Sands smiled into the black breeze. He leaned against the cold stone
of some building, feeling his pulse ringing against the bony walls of his
wrists, the blood dribbling down his face. It felt strange and hot, like
saliva pouring out of his eye sockets. He knew the drugs the cartel had
given him were slowing his heart rate down, and when you add that to a man
who is already on the verge of bleeding to death, it wasn't the best
combination, but at least it combated any pain he'd normally be feeling.
For now.
Oh, god, he thought. I'm going to fucking lose it soon.
"¿Cómo se siente usted?" The young Chiclet boy's voice fluttered into his ears, like a rose petal trying to find its way through a chaotic storm.
"Crazy," said Sands after a few minutes, the smile still smacked on his damn face. His god-damn incomplete face. "I feel crazy."
The young boy shrugged. "Usted no aparece loco a mí."
You don't look crazy to me.
The words made Sands' chest feel hollow and almost mechanical. He suddenly wanted to hug that boy more than anything in the world, but the urge faded in an instant. What was he thinking? You don't look crazy to me...
What kind of stupid answer is that?
It took Sands a moment to realize that he'd spoken those very words aloud, and he sort of regretted saying them. Only sort of.
The boy seemed to be silent for a moment, but then he said, "Pienso que usted es el hombre más valiente en el mundo."
I think you are the bravest man in the world.
Sands' chest tightened now. Oh dear Christ, he thought, I'm going to die like this; I'm going to die in a Lifetime movie. Why the fuck was this goddamned kid saying these things? It was only making him feel worse...
"Look, kid, I think you should be..."
Suddenly he felt a dull ache pounding in the back of his head.
"Oh, fuck," he moaned. He slid down full onto the ground. "Oh, fuck...not now..."
"Señor?" he heard the boy ask warily.
"Un medico," Sands slurred. "Obténgame un medico, rapidamente."
"Si, Señor," the boy nearly shouted. Sands heard him mount his bike and ride off.
He was alone now. All alone.
For the first time since he was about ten years old, he felt disgustingly vulnerable. He hugged himself, as his body sagged helplessly into a small corner that wrapped around the stoop of a building. Blood was all over the place now, he could smell it, and it frightened him immensely, because he wanted to feel the pain with it; if there was no pain now, it meant it was coming soon. And it would be intolerable.
He knew the gunshots wouldn't be terrible. He'd had similar wounds before, and was sure they'd be no different.
But then there were his eyes. His fucking beautiful brown eyes. They were gone.
Suddenly it dawned on him. Just sitting here, by himself, in a broken city, the wind rustling his dark hair. His dark hair that he would never see again. He rubbed his fingers together...his slender fingers. Never again.
He'd never see the small '3' tattoo just beneath the delicate curve between his index finger and thumb again. He'd never see his watch again, the stupid watch that his girlfriend had bought him in high school. He felt the soft green t-shirt beneath his gear.
Fuck.
He'd been a totally different man that morning. He just woke up, opened his eyes. It'd be the last time they'd open after a natural sleep. He looked at himself in the mirror as he washed his face...he would never see his own face again. Ever.
He moaned loudly, so loudly it could have been just a muted scream, and he leaned in and rested his forehead on his knees.
How would he sleep? How in god's name would he sleep? How would he walk, how would he do anything?
A small voice in the back of his head knew he'd figure that crap out. That wasn't hard. But now he was just stuck in this shell...this shell that he couldn't see. His own fucking body had become an enemy; an invisible enemy. He was stuck in blackness with his thoughts, and that was all. That was all he had.
And he had his memories. His stupid memories! He wanted to take all of them and rip them to fucking pieces. They were his only souvenir of the outside world, and now there was no way he could get back in. But he had these bits and pieces that seemed to dance around what was left of his brain and show him what he was missing. He knew, six months from now, he'd probably be back in New York with some friends, who had gotten over the whole blindness thing. They'd be sitting at a bar, and one of them would whistle and say, "Wow, check out the tits on that girl."
And he'd be able to see nothing. Just hear voices. Laughing at a funny face. Cringing at a disturbing image. None of that. He could do none of that...
Sands' fingers felt numb from his trembling. They absentmindedly curled around something cold and black, and he suddenly felt the long snout of a pistol poking inside his mouth.
Dare me? he thought.
He cocked it, and wrapped his thick tongue around it. It tasted disgusting, like old gunpowder, but he bore it. Hell, he could bear anything now. He was the bravest man in the world.
Then he thought of the young Chiclet boy. Not really the boy himself, but the idea of him...Sands was like him once. He really was, much as he hated to think about it, and he didn't want to kill the boy. He didn't want to kill that idea.
He strangely thought of himself in his home movies, when his mother would make him watch him before she died. He was a small kid, with large eyes (fucking large eyes!) and a little smile. He loved to be tickled, he hated to be laughed at, and was afraid of the dark.
Sands did not want to kill that little boy.
That sweet little boy...
He felt the gun slide from his sweaty hand and he leaned in on his knees and started to cry. It was the last thing he wanted, but it just happened; he cried. He cried, and when he didn't feel the tears, but only blood instead, he cried harder. He wanted to be with that little boy. He wanted to be with that little boy with the large brown eyes...
He stopped suddenly as he heard the distant ringing of Chiclet's bicycle. He straightened up against the wall, as he heard his voice directing the doctor on where he was going.
He swallowed heavily. "I'm the bravest man in the world," he said softly. "I'm the bravest man in the world."
- End
Oh, god, he thought. I'm going to fucking lose it soon.
"¿Cómo se siente usted?" The young Chiclet boy's voice fluttered into his ears, like a rose petal trying to find its way through a chaotic storm.
"Crazy," said Sands after a few minutes, the smile still smacked on his damn face. His god-damn incomplete face. "I feel crazy."
The young boy shrugged. "Usted no aparece loco a mí."
You don't look crazy to me.
The words made Sands' chest feel hollow and almost mechanical. He suddenly wanted to hug that boy more than anything in the world, but the urge faded in an instant. What was he thinking? You don't look crazy to me...
What kind of stupid answer is that?
It took Sands a moment to realize that he'd spoken those very words aloud, and he sort of regretted saying them. Only sort of.
The boy seemed to be silent for a moment, but then he said, "Pienso que usted es el hombre más valiente en el mundo."
I think you are the bravest man in the world.
Sands' chest tightened now. Oh dear Christ, he thought, I'm going to die like this; I'm going to die in a Lifetime movie. Why the fuck was this goddamned kid saying these things? It was only making him feel worse...
"Look, kid, I think you should be..."
Suddenly he felt a dull ache pounding in the back of his head.
"Oh, fuck," he moaned. He slid down full onto the ground. "Oh, fuck...not now..."
"Señor?" he heard the boy ask warily.
"Un medico," Sands slurred. "Obténgame un medico, rapidamente."
"Si, Señor," the boy nearly shouted. Sands heard him mount his bike and ride off.
He was alone now. All alone.
For the first time since he was about ten years old, he felt disgustingly vulnerable. He hugged himself, as his body sagged helplessly into a small corner that wrapped around the stoop of a building. Blood was all over the place now, he could smell it, and it frightened him immensely, because he wanted to feel the pain with it; if there was no pain now, it meant it was coming soon. And it would be intolerable.
He knew the gunshots wouldn't be terrible. He'd had similar wounds before, and was sure they'd be no different.
But then there were his eyes. His fucking beautiful brown eyes. They were gone.
Suddenly it dawned on him. Just sitting here, by himself, in a broken city, the wind rustling his dark hair. His dark hair that he would never see again. He rubbed his fingers together...his slender fingers. Never again.
He'd never see the small '3' tattoo just beneath the delicate curve between his index finger and thumb again. He'd never see his watch again, the stupid watch that his girlfriend had bought him in high school. He felt the soft green t-shirt beneath his gear.
Fuck.
He'd been a totally different man that morning. He just woke up, opened his eyes. It'd be the last time they'd open after a natural sleep. He looked at himself in the mirror as he washed his face...he would never see his own face again. Ever.
He moaned loudly, so loudly it could have been just a muted scream, and he leaned in and rested his forehead on his knees.
How would he sleep? How in god's name would he sleep? How would he walk, how would he do anything?
A small voice in the back of his head knew he'd figure that crap out. That wasn't hard. But now he was just stuck in this shell...this shell that he couldn't see. His own fucking body had become an enemy; an invisible enemy. He was stuck in blackness with his thoughts, and that was all. That was all he had.
And he had his memories. His stupid memories! He wanted to take all of them and rip them to fucking pieces. They were his only souvenir of the outside world, and now there was no way he could get back in. But he had these bits and pieces that seemed to dance around what was left of his brain and show him what he was missing. He knew, six months from now, he'd probably be back in New York with some friends, who had gotten over the whole blindness thing. They'd be sitting at a bar, and one of them would whistle and say, "Wow, check out the tits on that girl."
And he'd be able to see nothing. Just hear voices. Laughing at a funny face. Cringing at a disturbing image. None of that. He could do none of that...
Sands' fingers felt numb from his trembling. They absentmindedly curled around something cold and black, and he suddenly felt the long snout of a pistol poking inside his mouth.
Dare me? he thought.
He cocked it, and wrapped his thick tongue around it. It tasted disgusting, like old gunpowder, but he bore it. Hell, he could bear anything now. He was the bravest man in the world.
Then he thought of the young Chiclet boy. Not really the boy himself, but the idea of him...Sands was like him once. He really was, much as he hated to think about it, and he didn't want to kill the boy. He didn't want to kill that idea.
He strangely thought of himself in his home movies, when his mother would make him watch him before she died. He was a small kid, with large eyes (fucking large eyes!) and a little smile. He loved to be tickled, he hated to be laughed at, and was afraid of the dark.
Sands did not want to kill that little boy.
That sweet little boy...
He felt the gun slide from his sweaty hand and he leaned in on his knees and started to cry. It was the last thing he wanted, but it just happened; he cried. He cried, and when he didn't feel the tears, but only blood instead, he cried harder. He wanted to be with that little boy. He wanted to be with that little boy with the large brown eyes...
He stopped suddenly as he heard the distant ringing of Chiclet's bicycle. He straightened up against the wall, as he heard his voice directing the doctor on where he was going.
He swallowed heavily. "I'm the bravest man in the world," he said softly. "I'm the bravest man in the world."
- End