Atrocity in Paradise Jordan Curry

The finely milled sand was white-hot, almost as if a billion microscopic pieces of the sun had rained down and settled beneath the soles of my feet. As I scanned the beach, I took a deep breath of the muggy air, letting the dampness settle in my lungs as I took in the view around me. I was on a gorgeous island where the bleach-white sands were covered with tidy rows of reclining outdoor chairs, the water was an icy-clear blue, and the sound of the ocean was audible from nearly anywhere on land. This isolated strip of heaven on Earth seemed like another planet compared to where I had been just hours earlier.

The streets of Nassau were sweltering in the summer. The stagnant air was a wispy cloak that sat upon the beads of sweat rolling down my temples. Stores that looked like shacks lined the perimeter of the roads, ventilated by the occasional breezes coming off of the rolling ocean tides. A man wearing cutoff jeans, a dark green crewneck T-shirt, and a dingy grey jacket walked down the street. His dark skin reflected the sunlight as he occasionally opened his jacket each time he passed an identifiable tourist. It was obvious what he was doing. The spicy, earthy smell of marijuana wafted off of him, its pungent smell permeating...