Someone Has To Be The Bad Guy

Author's note. This romance story does contain trigger words and actions. If talk of rape, violence or sexual assault are triggers, please do not read.

"Someone's got to be the bad guy," I say to myself in such a low voice that no one else hears. Not that there's anyone near me to hear even if this basement is packed with people. I'm in the far back corner of the apartment complex basement, alone in the shadows.

That's what everything thinks of me, that I'm the bad guy. The felon. The ex-con. The huge, scary looking man that never talks to anyone nor does anyone want to talk to him. The one they gossip about but never ask why I was locked up. The one they assume is responsible for every crime.

"What's her problem?" One of the residents calls out to the speaker who is standing on a box so she can be seen above all the people here. I take it the box lady was the one that called this meeting and now she tries hard to maintain everyone's attention.

"Who cares what the problem is?! The question is what are we going to do about it?" another resident yells, to which there is much muttering from other upset residents.

Looking around the basement, I would guess there are at least a hundred people at this secret resident meeting, not that it needs to be secret. The way people gossip, I'm sure "she" already knows and still doesn't care.

"The bitch knows no one is going to be able to afford double rent," another upset resident yells, again a lot of agreement.

"And this place has become so crap no one is going to move in or pay the new rent!" Another yells out and this gets the loudest agreement of all. It nearly sets everyone off in complaining that that the speaker nearly loses control of the meeting.

"She's doing it to run everyone off!" I hear amidst the jumble of yells, mutterings and shouts. I can't help but nod at this settlement as it is true.

This apartment complex is the slums. Well, it's the slums now. It wasn't always like this, but the past two years have turned this once decent place into a ghetto. It used to look well kept, complete with a small garden out front and a well-lit sign. Now it's the place where the paint is faded, the plastered chipped and many of the residents have forgot what their morals once were.

Jorge Martinez was the owner of this apartment complex, and a dozen others in the city. He was a good man, which is quite the thing to say these days. Sure, he was rich but never acted like it. Unlike anyone else that had a bit of money, he cared for the people in his buildings as if they were his own family. He even lived in this complex to show he considered it worthy of being a home.

Friendly wasn't the right word to describe Jorge. He was more than friendly. It was almost supernatural how Jorge seemed to remember everyone he came across. Not just people, but events, special dates and more. It was very common to receive an anniversary or birthday present from him during rough times. Just like it was normal to see him smiling when he saw you.

Everyone was devastated when Jorge passed. It was very as the man was only forty years old. The poor bastard had a genetic defect that he didn't know about. Some weird Latin sounding thing wrong with his brain. It got triggered one day and sent a blood clot killing him. At least he went fast. Most people don't.

When he passed, most of what he owned went to his wife, Renee. From what I heard, a few properties went to their kids to make sure they would be taken care of, but most went to the love of his life, Renee.

Oh, how Jorge loved Renee. And Renee loved Jorge. She was his world. And when you saw them together, you knew they loved each other. It would make the hardest of hearts believe in soulmates.

Renee used to be a very sweet, kind and shy woman who seemed to always be embarrassed by attention. Her life seemed dedicated to helping her husband in any way he needed, even if that meant painting an apartment or using a plunger to fix a resident's toilet. Most of the kids called her Mama Renee due to how kind she was to them.

But after Jorge passed, Renee changed. Oh, how she changed. The shy, unassuming woman retreated to parts unknown where no one saw her for a long time. She seemed to disappear off the face of the planet. Many thought she died.

Then Renee reappeared, but no one knew it was her. Everything about her had changed. Body, soul and mind.

I remember seeing her in a store once. I didn't know it was her but was some Karen wanting to ruin minimum wage worker's day. Then one of them said her name, letting me know who it was.

Renee, who used to be so kind and timid turned into the Queen of all Karen's God. To call her a bitch would be an offense to bitches. She turned into something very vile and uncaring that only wore the most uncomfortable looking designer clothes. Where it was clear she enjoyed the suffering of others like it was candy.

"Bitch needs to get laid!" Some woman yells out in a bid to be funny. There are a few chuckles at this and a lot more grumbling.

"You do not know how right you are about that," a woman in a hoodie that is over her head says loudly, serious as a heart attack. This causes everyone to go quiet. No one dares laugh or say anything more as the woman makes her way towards the box to be seen.

"I...I do believe that is right, and what is needed...but you all do not know the full story," the sixty-year-old woman begins as she lowers her hoodie. Her eyes are filled with tears and her voice waivers with sorrowful emotions.

Now that I see who the woman is, I know her, as does everyone here. She's the Curandera, a healer. For minor health issues you go to her and she'll know what herbs to mix into tea or whatever. I don't put a lot of stock into shit like that, but people here swear by it. And more than that, she sent more time with Jorge Martinez than anyone.

"I do not want to share this as it is a betrayal of Jorge's trust, but I feel I must because of how dire this has become," the Curandera tells everyone, wiping a tear away.

"There are parts of a person's personal life that should always remain personal, such as their love life," she explains to the group, looking very conflicted. It's easy to see her loyalty to Jorge, even if he's passed.

"But I share this because I think it will explain what is wrong with Doña Renee," the elderly continues, fire of determination starting to come from her voice.

To this I smirk, finding the meeting is becoming very interesting. It's been rather boring and predictable, but with the Curandera making an appearance, it throws some chaos into the mix.

"I was tasked with making Jorge a special tea every Saturday. It had to be Saturday because of what it made him do, for he would go to Mass on Sunday morning to be absolved of his sins," the Curandera continues.

This catches more of my attention, as it does everyone else. I didn't know anything about special tea, which sure sounds like a drug. This is surprising as Jorge wasn't the type to do drugs. But I will say that I doubt Jorge could do anything so horrible that he had to repent. That man was the gentlest person on the planet. I once saw him refuse to kill a roach for fuck's sake.

"The tea was a special blend that I refuse to make ever again. It causes the blood to rise, so aggression deep in the soul is unleashed. And he drank this every Saturday to make violent love to his wife," the Curandera explains to the very quiet crowd.

No one says anything to the woman when she pauses, but they do look at each other, very confused. Then there's soft murmuring, as if people asking each other if they believe what she's saying.

"It was his curse due to the love he had for his wife," the Curandera continues, wiping tears from her eyes as she starts to cry. Her emotions get the better of her and she has to pause again to get ahold of herself. This lets people start to mummer again, with more looking like they doubt her sanity.

"Do not try to say you do not believe what I am saying. You all see the results of her not receiving this...special type of love making," the Curandera then scolds, much like a mother to her bratty kids.

"Curandera...are you saying..." a young woman in her early twenties says loud enough to be heard over the muttering crowd.

"...she is acting like this, cause she isn't getting fucked hard enough?" the woman finishes her question in disbelief. Unable to help myself, I chuckle even if I'm the only one.

"She requires a very hard form of love making. I would call it violent," the Curandera answers but everyone understands that the young woman was right.

"Hell, I'll fuck her then! The bitch is in her precious top floor lair right now! I'll go and dick her down right now!" an overweight man wearing a not so clean sleeveless shirt yells out.

"Shut up you fat bastard! You can't even make your own wife orgasm! Fred has to do it!" Another man yells out in response, to which there's a great deal of laughter. The fat man then throws up his middle finger in response.

"Let me be perfectly clear. This is not sex. Nor would I call it love making," the Curandera tells the crowd, to which everyone grows quiet to listen.

"This is violence. A fight. To watch it would be to watch a sexual assault," she continues with a grave expression.

"Healer, if she receives this, will she turn back to the way she was?" a woman from the back of the room asks, having to yell. The way she asks is deathly serious, to which no one dares interrupt or make any joke.

"I cannot say for certain, but I feel she would. Whatever imbalance exists within her soul should be satisfied and she should return to normal," the healer answers, causing murmurs again.

I chuckle at this and at the people talking to each other. These are normal people. Normal people, for the most part, who are just trying to survive. Or like Pete my old jail house friend would say, they are just trying to make it to the end of the day with their dick in hand.

"Has anyone seen or heard of Renee going on a date, or even talking to a man? Or woman for that matter?" A woman on the other end of the basement asks. She asks this very serious as if trying to find valuable information.

This starts renewed conversation in which it seems that no, no one has heard of her going on a date. Nor has anyone seen her with anyone that wasn't an employee, or someone she was yelling at.

"Guys. Guy! She lost her husband. When I lost mine, it took me years to be able to go on a date or even think about sex," a different woman yells to the crowd. She yells this as if everyone has lost their minds. Unlike most everyone else, this woman seems to hold a bit of empathy for the hated Renee.

"I don't think dating or having sex is on her list of things to do," the woman states and her words act like a bucket of water thrown on a tiny flame. This gets people to remember that if Renee wanted sex, she has the money and body to get it.

"Well we can't sit around with our dicks in our hands. We have to do something!" A middle-aged woman declares, causing my brow to furrow at her choice of statement.

"Fine. I'll be the one that says it," a woman from the midst of the crowd says, as if building herself up. To this I am rather amused how mostly women have taken control here. The men seem to have gone quiet or become too scared to suggest anything about violent sex in front of other people...or their own wives.

"She needs to be raped. Raped hard. I don't like the thought of it, but it's either that or we can all start packing up and living on the street now," the woman declares.

The room erupts with this declaration. Many nod their heads in agreement, others start shouting while others look shocked. A few even look bewildered as if they can't believe things have gotten this crazy. That anyone could suggest raping another human being.

Seeing where this is heading, I decide to leave. I turn and begin to walk calmly along the wall to stay in the shadows. Not looking to draw any attention to myself, I head to the stairs and up to the first floor.

"Someone has to be the bad guy," I think to myself, yet again. With talks of doing something illegal, it won't be long before someone notices me and suggests that I do the evil deed.

Exiting onto the first floor, I can still hear the group passionately yelling out their thoughts. If Pete was here, he would no doubt be laughing his ass off. Oh, he would be on the floor laughing. That's how Pete was. He was a huge, old motherfucker that spent most of his life in jail, yet he wasn't what you expected. The time in jail hardened him, but it also made him extraordinarily kind in a weird sort of way. Like he figured out life a long time ago.

"Someone has to be the bad guy, kid," Pete used to say all the time, and he was right. No matter the situation or who the people are, someone always has to be the bad guy.

Even in jail, someone had to be the bad guy. The evil one. The guy the guards would zero in on so the other prisoners could just get through the day. Just happened that the bad guy was myself.

If Pete was here, I know he would believe the same as I do about what's going on. That the people down there aren't going to do shit. Sure, they'll talk a good game, even plan out how they will try to find someone willing to do the deed, but nah. They're scared. Terrified even. They can't be the bad guy because they don't even know what that means.

Walking down the first-floor hallway, I head towards the main stairwell, which I'll take to go up to my floor. As I walk, I see another man headed my way. He's no doubt heading for the meeting, even if he is late. I've no clue who the guy is, but like most men here, he looks down as he passes me, showing his fear as he passes.

For a long-time horrid interactions like that would piss me off. I never get a "hello!" or even a head nod. The only thing I get is the same thing, them looking at the ground. To the coward's defense, when you are six-foot six and three hundred fifty pounds of muscle, fear seems to be something you generate without meaning to. So the man walks by hoping I won't do anything more than look at him.

"Someone's got to be the bad guy, huh Pete?" I laugh softly after the man passes, wishing my old friend was still alive. He was my only friend if I'm being honest.

Now in the stairwell, I start the upward ascent to my floor. I walk slowly and steady as I have no place to be nor anything to do. When I get to my apartment, it'll be just myself. There I'll no doubt listen to a book or maybe workout. I own no TV or anything of much value outside of my cell phone. When you own nothing, it makes you less of a target when police or others need to blame someone for whatever crime might have happened.

I do wonder what Pete would have told the people if he had the chance. I'm sure it would be something kind and thoughtful, but it would still amount to "you're fucked." Unless they can find someone to do the deed, there's not much they can do. Even then, I'm not sure they could live with themselves knowing they paid for a woman they cared about be raped.

They are stuck between a rock and a hard place. Either they get someone to sexually assault Renee, or they move. I doubt any of them can afford their rent doubling. Nor do they care why she is increasing the rent, which is because she doesn't want anyone here at all. She wants this place to crumble and die, which is how she feels after Jorge died on her.

"It's The Wall!" a squeaky little kid voice cheers. Looking up, I see two small kids at the landing of the next floor looking down at me.

I know these two kids well as they are a brother and sister that live on my floor. They are a set of twins, both six years old, who love to play in the stairwell even if their parents yell at them not to. This is normally where they are, jumping off the stairs to the landing, or sitting there coloring whatever coloring paper they happen to have.

"Yes, it's The Wall," I greet as I lumber up the stairs towards them, a small smile on my face.

The girl, who is named Trinity, once asked me if I was a WWE wrestler. When I told her no, she said I need to be because I was as big as a wall. From that day she and her brother called me "The Wall." Even said that my finishing move would be "The Paint Job."

Since that day, whenever her or her brother sees me, they yell out my wrestler name, as well as tell me whatever interesting gossip has happened in their lives. For the most part, it is gossip about whatever is happening with their parents, to which I'm sure their parents would die of embarrassment if they knew.

"Did you hear about Mama's bad dinner last night?" the brother, who is named Leon, asks excitedly. He looks at me with wide eyes, happy to tell someone this tasty bit of gossip.

"Wait, aren't your parents in the basement?" I ask the twins, interrupting before he gets started. They were both probably told to stay in their apartment until their parents returned.

The boy quickly looks away, knowing he's been caught doing something wrong, but not the girl. She smiles with a devilish grin, showing she's not ashamed of getting caught.

"It's not our fault we can unlock the deadbolt with a chair. They should have made the lock higher," Trinity says proudly, showing no shame at sneaking out of their apartment.

"Is that so? Well, you two go back home, now. If a...bad guy came by, he could do something bad to the pair of ya, and there wouldn't be anyone around to help," I tell the two in what I know is a too blunt manner.

"Not with you around," Leon says to which I have to smirk. But regardless, I point towards the stairwell door. The two kids lower their heads and start to towards it, not wanting to go, but not questioning it.

"Wall, is it true Mami and Papi are at a meeting about how Mama Renee has gone crazy?" Trinity asks as we walk down the hallway.

"And we are having to leave because of her?" Leon follows up, asking in that unique way kids have. That unique way in which they are too blunt when they ask a question.

"I don't know. I don't know what your parents are doing or plan to do," I answer, making it a point to not lie. But that doesn't mean I have to tell them what I think is going to happen. It's only after I answer that I consider I could have told them not to worry about it.

"Gee...I hope they fix her. A lot of people talk about her," Leon comments, sounding rather worried.

"Yeah, Mama Renee used to be a lot of fun," Trinity adds on. Leon quickly agrees.

"She promised to go to my first choir concert! I'm too young for choir right now, but next year I'll be able to join," Trinity tells me excitedly for only the hundredth time.

"You're going to go to my first concert too, right?" Trinity asks, again for the hundredth time.

Joining the choir at her school has become something of Trinity's life goal. Any time you talk to her, she will always talk about the choir. Of how at Christmas they get to dress up and wear reindeer antlers. Or at the Spring concert some of them get bells to ring for certain songs. Or if you are really good you get a solo.

"Yes, if I'm still around I will do my best to make it," I answer the standard question with my standard answer as we walk down the hallway.

The two little kids walk up to their apartment, in which I shake my head. They left the door wide open. Basically begging someone to go inside and steal something. I would like to say they did it because they are forgetful but that's not why. The twins really believe the world is filled with good people with no bad intentions at all. Enough that they leave their apartment door open and have no fear that some weirdo perv may snatch them. Oh to be so ignorant.

"I sure hope Mama Renee is fixed by then," Trinity says in a rather sad tone. She doesn't really say this to me, but to the universe. As if it is a prayer.