Doing his fucking dirty work.
I was oblivious until I saw his true colors. By that time, it was too late to do anything. It was much easier to stand beside him than to betray him and pay with my life. I couldn’t do that to Amira, she’d already lost too much. There was no way I’d let her lose me too.
So instead, I paid with my soul.
Condemned.
Monstrous.
At the end of the day, what other fucking choice did I have…
I was twenty-two-years-old with so much blood on my hands already. I was surprised I could still see my skin.
I killed.
I tortured.
I played fucking God while I was rotting in Hell.
Slaughtering men and women. Taking the lives of anyone Salazar said had to go. Yes, Emilio was my leader, but I wasn’t up in the crevice of his asshole like everyone else was. Nor did I kiss it. He may have owned me in one way or another, but he didn’t own my balls.
I still did what I had to.
Fulfilled duties on my own terms.
When I wanted, how I fucking wanted.
I drew the line at harming a child. I wouldn’t so much as touch a hair on their heads. Not after Amira. Standing my ground, the first time I told him no, I thought he was going to put a bullet in my head, but instead I became his favorite. Probably reminding him we were one in the same. Everyone knew I was Salazar’s main soldier and wasn’t to be fucked with. Not many attempted to anyway. However, there was always that one motherfucker, here and there, who wanted to be top dog, and I had to set them straight.
I was alpha.
End. Of. Story.
I didn’t take shit from anyone. Not even Emilio himself.
The offenses ranged from being as severe as someone plotting to take Salazar down, or as insignificant as a person telling me to go fuck myself. The punishment was always harsh though, no matter what the crime. It could range from death to torture, or plain imprisonment. No one disrespected me, I made sure of it. There were no imaginary lines. I’d crossed them all. No boundaries. No second chances. No redemption.
Not for me.
For them.
For anyone.
I planned and led ambushes against possible foreign attacks. Went on killing sprees. Raided homes, businesses, and even colleges, where he believed rebels were staked out. I orchestrated firing squads, ripping civilians from their beds in the middle of the night. Ordering them to face the wall so I could shoot them in their backs. Making it much easier to kill several traitors at once.
I witnessed and participated in it all.
Somewhere along the way in the last four years, I stopped allowing myself to feel, to think, to dream of another life. I became desensitized to it all. Now, I just did whatever I was ordered to do, without giving it a second thought.
Becoming as feared as Salazar himself.
The most fucked up part of it all was I took pleasure in it. The apple never falls far from the tree, and I was no fucking exception. You’d be surprised what the human psyche was capable of when it had no other choice. Only the strongest survived, and I would always make it out alive.
I didn’t know darkness and evil lurked inside of me until I had to murder in order to thrive in this life. The control, the power, the sins of it all were just as addicting as they were afflicting. Consuming every last part of my being.
Becoming the fucking monster they trained me to be.
Inflicting mental torture on prisoners was a thing of the norm. A tactic I enjoyed participating in the most. For the last week, I’d spent my mornings with inmate, Vicente Reyes, prisoner 95708. He was sentenced to twenty years behind bars for killing a handful of Cuban soldiers. We needed the names of the men he orchestrated his terrorist attack with, and he had yet to provide us with even one.
I nodded to the prison guards as I made my way inside the interrogation room for the seventh straight day, dismissing them. Vicente was seated at the head of the long rectangular table, positioned in the middle of the room. Forgoing his usual seat on the side where he’d been sitting for our previous meetings. His glare immediately shifted from his shackled wrists to the box in my hands.
Waiting.
His curiosity becoming more evident with each passing minute. I knew what he was trying to do. Reading a suspect’s body language was a talent I had perfected over the years. Nothing got pass me. The way his index finger on his right hand twitched slightly every few seconds. How his jaw was clenched as the muscles on his neck tensed. No matter how hard he tried to avoid it, I could see his pulse rapidly beating from the visible distance between us. Vicente wanted to come off all hard and unfazed, but I could smell his bullshit from a mile away. Although, I had to give credit where credit was due, the man had some brass fucking balls, sitting parallel to me.
He was trying to portray our interrogation as some sort of power struggle that day. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t fucking amused by his disposition. The motherfucker hadn’t been cooperating, not even with the electrocution or the depravation of food for weeks at a time. Making him starve until he was all skin and fucking bones. Fatigued as fuck from the daily beatings, the hard labor, and the solitary confinement.
None of it was working. So I decided to bring him a gift.
I grinned, placing my gun down on the table with the barrel pointing directly at him, setting the black box beside it. Nonchalantly unbuttoning my military jacket before taking a seat on the opposite side of him. I leaned back into my wooden chair, making myself comfortable. Noticing his eyes hadn’t wavered from the package, not even for a second. I didn’t pay him any mind, wanting the anticipation to build. Knock the motherfucker down a few notches before delivering my final blow.
“What did you think, Vicente? That you were going to be a brave soldier? Out to do away with the revolution? With Salazar? Attempting to go against your government, against your country. Against your own people… Killing true soldiers who were fighting for their revolution.”
He didn’t hesitate, confessing, “Absolutely. I’d do it again, if I had another chance,” he spat with a sadistic grin spread across his face.
I leaned into the table, arching my eyebrow with my hands clasped together out in front of me. “A real man would’ve gotten the job done the first time. He wouldn’t need another chance.”
He shrugged, biting his lower lip.
“Your anti-communistic way of life didn’t do shit for you, except land your ass in prison. You’re a poor excuse of a man. You failed everyone, Vicente. The conspirators you organized this attack with, your régime.” I paused, allowing my words to sink in. “Not to mention your family.”
“My fami—”