Bad Luck Is a Black Cat

The lights were low. It was an ordinary bedtime for the young brood of the Connelly family. A mother and father paced up the worn wooded stairs. There were two sleepy, red-eyed children who fought to stay awake. Each sleepy babe wanted to sleep, but as children do, they tried their best to keep their tired eyes open. The mother carried the younger, a boy. He had an older sister. She weighed a little bit more than her tiny brother. The father held her close until finally, both parents came to the landing at the top of the steps.

"They're so tired. It looks like this afternoon at Grandma's house wore them out," the father spoke as he opened a door on the left side of the hall. "They didn't even put up a fight, at least not compared to how things usually happen." He laughed. His wife smiled at him. She stroked his back. The pair embraced each other while each carried a child. This family loved one another dearly. They shared a deep bond. The family was strong and kind. They were the rarity these days. Not too far from this quaint, wholesome home, a family lived that was quite the opposite.

"It's about time. What took you so long?" a crude man questioned his wife. She stomped into the bedroom, wearing a meager expression. "Well, are they asleep?" The woman gave no answer. She stared bitterly at him. "Come on now. Cat got your tongue?" he said jokingly. She didn't find his rudeness in the slightest bit amusing.

"Damn, you can be an asshole. The stupid brats finally quit. So go ahead, do whatever you have to do with the crops. Sometimes I wish you were just gone. I really do. Now maybe I can get a few moments' peace. Damn kids and damn you too." She plopped herself onto the bed and turned her shoulder.

"Love you too." He made a kissing sound with his lips as he strolled out of the room. The man ran down the hall and to the bottom of the steps. He came into the kitchen and reached into a high cabinet. A pail was there. The pail had been filled with various scraps and discards; there were apple cores and the crust of bread and a few other things that were too moldy to identify. He clutched the bucket in one hand, and in his other, he carried a loaded shotgun. He headed straight for the barn across from his home. "None of you try anything, ya hear?" He let drop the bucket of slop. In his breast pocket, a key rested. He drew it out and plunged it into an enormous lock. The chains loosened. He slid the heavy wooden door open. A dozen women cowered along the edges of the barn.

All these women were young, some too young to be put under so much abuse. Many of them were weak and thin. That single bucket of slop was used to feed all of them. Scraps that weren't even good enough for a single pig were expected to sufficiently nourish twelve women. Each of these women came from a different place and was abducted only to be used as a crop. They were a form of currency. The violation and abuse weren't the worst of it. The uncertainty and isolation plagued each of their minds. The women all came from different backgrounds, most spoke languages that no other could recognize. While they all shared in a similar circumstance, it was their cultural differences that kept them separate. Many of them only saw the light of day to be tortured. Otherwise, they spent the day locked and shackled. There was nothing left in them. The cruel antics of a "farmer" broke them. He treated them like cattle, and that is what they became.

"Eat up. You girls need your strength." He watched them stumble to the bucket with a wicked smile. "Some of ya have a big day coming up. And I need you to perform. 'Cause we all know what happens if you ... don't." His lips curled. He sent his arm flying. The poor, unsuspecting girl closest to him was struck in the back of the head. She fell to the barn floor, wincing in pain. "So let's not disappoint me. You girls have a great night." The barn door was locked up, and the girls were left to freeze in the night. The man returned to his cozy bed with no regard to his actions. He slept peacefully and hardly gave a thought to the innocent women in his barn. A conscience wasn't something this man possessed. Indifference became his way of life. As long as he was making a profit, he had no concern for morals. He abandoned any of those things long ago.

It was the early hours of the morning, and by this time, the Connelly family was fast asleep. The sun hadn't yet risen, but its brilliant rays could be seen emanating off the horizon. The birds sang. Their loud cries echoed through the small farming community. It was still too cold for the growing season to begin. In fact, the community hadn't done very much farming for the past few years. The people still lay fast asleep, tucked snugly under the sheets and down comforters. On a normal day, the town wouldn't wake until late into the morning.

Many individuals in this town had forgotten the ways of old and found new ways to make profit. The town abandoned agriculture. It took up new markets, sinful markets. The barns were no longer used to house cattle but used to house people. In this small town, the only thing being sold were young women. A once triumphant farming community in Missouri was now a location for illegal and immoral prostitution. This way of life had gone on too long. Innocent girls had been used as currency without punishment. The reign of sin was coming to an end.

An older man slept with his wife in their plush bed. The house they lived in looked normal enough. Pictures of their children hung on display throughout the hallways of the two-story home. To look at the home, one would never know it was a house of evil. It had all the nice little knickknacks homes have, a decor that wouldn't fit the devilish owner. Brightly colored fabrics and cloth covered the furniture. Large windows filled the home's wooden walls. Such a beautiful home surely couldn't be the house of a villainous husband and wife, a husband and wife who sold women to others.

A tall man walked down the black street in front of the sinful couple's home. His skin was a light-grayish color, the pigment of a faded stone. Not a single hair could be seen upon his head. A long scar ran from the back of his neck to the tip of his chin. The eyes of the man were a cold black. He wore a mean scowl on his face. He was thick with muscle but proportionate from head to toe. The clothes he wore weren't normal everyday articles. Long bands of white and blue cloth draped over his shoulders. His waist was laden with a heavy black fur in which the material ended just above his knees. There were two blades that hung off his back. Each was three feet in length and in the shape of a crescent moon. The red edging on each sword seemed to shine as if it were the moon's rays.

The dark figure...