there and thought to myself, how can someone do such a thing? You would think that I would be used to it, given my profession. Yet I still was not. People just go into other people's homes and take their children. I started to wonder why people are still having them. I simply rolled my eyes and continued forward. I can say with immense confidence that the Utopia Diner was anything but Utopian. I have seen classier diners in West Virginia. Not that there is anything wrong with W.V.; it's just an analogy.

There appeared to be two rooms in the diner, as far as I could tell. The front room contained the typical bar stool area and a few tables behind them. On the opposite side of the bar, the kitchen was only separated by a wall with a large opening in it. Almost like a large bay window. The back room was pushed back and semi-secluded. The entire room was lined with tables and booths. It had a more comfortable feel with dimmer lights and dark paint.

I was approached by a skinny, slightly diseased-looking hostess and asked where I'd liked to be seated. I advised her that I was looking for someone and quickly stepped by her. I can get past the hooker hostess and the outdated furniture. It almost gave it an antique-ish look; like they planned it or something. What I cannot get over, at any restaurant, is filth. The first thing I passed, besides the previously mentioned hostess, is an old man sitting in a booth by himself. He clearly just begged his food money off of the street corner. His shirt, which I believe should have been tan, was now a cluster of old coffee and grease stains. Immediately, I determined I was not going to be eating there. That was even before I noticed a hefty roach climbing the wall behind the old man's head. Lucky for him, he was not as easily disgusted as I was.

I scanned the diner looking for anyone else that may be my newfound informant. To my dismay, there was only the old man, the hostess, and a pot-bellied cook behind the dividing wall. I made my way to the back room and at first, it looked like I was still out of luck. That was until I turned a corner, to find the room continuing further back. There was one man, sitting far in the back, in a booth.

He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, but in the lighting, I could not tell for sure. He sat in a booth along the wall by himself. The first thing that I noticed was a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He had black buzzed hair and dark eyes. He was wearing normal blue jeans and a black t-shirt that read 'Patientia'. I was completely unaware of what it meant. His face was round and shaved. He had a small nose and a rather boyish look. His eyebrows and 5 o'clock shadow were dark. One could question if he might have a hint of Hispanic or middle eastern in him. He didn't look like the common criminal, but he gave off this strange vibe that almost seemed threatening and violent. He took notice of me approaching him and nodded.

Damon? I asked.

He answered with a smile and a nod. I sat in the booth across from him and reached out to shake his hand. He firmly accepted it. He was by no means as built as I was, but he had wild eyes. It seemed as if at any moment he could snap. I felt myself slightly put on guard. We waited for my coffee to arrive before diving into the conversation. Once we were all settled in, I broke the ice.

So, Damon, what is this all about? I asked.

Well, I killed Stacy Finn. He answered as if he just told me won $5 on a scratch-off ticket.

I nearly spit a mouth full of coffee on the table. After coughing the liquid out of my lungs, I tried to muster up a reply to the comment.

Excuse me? I said.

I know it wasn’t Shakespearian or anything, but like I said. I do not read. I am sure as hell no Shakespeare.

Yeah... He paused to sip his coffee. I did.

I reached for the gun on my waist. I'm not sure if it was out of fear, or habit but Damon interjected.

WOW! Jake, there is no need for that. He replied.

Excuse me, but how the hell are you going to drag me here and tell me you killed someone? I asked. What did you expect me to do?

I now pulled out my gun and held it in my lap.

No, it was not like that. He pleaded. I didn’t mean to kill her. I am not like that.

So, what is this? I questioned. A cry for help?

No, you need to know why I did it, Damon stated.

Wait, I thought you said it was an accident, I stated.

No, I said I didn’t mean to. He sternly replied. There is a difference.

I don’t understand how, but OK. I snapped back.

See to understand, I think I’m going to have to share with you some of my views and thoughts about life. He said.

OK… I replied, with a nod and shrug.

See, I'm not one of these Christian people who think, an eye for an eye is the way to go. No, No, No, but in the same sense, I'm not a Satanist or anything. I think that the only sin that matters in the eyes of, what you may call, GOD, is greed. So, all of that bible crap and its list of sins can all be listed as simply, Do Not Be Greedy. If you think about it, all the sins only really boil down to just that. Don't steal from people; don't screw your neighbor's wife. That is all based on greed. It is the only sin I abided by. When God made the first people, I am sure he didn't expect there to be religion. Surely, I cannot believe that he expected us to waste such vast amounts of money on constructing churches. If God could hear you in a church; he can hear you in your home, car, anywhere… Damon paused, before continuing. Religion just screwed everything up. People are killing each other over it. No one can come up with a common religion. People just use it as a way to control and segregate their population. I believe that to redeem sin, one needs only to seek forgiveness from the person they sinned against. So, if you fuck your neighbor's wife and he is cool about it, then it's not considered a sin. Do you see what I'm getting at? This applies to all sins, except for one. You will be hard-pressed to seek forgiveness from a corpse. Therefore, homicide is the one sin where redemption is a little more complicated. Do you see where I'm going with all of this?

I was dumbfounded and thought that I had walked into a room with a complete psychopath. With his long speech, this man started to sit up more and was now using his hands in waves of frenzy. He also lit yet another cigarette and was drinking his coffee like it was the last drink on earth. I gripped my gun a bit closer than before.

Did this man even understand himself? Could he hear what was coming out of his mouth? These were questions that frantically ran through my mind as I stared my new friend in the eyes.

I started to understand what he was getting at. This would explain the violent vibe I got from him when I first entered the room. Uneasy I sat back in that booth and tried to move back a bit. He just sat there, returning his glare, and was as calm as could be. A few seconds went by without a blink and I tried so hard not to let him know that I was uneasy. Finally, I looked away, having enough of our staring contest. He was waiting patiently for me to answer. I turned back to him and replied with hesitation.

I think I know, but this is all too overwhelming for me. Let me get this straight. You said you killed this woman. Which means you must have sinned? Now let me ask you a question. Do you want to go to heaven?

Yes, yes of course I do. He replied, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders as if that should have been a rhetorical question.

OK. Now to be allowed into heaven, you must first receive her forgiveness. Unfortunately, she is dead. That is not possible. Right?

Right, so… For me to go to heaven, I must first die for my sin. That cannot be reversed, but I can’t kill myself because that is also a sin. Damon paused to suck on his cigarette. Furthermore, the reason why I committed this murder is going to be far more complicated than anything we have discussed thus far.

How the hell possible? I thought, but my mouth said, How so?

Well, see Jake, this is not my first life. He paused, trying to gauge a reaction. I did not satisfy him with one. I have lived multiple lives before this one.

So, what exactly does that have to do with anything? I asked.

I have to admit, in retrospect, I was falling into his trap. He set the bait and I bit it.

These lives were not very glorious. No, there was nothing but complete horror. Damon stated. They should have never been. No one should have gone through them; especially, not me.

Why? What makes you so special? I questioned.

Most people have the ability to forget their past lives. The memories are simply gone; faded away with their decayed brain. He continued. That way each time it is fresh and new. With a new brain, they are back to a clean slate. The terror and horror do not stay with them and build throughout the years. So, much of the negativity can be discharged. Unfortunately for me, I cannot filter out such torment. I remember every bit of it; all the years of misery. It just all built up until I could hold it any longer.

There is still one unanswered question here. I paused. Why me? Why did you call me?

Why not? He answered. First of all, you are the detective on the case. Secondly, when we are done here, you will bring me to justice. I will only then be able to continue knowing I still have a place in heaven.

I paused for a second. This was complete madness I thought, but I was interested. I wanted to see how far I could push it. It is truly a personality conflict, but I have the need to always push it. I needed to gauge how sane this man was and truly needed to see if he was speaking the truth about the murder. Plus, if we finished up now, we would have to go back to the station. After all, anything beat going to the station.

So, tell me, if you have lived in the past, what is the earliest memory you have? I asked, curiously.

Are you sure you are ready for this? Damon asked.

I look him dead in the face and put my gun back in my holster. I took a sip of coffee and said the four words that would hereby change my life.

Let me hear it.

Chapter Two

The one thing I don’t remember about my first life was being born. This probably doesn’t seem strange to you, since normal people do not remember being born. I had some faint memories when I was very little, but they’re too vague. They have very little significance to the story. So, I’ll spare you from listening to the parts of my lives that are anything but interesting.

I will start with my first vivid memory. It takes place around a thousand years ago in 1,000 A.D, give or take a hundred years. It is hard to determine the exact date since there were no formal records of my existence. What I know now is that I lived in a vast city in the middle of the Mexican peninsula. The people of my society were called the Mayans. I first remember sitting on a hill, overlooking a field. There were many men out there, playing a game. It was about the size of a modern-day football field; rectangle in shape and along the longer sides of the field there were two huge walls.

These walls were made of stone and roughly twenty-five to thirty feet high. They had great carvings on them of the warriors playing the game before us. On each wall, there was a big solid rock hoop. It resembled a modern-day basketball hoop, except it was vertical. The shorter sides of the field had two temples, which were about two stories high. These were shaped like miniature pyramids.

The men on the field were extremely beastly. I remember being frightened by them. As any other ten-year-old, these men towered over me. They looked like animals; yelling and attacking the opposing team. Equipped with elaborate headdresses and padding on their arms, knees, and feet, they were ready for battle. Each man wore padding in the shape of a U, around their waist. It looked almost like a belt, or life preserver for swimming children. I want to say it was made of some material like leather, probably from animal skin.

The men ran up and down the field hitting a ball and bouncing it off each other. For whatever reason, the men only used their forearms, knees, and feet to advance the ball down the field. I remember looking around in amazement at the beauty of the arena. All the people and players made for an amazing sight. The sound that came from the court was overwhelming. The sound traveled from every end of the field.

Father, what is this? I asked, with my innocent child's voice.

This is a traditional ball game, which has been played for generations. He answered me like he was a history professor.

How do they play it? I asked.

Well, you see the two hoops on each side of the walls? He asked as I nodded. The players have to get the ball into the hoop without touching it with their hands. That’s why they have all of the padding on them. They don’t want to get injured. You understand?

He spoke softly in his gentle voice. He always used it when he explained things to me.

Yes, Father, I answered.

Good, Tikal. He said with a smile.

My parents had named me Tikal, after a neighboring city. They had met each other there a few years before I was born. Upon my birth, they traveled to Chichén Itzá to live with my father’s parents. They named me in memory of the birthplace of their love.

We sat there for a few hours watching the men run back and forth with the rubber ball, hitting it desperately towards the stone hoops. The men were rather violent, throwing each other around and tripping each other to the ground. Immense screaming and fighting were typical. The game reminded me of modern-day soccer, basketball, and hockey. Soccer because of the way they moved the ball up and down the court. Basketball because of the way they scored and hockey because of the brutality of it. I saw a few men get knocked down to the ground. They would scream in agony, with broken bones. After a few seconds, the men would finally make it to the sidelines. There someone would wrap up their wound in linen and out they would go to continue the game.

I could see a group of men sitting on the platform of the pyramids. Unlike us, they sat on chairs. They were guarded by two men who were much larger than the players. There were also women, on each side, fanning the group with large leaves. They were dressed in luxurious clothing, unlike me and my father. They had jewelry all around their necks, hands, and wrist. How I envied them. As I sat in the hot sun, they had shade and a cool breeze. The heat was breathtaking and I was sweating profusely. This didn’t matter much to me though; I was amazed by this new game. My father was really getting into it, which also made me excited. So, we settled with what we had. When I initially noticed the group in the chairs, I turned to my father and asked.

Papa? Who are those people on the temples over there? I pointed to the people in the chairs.

Oh, they are the noblemen of our city. They run the city and keep the Gods happy. He stated. They are the ones we pay our utmost respect to. If it were not for them, we would have no homes nor food.

But what makes them better than me? I asked in a disappointed voice. Why can’t I sit on the temple in the shade?

Because son, that’s not our place in society. Everyone has his or her place in this world. It is determined by the Gods. He said with a snap of his voice. It just so happens that we are not noblemen, but we are better off than most other people in our city.

This snap meant, don’t complain and take what you get.

I guess, I replied.

I guess?! He snapped again. There are people in the city who don’t have any food to eat and they break their backs all day for nothing at all. We have a home, food, and the luxury of coming to social events like this one. You should be a little more grateful.

I’m sorry, papa. I just don’t think it is fair.

Oh, oh, look! He said pointing to the field, which for the last few minutes we had stopped paying attention to.

I turned my head and looked at the field. One of the players had the ball and was about to attempt a shot. I was under the impression that he must have been the captain. He wore more of an elaborate headdress than the others. This man and one man from the opposing team were dressed alike. The man in question ran with a superhuman speed unlike I had ever seen before. He was no doubt the best player on the field. There was a sense that all the other players feared him. He stood about 6 foot 3 and was a rather lengthy man, but his muscular frame made up for his long limbs. He ran in between the other players, dodging back and forth. Two players from the opposing team ran up to him and attempted to double-team the man. This was far from being successful. The man threw an elbow to one of the players; sending him right on his ass. The other he tripped with one foot and stepped on him with the other. He did this all the while, without losing the ball. I was astonished at what I was seeing; I thought the man must be a god. The crowd roared at this excitement that was unfolding before us. I immediately fell in love with this sport and with the superhuman power of the man on the field. The crowd was chanting his name as he made his way down the field. They were chanting, Yax Pac! Yax Pac, the rising sun.

This man was one of the most well-known and feared contenders in the sport. I remember hearing his name on the tongues of some of the towns’ people. This was the first time I had ever seen him, in the flesh. The second I saw him and heard the crowd chanting his name, my blood started to race. This was unlike anything I have ever felt before. I wanted to be him; he was such a beautiful creature. Although this isn’t exactly what I thought at the time; this is how I remember him. At the time, I was ten and only knew that he was my idol. Yax Pac was now under the hoop with the ball and his teammates tried desperately to fend off the opposing team players. He let the ball bounce off the ground and hit it with his thigh. The ball drifted to about shoulder level. He then spiked the ball with his forearm.

My father and I took a deep breath and stared at the ball as it made its way up to the hoop. The entire crowd followed suit. It all seemed to happen in slow motion until it made it completely through. It made it through the hoop without even touching it. The crowd erupted with joy. It was the loudest thing I have ever heard in all my lives. It no longer sounded like screams. It was now one extremely loud unified roar. It sounded like a beast amid battle. The noise sends a shiver down my spine, just thinking about it. We all jumped to our feet, cheered, and clapped our hands. This was the first time; I had ever attended one of these games and I already knew it was an amazing event. My father turned to me with a look of some concern.

You must now pay attention Tikal. He softly commanded. This is why I brought you here today.

What do you mean papa? What’s going to happen? I replied.

I was clueless about the true meaning of this event. Never had I ever heard about it before and I wouldn’t ever be able to make it up if I wanted to. I merely thought it was for sports, like the NFL or something. I was truly misled. We turn back to the field, to hear the crowd still yelling. The players were all migrating to the end of the field where the temple was. It was the same temple at which the noblemen sat with their slaves. One of the noblemen stood up and silenced the crowd, with a wave of his hand in a horizontal motion. Again, I could sense he was in charge. His Hitler-like persona portrayed complete control.

Silence! He yelled.

All at once, the entire crowd went quiet. It was unbearably eerie, the power of this nobleman. He was a pipsqueak compared to the men on the field, but his voice was dominant. He was draped with gold and jade. His appearance projected his status of wealth. While a rather charming-looking man, I still disliked him for being wealthier than my father and I. His gold-tip staff was pounding on the platform; producing a