Chapter 6
Finally, the Fall
The screen flickered, casting a sickly blue light across the detritus-strewn room. Another image, another face robbed of innocence, another click. I cannot go on like this. The words echoed in my head, a hollow mantra recited for years, each repetition weaker than the last. Worcester. Back to Worcester. “Luxury apartment,” the owners of The Sole Proprietor had called it. More like a gilded cage built on a foundation of shame. In comparison, Cape Cod was cleaner, brighter, but the darkness followed me, clung to me like a second skin.
Each week, another name, another arrest. The headlines screamed from my laptop screen, the front pages of the local dailies, the Worcester Sun, Worcester Telegram – worcester.ma, the digital home of the Worcester Sun, a startup news organization dedicated to providing the best journalism in Worcester (also the worst panic attacks) – faces blurred, crimes detailed in sterile legalese. Worcester Police cracking down. “Operation Clipped Wings”: A Task Force specially assembled, using undercover agents, intelligence agents, operatives, and what have you.
Was I ...
Chapter 5 (previously Chapter 6)
The Dark Side of Bestrewn
“Show me the way
To the next little girl
Oh, don’t ask why
Oh, don’t ask why
For if we don’t find
The next little girl
I tell you we must die
[Chorus]
Oh, moon of Alabama
We now must say goodbye
We’ve lost our good old mama
And must have whiskey, oh, you know why” – Alabama Song (Whisky Bar) – The Doors, 1967 – (Reprise) Perception, 2006
The hum of the dial-up. That’s the sound of the abyss opening. '99. Feels like a lifetime ago, a different world. Y2K looming, everyone terrified of the computers crashing, while I was just excited to plug mine in, finally join the party. Somerville, that was my stomping ground back then. Little did I know, that machine wasn’t a gateway to the world, but a trapdoor to hell.
Before, there were excuses. DVDs, videos, bought in a store, so, legal-ish, right? Deny, deny, deny. But the internet, the internet whispered something else. A secret, a promise, and a black hole. And I, Andrew Jacobucci, was already teetering on the edge.
Fell right off. No hesitation. No looking back. Sucked ...
