Salem stood shakily in the washroom, examining the grimy tile floor and lime stained shower nozzles that jutted from the walls.
"Quitarte la ropa," the burly man barked. Salem jumped at the gruff command, and looked at him in confusion.
"La ropa," the man reiterated, tugging at his own dirty wife-beater.
Salem nodded meekly in understanding. He gently tugged his scarred arm out of the sleeve of his t-shirt, wincing when the fabric grazed the sensitive tissue. With his right arm freed, he pulled the shirt up over his head, and dropped it to the floor. Though feeling self-conscious, he reluctantly removed his filthy jeans and underwear. A fractured mirror hanging over the sink caught his eye, causing him to shy at the sight of his own reflection. He saw for the first time the extent of the burns that plagued his right side. The scar tissue branched from his ear and cheek, down his neck, across his chest and back, until finally waning at his hip. He felt disgusting, shameful, not only because of the scarring, but the dark filth and bruises splotching his skin.
"Eh," the big man said brusquely, snapping his fingers to gain Salem's attention. "¡Apuráte!"
Salem flinched from the sharp command, but obeyed, stepping under one of the four shower nozzles. He swallowed thickly, placed his hand on the valve, and gave it a slow twist. The nozzle sputtered, then streamed scalding water over his greasy hair.
"Fuck," he whimpered, feeling as if the heavy droplets were boiling his skin. Still, he didn't dare turn off the water for fear of receiving discipline from the big man watching him. He quickly adjusted the temperature valve, cooling the searing water to lukewarm. Comfortable with the shower's temperature, he took a crusty bar of soap from a shallow shelf jutting from the wall, and began gently rubbing slow circles across his chest. He moved up to his shoulders and collar, then began working the soap down his body. Brown, sudsy water ran down his legs, and swirled across the off-white tile until finally disappearing down the rusty drain hole.
He rubbed the bar around in his hands, placed it back on the shelf, then began scrubbing through his hair. He relished the feeling of the soft lather foaming in his grimy locks. He put his back to the stream, and combed his left hand through his hair to wash out the filth, slowing when his fingers became tangled in knots and clumps of mud. Having finished washing his hair, he turned back around, and rubbed his soapy hands over his face. He then leaned with his forearm against the wall, and let the water run freely down his front.
He started when the water suddenly shut off. Wiping his eyes, he looked up to see the burly man glaring sternly down at him, his hand on the valve. The man tossed a soft towel at him, and again grumbled in Spanish for him to hurry up. Salem ruffled the towel through his hair, wiped down his upper body, then wrapped the cloth around his narrow waist. He looked to the big man for direction.
"Te afeites," he growled, nodding to the sink under the cracked mirror. Placed neatly on the edge of the sink was a tin can of shaving cream along with a straight-edge razor, a tube of toothpaste, and a plastic toothbrush. Salem approached the sink slowly, as if any sudden movements would somehow incite the big man to attack like a wild animal. After squirting a dollop of shaving cream onto his hand, and applying a generous amount to the left side of his face and neck, he took the razor in his hand. Eight weeks had allowed a thick beard to accumulate on only that section of his face, the other side having been burned of the hair follicles. Turning his head, and stretching the corner of his mouth in order to gain a better angle, he began grazing the razor across his face. He took careful measure to not tear the delicate scar tissue, slowly scraping the instrument against the hairs growing on his upper lip and chin that were dangerously close to the burns.
When he was finished, Salem rinsed off the cream, cleaned out the sink, folded the razor, and examined his face. A combination of the razor's dullness and his own lack of bravery with handling the instrument left a fine layer of light stubble. Though it wasn't a clean shave, he figured it was better than a lop-sided beard. He cringed at the close reflection. The lack of sleep and healing bruises left dark circles under his tired eyes, making him look sickly, near dead. His sunken cheeks and collar bones simply added to the effect.
The last couple of months, he had often wondered if he was dead, if all this really was hell. This place seemed to feed off of his fears. The cell was small, claustrophobic, constraining, and though he was relieved to be free of the prison, the rest of the compound seemed no better. It was more spacious, yes, but he was still a captive, still trapped, and that in itself terrified him. In this place, he was also more alone than ever. Lack of food and sleep had turned his mind against him, and he'd often hallucinate about his rescue, or even just a decent meal or bed, only to snap out of it and find he was still in that room, still laying curled up on the floor, still alone. He still wasn't sure what was happening now wasn't just a figment of his desperate imagination. If it was all in his head, it was probably to best to play along and enjoy while it lasted.
After brushing his teeth, he combed his still-damp bangs off of his forehead with his fingers. Looking at himself now, he felt pushing his hair back on his head made him look like some kind of villain from an old movie or comic book. He scoffed, thinking about how he'd just become a part of a Mexican cartel. So, maybe he was one.
Thinking back to his time in the Rangers, and even at SSC and TWO, Rios had told him that what they were doing was good, clean, and he was stupid enough to believe him. He couldn't remember a time in his life when he felt "clean." Whether Rios excepted it or not, they were killers. It wasn't as black and white as he made it out to be, that they were the good guys stopping the bad guys. The blood of countless men were on they're hands, they were both drowning in it, and Salem knew no amount of good deeds could wash out the red.
The concept of being morally righteous, Salem had witnessed over the years, dictated Rios' actions. What he also witnessed, though, was when those moral decisions required sacrifice, he was the one to take the fall. He was sacrificed in Shanghai, and he was sacrificed here. All for the innocents. All for that girl. If being good meant he had to lose everything, he was finished. If being the villain, the bad guy, meant for once he wouldn't have to suffer, so be it. He looked closely into the cracked mirror, and decided from now on, he wouldn't be the fall-guy anymore. The Elliot Salem that fought, loved, suffered, sacrificed everything for the ones he loved only to be thrown away was dead. This was his new life now. He was going to live it for himself. He refused to put his life in someone else's hands. He refused to be thrown away. He refused to make the same mistakes again.
He turned back to the big man, waiting for his next command, unaware of the tear trailing down his cheek. He big man scoffed, then tossed Salem a pile of neatly folded clothes. He ran his thumb over the grey button down shirt on the top of the pile, completely in awe of the cool fabric's softness. He laid the clothing on the edge of the sink, unwrapped the towel from his waist, and let it drop to the floor. He then slipped on the cotton boxers found under the shirt and belt, closing his eyes in contentment at the feeling of finally having clean underwear. Next, he pulled a pair of black trousers from the bottom of the pile, and put them on. The pants, being too big (or him being too skinny), began slipping down his thin hips. He took the shiny, black belt from atop the pile, then looped and fastened it taut around the trousers' waist. Lastly, he donned the grey shirt. He buttoned it nearly to the top, and fixed the collar, then tucked the bottom of it neatly into his pants. He sighed in relief, and examined himself in the mirror as he folded up his sleeves to his elbows. The clothes, though not casual, were a nice change from the rags he was forced to wear before. For the first time in too long, he actually felt like a human being.