It was midnight, and everyone was fast asleep — everyone but Derrick, that is.

  He tossed and turned; he even rolled onto his stomach and pressed the pillow over his head in a desperate attempt to drown out his thoughts. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t escape them.

  Their faces ran through his head over and over like a bad dream he couldn’t wake up from: Santiago, Joseph, Dillion, Mateo — guys on his payroll, under his watch — arrested. And the headline read: 59th Street gang members arrested, bringing a shining light over the head of his and Afra’s organization.

  It was a major headline plastered over every news channel. He couldn’t pretend it didn’t happen, and Afra was sure as hell not going to let Derrick get away with his men’s mistakes either.

  Afra had placed Derrick as the face of New York — the head of drug and gang operations. He was the face, but everyone on the street corners knew who the true boss was. And they all knew the consequences of failure. Dealers were pulled off corners, never to be seen again. Rival gang members disappeared without a trace. And anyone who thought about going to the feds? Well, Afra had the police in his back pocket too, and those who tried to cut a deal were — how shall I put this — dead men walking.

  Derrick knew all of this. He knew he had to go. But as he turned over onto his back and looked up at his crystal chandelier, a small solitary tear escaped from the corner of his eye.

  Afra’s front man — his militant soldier — had finally cracked. The pressure of being the top dog had caught up to him. He was finally paying the price one must pay for being on top. Through the good times and the bad, everything falls on your shoulders. And what the cracks revealed was that Derrick was nothing more than an ordinary man, like you and I — desperate not to be seen as a failure.

  But he knew no amount of crying, tears, or begging for mercy was going to make Afra show any form of compassion. Hell, it would only make things ten times worse.

  So Derrick wiped the lone tear that flowed down his cheek, swallowed whatever self-pity he had left, and lay there staring aimlessly for hours until his alarm clock finally struck. His hand reached over, slamming on top of it, silencing the blaring noise.

  As he turned, Mavis was still fast asleep — oblivious to the world Derrick was living in. He ran his fingers through his wife’s hair before leaning over and kissing her forehead. His lips lingered longer this time. It’s always when you look potential death in the eye that you truly understand and appreciate what you have.

  As his lips left her forehead, he got up and sat at the edge of the bed, his feet planted on the oakwood floor, staring at his duffel bag full of clothes and essentials.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Outside, the rain shot down like a drum, hammering the window over and over — in sync, like a warning of an impending fate. No matter how far he ran, there would be no escape.

  He took a deep breath, stood, and walked slowly to the bathroom, his steps light, ensuring not to wake the kids as he passed their rooms.

  As he entered the bathroom, he stepped into the shower, twisting the knob. The water rained down from above, rolling off his skin as the steam clouded the room. When he finally wiped the fog that now covered the mirror, he didn’t see the businessman so many associated him with, nor the father he told himself over and over he was, or the devoted husband. He saw a gangster. A criminal. A drug dealer. Everything his father and mother despised — he was the mirror of.

  He constantly told himself he would get out once he had enough. But three cars later, multiple businesses, and a five-bedroom house — he was still in it. Still in the thick of things. He loved the power. Loved that people feared him. Loved that people looked up to him. It was like a drug to Derrick — one he couldn’t quit, no matter how many times he tried.

  But a mirror didn’t tell you lies, stroke your ego, or allow you to pretend you were something you weren’t — no, it showed you exactly who you are.

  Derrick’s arm extended, the palm of his hand resting against the thick glass mirror as his head hung low. The water continued to flow over his head.

  Be more like Robert, they said, Derrick thought. Do something with your life. Don’t end up like these low-life criminals.

  And what did I end up doing? Ignoring every word my mother tried to drill into my head. I became the very thing she despised most — the thing that took my dad from us.

  Derrick’s head rose slowly, looking at himself in the mirror once more. But it’s too late for me now. There’s no redemption for a man who’s done the things I’ve done.

  He reached over, fingers grasping the knob, and turned it, shutting off the water. He stood tall, grabbed a towel, and dried himself off in silence before making his way back to the room and getting dressed.

  As Derrick finished getting ready, he stood there — bag in one hand, phone in the other — just staring at Mavis. He’d told her he was going to be gone for a few days, but deep down, he knew it was going to be much longer than that. He spun on his heel and exited the room.

  As he walked down the hallway, his journey to leave became that much harder. Family photos he hadn’t noticed in years seemed clearer than ever — a sea of memories surrounding him as he made his way downstairs, through the front door, and into the rain that thundered down.

  As Derrick descended the steps, he stopped at the bottom, turning to look at his house and everything he was leaving behind. It was killing him. He’d given up so much for this life — for this life to just turn on him was cold. But that was the life. The streets didn’t love anyone. They were cold, lonely, unforgiving. They’d bleed you for everything you had, and once they were done, they’d spit you out and replace you like you never existed.

  Derrick reached for his keys and pushed the button to unlock his car. If he didn’t leave now, he never would. He turned and walked quickly toward his black McLaren 720S, pulling the door upward and throwing himself into the driver’s seat.

  His hand reached under the sat-nav. He pressed the start engine button, and the car shot to life. Reaching up he grabbed the cars door handle and pulled the door shut. Looking back one more time before driving off into the distance toward his office.