Black Water Mercy

"You can outrun the law, but you can’t outrun the grave."

~

-Nicholius-

Crime. That’s the word that keeps crawlin’ back, like kudzu you can't kill, creepin’ up the side of a house built on rotten ground.

It's the only prayer me and Ryder ever knew. Always has. Always will. We wore it like a damn brand, not the shiny kind you show off, but the kind burned deep into your soul, a scripture of scars reminding you who you are. "Why crime?" you ask, sittin’ there all safe and sound.

'Cause it's easy. 'Cause it's power. 'Cause once you get a taste of both, breathin' regular air feels like drownin'. We didn't do it for justice. Don't speak that name around me. We didn't do it for thrills, neither. And sure as hell not for some sob story you could wipe your ass with. We did it 'cause the world looked at us—two Black faces in a country that wanted us in chains or in a grave—and decided we weren't worth a damn thing. So we decided to take it all.

Every last piece. Money, power, lust… you mix that unholy trinity, you drink it 'til your throat burns, and you chase it with whatever's left of your soul. The more we got, the more the hole inside us gaped, and the more we needed to fill it. Didn't matter if it was gold, whiskey, or the warmth of some woman's skin… we took it. Every time. A desperate communion. Folks like to say money plus power equals lust. But they got it ass-backwards. Lust plus money… that’s the real power. Power plus lust… that’s how you buy the world. Doesn't matter which way you twist it, you end up in the same god-forsaken place. That's us.

Twist us. Break us. Burn us. We’d still come out grinnin’ with blood on our hands, singin' a low, mournful tune. And then there was her. Wasn't supposed to mean a damn thing. A passing fancy. A warm body in a cold world. But she stayed. And the more she fought it, the more her light found all the cracks in my darkness... Well. You’ll see.

Maybe we were bound to burn from the start. Maybe we earned it, a debt paid in blood. Live fast. Die loud. Leave nothin’ but smoke and a ghost story for the scavengers to pick over. Because bein' on the run? That's the only thing better than power. It's a holy kind of fear. When you're runnin', folks either want you dead or want you caught. Either way... you're in their heads.

A nightmare they can't shake. That kind of notoriety? That's a high you can't buy with all the money in the world. We never asked for forgiveness. Never handed out mercy. We took what we wanted and left the rest to rot. And maybe that... maybe that's what finally caught up to us, a hellhound on our trail. Or maybe it already had, sleepin' in our bed the whole time.

It was November 21st, 1960… the day I lost my brother… and the woman we both loved. Her name was Rosalieya. We were tangled up in a way God wouldn't recognize and the law couldn't touch. Me, Nicholius. My twin brother Ryder. And our Lieya. Whenever our eyes met, or even the faintest touch passed between us, it felt like a church song sung in a whorehouse. All the right notes, all the wrong reasons. Ryder and I shared everything. Our mother's face. Our sins. And, eventually, her.

I know how much he loved her. He got to have her in the light. I only ever had her in the dark. We didn't plan it that way… not exactly. Our meeting was awkward, almost laughable in how normal it was. But nothing between us ever stayed simple. Ryder and I weren't just twins, we were legends. The most wanted men in the country. A two-headed beast. Until Rosalieya found us. Or maybe we found her. Either way… she became ours.

Together, we carved our names into thirty states, hit 129 cities, and left every siren in the country howlin' for our blood. We weren't just criminals—we were chaos dressed in charm, a dark gospel preached with a smoking gun. Unstoppable. Untouchable. Until that day. We were settin' out for what should’ve been the biggest hit of our lives… one last mark, one last thrill before we vanished for good. But fate’s a mean bitch with a sick sense of humor.

Some things you just don’t walk away from, no matter how far your boots carry you. That was the day I lost it all. My brother. My soulmate. And almost… my life. Least, that’s what I told myself. Truth is, I reckon part of me died that day anyway. But that’s the thing about stories like ours… you can’t start at the end. You gotta go back. Way back. Before the blood. Before the sirens. Before I knew how it would all end. Before I knew that some things, you can only lose.