Sins of the Past

By Johny Griffith Architect of Chaos - Builder of Truth.

Jake Holloway had a face built for regret. The kind of jawline that once broke noses for sport, now softened by years of penance. He lived in a modest house on the edge of Nickerie, where the rain hit the roof like it was trying to remind him of something. His wife, Candy, had stopped calling him “love” years ago. She called him “Jake” now. Cold. Distant. Like a stranger who never left.

Their daughter, Cindy, was the only light left. Nine years old. Obsessed with drawing monsters and asking questions Jake couldn’t answer. She didn’t know what her father used to be. She didn’t know about Frank. Or the gang. Or the blood-soaked nights in Paramaribo when Jake was the devil’s right hand.

But the past doesn’t knock. It kicks the door in.

I. The Kidnapping

It happened after school. Cindy never made it to the pickup point. Candy waited for hours, calling Jake in a panic. He was at the lumber yard, sanding down a table he’d built for her birthday.

Then came the call.

A voice Jake hadn’t heard in years. “You left us, Holloway. Now we take what’s yours.”

The video arrived minutes later. Cindy, bound and gagged in a dim room. Her eyes wide with terror. A man stepped into frame—bald, grinning, wearing Jake’s old gang jacket.

Frank.

He whispered something to Cindy. She flinched. Then the screen went black.

Jake dropped the phone. Candy screamed. The silence that followed was worse than any sound.

II. The Fallout

Candy shattered. She blamed Jake. “You brought this into our lives. You made her a target.” Jake didn’t argue. He knew. He had tried to bury the past, but it clawed its way out.

That night, Jake went to the shed. Dug up the box. Inside: a Glock, a burner phone, a list of names. The old crew. The ones who never forgave betrayal.

He left a note for Candy: “I’ll make it right. Or die trying.”

III. The Purge Begins

Rico was first. He ran a strip club in Paramaribo, hiding behind neon and flesh. Jake slipped in through the back, dressed as a janitor. He waited until Rico was alone in the office, counting cash.

Jake didn’t speak. He placed a photo of Cindy on the desk. Rico looked up. “Jake—” The bullet went through his eye.

Jake carved “Cindy” into the wall with a screwdriver.

Tomas was next. The getaway driver. He lived in a gated compound, paranoid and bloated. Jake cut the power. Slipped in through the garage. Tomas tried to run. Jake caught him in the hallway.

He didn’t shoot. He used a hammer.

“You watched her die,” Jake whispered. Tomas begged. Jake didn’t listen.

Milo was harder. He was a fighter. Jake found him in a gym, sparring with kids. Milo smiled when he saw Jake. “You came to die?” Jake nodded. “No. You did.”

They fought for twenty minutes. Jake broke three ribs. Milo broke Jake’s nose. In the end, Jake strangled him with a jump rope. “For Cindy,” he said as Milo’s eyes dimmed.

IV. Candy’s Silence

Jake sent Candy the names. One by one. She never replied. But she didn’t block him either. That was enough.

He knew she hated him. But he also knew she wanted them dead.

V. The Final Hunt

Frank lived in a fortress now. Armed guards. Steel gates. Surveillance drones. But Jake had built the original compound. He knew the blind spots.

He entered during a storm. Lightning masked his steps. Rain washed away the blood.

Frank was waiting in the study. “You came,” he said. “I knew you would.” Jake raised the gun. “She was nine.” Frank shrugged. “Collateral. You left. We needed leverage.”

Jake didn’t shoot. Not yet. He turned on the camera. “You’re going to confess. Every name. Every kill. Every deal.” Frank laughed. “You think this changes anything?” Jake leaned in. “No. But it ends it.”

The confession lasted twenty minutes. Jake uploaded it to every news outlet, every cop he could find. Then he pulled the trigger.

Frank’s blood painted the walls.

VI. The Aftermath

Jake didn’t run. He sat on the porch of Frank’s mansion, waiting for the sirens. When they came, he raised his hands. No resistance.

The trial was swift. The confession went viral. The gang collapsed. Jake was sentenced to life.

Candy visited once. She didn’t speak. Just stared. “I’m sorry,” Jake said. She nodded. “So am I.”

Jake spends his days carving wooden angels in his cell. Each one bears a name. Each one bleeds. A Word from the Author

These stories? They’re real.

Not in the way fiction pretends to be. They’re stitched from scars, whispered through alleyways, and soaked in truths most people are too afraid to name.

I don’t invent pain—I just dress it up. I add the sauce. The grit. The cinematic pulse. But the bones? The bones are real.

Every betrayal. Every scream. Every bullet. I’ve seen it. Lived it. Or stood close enough to feel the heat.

So when you read these pages, don’t ask if it’s true. Ask why it still echoes.

—Johny Griffith Architect of Chaos · Builder of Truth