“It was early in the morning, just before the crack of dawn, when it appeared. Glaring red eyes were just barely visible through the thick, ominous, fog of the forest. Adrenaline rushed through my veins, and my breathing hitched in my throat. Right before my eyes was a scorpion of monstrous size.
I ran as fast as I could in the opposite direction, not looking back, for it could have caught me, but not exactly looking forward, as I could not see my path through the murk. I had not a clue where I was going, but I knew that I must escape from what appeared an eminent end. Continuing to trudge on straight in the opposite direction of the beast, when just then, possibly the worst thing could have happened. I encountered a break in my path, a possible route for escape from the clammy hands of death. However, it was but a ruse, for right in front of me was the creature. Vivid eyes glared through me, and I was diminished to a spineless mortal in the presence.
In the moment, I was not able to grasp the gravity of that encounter. What we acknowledge today as the ruby-gemmed scorpion is among the deadliest species in the world. Twenty feet in height, it is the giant of the jungles of Central America. Upon the personal encounter, blood rushing to my head at the rate of a flowing river and barely containing the nerve to grasp onto consciousness, I could not help but notice the almost unreal delicacy of it. Threatening and captivating in itself, it remains the most beautiful nightmare my unforgiving demeanor has had the luxury of indulging in.
To some I am known as a hero, others, a lucky fool. I do not deny nor welcome these labels, as I am not a man nor was I ever a man who trusted a lazy gratification in place of real experience with an individual. If you were to compel me of my own self-awareness, I would say that neither identity is my own, rather, that I am nothing more than a butcher of piety, decency, and benevolence. Physically that day, I survived. However, not a thing can return what I took from the world, and what I lost of myself, at the occurrence of that devilish form. Confidently I say that it was more human than what I can see in humanity today. It is for these reasons that I can no longer stand with the decisions I have made. If He will have me, I wish to now lay with God.”
Fernándo Ochoa is a man of incredible irony, from his name to his trade, he was a mismatched man. Curiously short was he, a man of 52 years, with a round frame certainly unhealthy for his age, but reminiscent of your quirky grandfather who always knew the best place in town to grab a bite. Despite a dusky complexion he never failed to maintain his famously cherry cheeks. Upon meeting him nothing led you to believe he was anyone aside from a lost Santa Claus. It was not until it was revealed later on that he was a master of the illegal underground gold trade throughout a multitude of countries from Belize to Brazil that public feelings of betrayal arose. Not that it would matter - he was now deceased, committed suicide long age. For fourteen years now that had been the reality.
It was he who had been the first to discover land filthy rich with gold, which is no surprise as of now. It is now beyond me the reason why he decided to disclose this discovery. Many now rumor he had gone mad the day he came upon the wealth, others suggest that it was a premeditated plan meant to fool us all along. I, myself, would rather not fancy the idea that a human could be that calculating or weak of mind. So instead it was in that moment, reading the loud, bolded, headline of a warmly pressed newspaper, that I reveled in the desire that became of me; a desire to discover what exactly had led to the end of Fernándo Ochoa.
My name is Cecilia Rosales. I am 24 years old and am a freelance worker. I have not been able to settle on what I wanted to do, although I have always had interest in archeology. Because I have no steady job, I am in a constant cycle of working hard or hardly working. It was on one of my more busy periods that I picked up this story.
Albeit it was an older story, it had been picked up due to the rise in attacks throughout the area that Ochoa had been in. Business in the town nearby had flourished upon his discovery, and since people would come from far and wide in an attempt to reap their own fortune. What was the most peculiar was that no one had been in danger from a ruby-gemmed scorpion since then. The death count paralleled the rise in the city’s success, which was very high as of late from their influx of money.
I had been sent down by current employer, a magazine editor that was, albeit unpopular and not very profitable in terms of money, probably the best job I had ever had. My boss had said to me that I had been chosen specifically for this job, a nod to my interest in the subject. As I read more and more into it, the deeper I fell into the grave of questions, fearful of the ones that may never be answered.
He put me on a plane the very next day. It appeared as though my colleagues had tipped him off the circumstance that I was in; I didn’t have much of a life. Leaving straight away would not cause much complication, another reason I was specifically elected to this task.
Upon landing in Belize, the very first place I tackled was the address that I had been given before I left the building the day prior. Stepping out of the luxury airport and out into the hustle and bustle of Belize’s unkempt streets, I yelled over for a taxi. However, cars began pulling in to pick up anyone that could reach it first, and as such, I had decided to hold back a while. At almost an hour later, I had lost my patience, and practically my life, running into the street to one of the Taxis that had just arrived. I swiftly opened the car door and thrusted my bag and body inside, to a driver who simply looked up at me in the rear-view and chuckled knowingly. I informed him the address, and we were off.
Belize was a country that maintained a friendly feel. Children ran through the streets carelessly, screaming and laughing and waving about like fireflies, you could simply hold your jealously for a short moment before they were gone and disappeared. Music flooded from every street corner and crowds surrounded men playing instruments in subtle costumes of golden detail and fat hats everywhere we went. Blasting horns and guitar strums were all that I was able to hear on the drive over, the noise was inescapable.
The house that I stopped in front of was the house that Fernándo had spent his childhood. As to why exactly I was sent here of all places first was beyond me, but I did not question it. I stepped out of the taxi and lept out, allowing my feet to adjust to the rocky landscape, wobbling side to side and becoming increasingly nauseous.
The house before me was a simple one. It seemed almost too simple to be the house that had grown the most famous hero and simultaneous criminal. I was startled by its modest clay walls, a taupe color, and small windows absent of glass but barred by old pipes. I knocked on the old wood door, and out came a petite woman, with bright eyes and dark black hair that was contrasted by her tan skin. She greeted me with a narrowing stare.
“Excuse me, I am here to ask you of Mr. Fernándo Ochoa? I just have a few questions, if you’ll have me.” She stood still for what felt like a lifetime, and for those moments the only sounds in the air were of grasshoppers and the wind passing through trees.
“I’m sorry,” she began in a low voice, “but I do not know who it is that you are speaking of”
Admittedly I was taken aback, but in a manner to not disturb her, I calmly proceeded, “I was informed that this is his childhood home.” My first instinct to her abrupt movements was that she had not been sound of mind.
But when she leaned into me, a low voice, she said, “Fernándo Ochoa was my little brother. He died in an accident when he was 7.”