"Mr. Hayes," he said, clicking his pen.
"You said you met a woman named Mara?"
"Yes. At a bar on the Strip."
"Do you remember which bar exactly?"
"The-----uh, The Velvet Lounge."
He scribbled something down onto a note. "Do you remember anything that happened after that?"
"No, I blacked out. I------ I think she dragged me."
He nodded slowly. "From what you're saying, it seems you encountered Black organ trafficking."
I froze. "What do you mean?"
At that he exhaled, and took a seat next to my hospital bed. "There've been a string of similar cases like yours the last six months, and I'll be brutally honest with you," he added, making me tense up instantly.
"... most of them don't survive."
I fell silent at that, my mind whispering in the corners of my mind; 'but I did'.
Suddenly I was at ease, but one thing still bugged me.
"Why did she target me?" I asked, staring blankly at the detective.
"Shouldn't it be homeless people or those with debts? I have money------"
"Money isn't categorises you into their choice list," he said quickly, cutting me off then added grimly;
"It's because you fit the profile they want. You're young and healthy with no immediate family in this place. That made you easy to isolate."
I stared at him, my chest tightening as I asked, "How do you know I have no immediate family here?"
He shrugged, "It was the same for all the other cases."
"I need you to find that woman for me."
"I can not do that." He told me plainly and I glared at him.
"Why not?"
He shook his head again, almost to himself this time. "We've heard the description you gave before. That woman is always in a red dress, long hair and calls herself different names; Mara, Layla or June. We think she's part of a larger organ trafficking ring."
"An organ trafficking ring?"
He nodded.
"And how does that stop you from catching her?"
"They sell organs on the black market, and one kidney can go for over $150,000."
I pressed my shaking left hand to my stitches. "They cut my kidney out while I was alive and you're fucking telling me how much it's. Are you out of your mind?! How can that help me?!"
"Because," he said quietly.
"If they can sell one organ for that much imagine how much they make with several. They're a large powerful ring, what you're asking is impossible."
Hearing these words madew curse at the detective, but there was nothing else I could do about it.
A week later, I was discharged from the hospital, and with time the pain stopped.
The doctor said my body had 'adapted' to having just one kidney.
Time went on, and despite what the detective said, I kept thinking maybe the cops would catch that woman, or someone would confess.
... But nothing like that happened.
Then, two months later, I got an email with just one sentence in it.
"How's your left kidney doing?"
There was also an attached photo showing me unconscious in the bathtub, and surrounded by ice while she in her red dress leaned over me, holding a scalpel in her right hand.
I was shaken, so I called the Detective Morales immediately.
But when he came and checked the email, it was gone, as if it hadn't existed.
I tried to move on after that but was constantly weak and going into sudden shocks every now and then even in the office.
When the board announced a meeting, I knew I'd be fired so I quit my job as manager with dignity, left Vegas, and went back home to Boston.
But no matter where I went, I was now constantly getting the feeling of being watched.
Then, one night, I noticed something strange in the mirror, and when I looked closer, I saw that it was a small, faint scar.
I was speechless, it wasn't the one from my kidney, but instead it was higher, right near my ribs and I could swear that it hadn't been there before.
So I pressed it, and pain shot through my side.
It was at that moment that I realized it wasn't just a scar, it was fresh.
There were new stitches on my body.
I was confused, and scared goosebumps broke out all over my body.
I didn't remember going to any hospital, and I didn't go to any club the it bar the previous night; I'd stopped going two months ago.
Now I was panicking, and desperately I rushed to my phone and picked it up, dialing up 911.
However just as I was about to hit the call button, I saw a notification that I have a voicemail.
Clicking on it, I saw one new message.
My brows furrowed, I wasn't expecting anyone, but I hit the play button anyway, only to here a familiar woman's voice fill my ears.
"Hi, darling. Just checking on you. Don't worry about the new surgery, you're helping a lot of people; one piece at a time."
I was terrified, and my face peaked to an ashen colour.
Moving my fingers quickly, I ditched calling 911, but instead called Detective Morales again.
... but his number had been disconnected.
I tried the Vegas Police Department next, telling them that I had to speak with him and that it was urgent, but... they said no detective by that name worked there.
That stunned me, and I was confused.
I had spoken to him before.
Refusing to believe what the said, I told them all that had happened.
However they snapped at me, saying that there was no such bar as the Velvet Lounge.
It didn't exist.
Perhaps my silence on hearing the news made them understand the gravity of the situation, because then they began talking to me and asking me to make a statement in person at their precinct.
But I refused to listen to them and hung up the call.
I didn't know who to trust at this point.
My hands went to the new stitch on my body, and I flinched at the pain even before I touched it a second time.
What did they take from me?
---
It's been over a 3 years now.
I live in a small apartment, work from home and keep to myself.
The wealth I'd had back then has been reduced to cents and changes, due to the heavy amounts I have been constantly spending, paying for my drugs.
It's left me broke and in shambles; Mara and her gang made sure of that.
Every few months, I wake up sore, dizzy and much weaker.
... And there's always a new wound I don't remember getting.
Last week, I went to the doctor for blood work, and he looked confused as he scrolled through the results.
"Mr. Hayes," he said, frowning.
"It says here… you only have one lung."
I shook my head, refusing to believe it; even though I knew deep down that it was true.
"That can't be right," I whispered.
"I have two."
Now it was the doctor's turn to shake his head. "Your chart from five years ago says you had both."
Frantic, I asked the doctor to check again and he did.
But it was the same result.
"I don't understand," the small town doctor said, confused by the result.
But I wasn't.
I knew who did this to me, I was only shocked they'd come for my lungs as well.
After my kidney, they've taken part of my liver, my bone marrow, both of my balls, a joint from my elbow that's left my left hand useless and a bit of my spinal fluid that's caused my to be riddled to this wheelchair I'm on now.
Perhaps they've taken more than those, I'm not sure, I stopped checking after a while for my own sanity.
Only my difficulty in breathing and coughing out blood this morning was what drove me here to the hospital today.
Wheeling away, I hear the doctor call for me, but I don't answer.
There's no use; they'll just keep taking from me.
I don't even know how much is left of me anymore.