Drugs, Treasons and Other Demons

88. A GOOD MATCH

It was as if my blood had turned to ice. Every droplet, a sharp little hailstone, scraping its way through my veins and rattling my bones. Tiny snowflakes, settling in my frozen heart, silencing every beat in my chest, every thought in my head, any sign of life.

"Are you okay?" asked Pablo.

I slowly turned my head. He still had that stupid smile on his face, that evil glint in his eye, that little hint of sinful pride arching his brow. He knew how I felt. He knew what he'd done.

It was like in those nightmares, where you want to scream, but all that comes out is a dry, defeated sigh. And you want to defend yourself, throw a punch, or run away, but you can't even bat an eye.

"Gordita?" he murmured, placing his hand on top of mine. "You look like you're going to faint."

I wanted to faint. I wanted to shut my eyes and never open them again. I wanted to fall to the floor and curl up in a ball, to scream and sob until my voice died out, and the rest of me with it.

Manée sighed. "She's probably on drugs again."

I wanted to fight, cause a full-out brawl, grab the gun from someone's holster, and kill them all. I wanted a bloodbath, to rip them apart and tear their throats out. Pablo first, Manée second, and myself last.

"Gordita?" Pablo repeated.

"No," I answered in one, shallow breath. "I'm okay."

His brown eyes gazed into mine, and my fingers wrapped tighter around my knife and fork. I could stab them both in one quick move, right now.

"Do you need a glass of water?" he whispered.

"Yes, please," I said.

He stroked my hair, and I brushed his hand away. His fingers felt like lice, crawling all over me, and a simple touch of them made me want to tear the scalp off my head.

"Gordita," he asked again, on our way back to the bedroom. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes," I answered, maybe a little too dryly. "Why do you keep asking that?"

His hand reached toward my shoulder, and quickly recoiled when I whipped my head around to stare at him.

"I don't know, you've just been acting weird all day," he mumbled.

"I– I haven't– it's just..." I stuttered, and quickly shut up.

I could feel the words knotting in my throat and the tears, prickling the back of my eyes and bubbling up my nose.

"I'm just kind of pissed off that you won't even let me go on a walk without making a scene," I lied.

I'd never admit to him I cared about Juan. When caught in such a dangerous corner, there was only one way out: deny, deny, deny. It was my tried and true method. Like two dogs fighting over a bone–when someone tries to make you spit the truth out, if you hold your ground for long enough, they'll end up getting bored, and go find something else to chew on.

Who knows, maybe he wasn't sure I'd done it. Perhaps he was just waiting for me to confirm it, before he shot a bullet through my head. Maybe that was the only reason I was still alive, because I was shrouded by the shadow of a doubt. Or maybe I was wrong, and Juan was fine, and I was losing my mind over nothing at all.

That was the only thought keeping me sane. The light in the dark, the slim chance that Juan was okay, and I was just spiraling again.

Relatively sane. I barely slept that night. Instead, I stared at him, with never a blink, hardly a breath. I pictured the knife in my hand, the blade on his throat, endless streams of blood pouring out on the sheets. I pictured him bursting into flames, I pictured myself crushing each of his bones, his face twisting in pain, his skull splitting open, scattered chunks of his evil brain.