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This chapter has a few warnings in it different from the summary. Yes, there is language, violence, and blood, but there is also non-graphic sexual assault, off-screen torture, dub/non-con, and murder. Just a warning. Be safe.
Enjoy.
Joaquin's eyes slide open slowly. It's late, he's been unconscious for a couple of hours, but at least someone had the decency to drag him back to his designated room. He's been under Chakal's rule for three years now, but he still got in trouble an unusual amount. Punishment wasn't too harsh now a days, just a beating. He was never taken to the cages anymore, but the shackles in the common area had his blood all over them. That was usually their favorite form of torture. They hung you up by your arms and whipped you into submission, or in his case, beat you unconscious. Chakal often liked to come out of his room to watch when he was beaten, but stayed back for everyone else. It was probably because Chakal had actually started to like Joaquin.
Chakal had always been there in the beginning. In the cages with Joaquin, holding the red-hot iron or the whip, frowning and lecturing as he burned and cut and molded Joaquin into something new. "You're mine now." He would hiss as he branded his name into Joaquin's hip, "You're mine and you'll never forget it." Joaquin hated his guts.
The evil man's presence slowly dwindled in his new life until Joaquin could almost pretend he was dead- of course that would be easier if Joaquin wasn't forced to share not only a room, but also a bed with the bastard. He sits up heavily and notes the shackle around his foot. he hasn't had that thing for the longest time, why put it back now? Was his little act of rebellion enough to revoke all the progress he had made? All he had done was take extra bread to the servants. he had done much worse than that before, so why was now the last straw?
Was it possible Chakal figured out his escape plan? The man would be less than happy to find out Joaquin was filing down an old metal bed frame bar into a suitable knife, and he would be more than furious to figure out Joaquin was planning on killing him. As twisted and unsettling as it was, Chakal had begun to depend on Joaquin, and even trust him. That was the exact reason Joaquin was able to free half of the servants and not be killed. It was why he was permitted to walk the grounds freely and why Plata had not yet been killed or given to a bandido. Chakal, as far-fetched as it sounds, was in love with Joaquin and wanted him happy. He had confessed to Joaquin some of his dark secrets when he thought he was asleep, but he treated Joaquin like dirt other than his small freedoms. Some of the worst punishments were under Chakals hands.
The door bangs open and Joaquin reflexively flinches. His gauze wrapped hands shoot up to protect his face, but relax when they realized Chakal is not coming into the room angry. Those were the worst nights.
He opens his mouth to ask about the shackle but closes it before the words can get out. How could he forget? Rule #3: never speak unless spoken too. He must wait for Chakal to acknowledge him.
That was one of the first rules he learned. Rule #1: Don't fall behind. Rule #2: Suffer in silence. Rule #3: Never speak unless spoken to. There were a hundred thousand more where that came from, and each had been pounded into his brain constantly. Hiding his pain became a reflex now.
Chakal approaches him and he resists the urge to scoot away from him. He kneeled down and unlocks the shackle easily, but gives no sign about why it was on in the first place. The makeshift knife he made is finished and hidden away under his pillow. Not the best hiding place, but it works. Now all he needs is a clear shot of his neck without him wearing the medal of everlasting life... there was only one way he could do that. He follows Chakal as the older man goes back to the bed. He turns around when they're pretty close, hoists Joaquin up, and throws him forcefully onto the bed. He lands awkwardly on the bed and bed frame. His head smacks had on the metal and his vision goes spotty for a moment.
In those few moment Chakal has already managed to strip off Joaquin's ratty old servant clothes, as well as his own slightly cleaner but bloodstained clothes. His damned shirt is still on though. Joaquin leaned up and Kissed him quickly before beginning to slide his hands up Chakal's stomach. He had done this enough times to know cooperation was the best option. He grinded against him, hips jutting up and hands roaming. He just needed to get that damned shirt off-!
Chakal sits back suddenly and pulls the tattered shirt off over his head, tossing it and the Medal onto the floor, before leaning back down to continue on their eager touching.
Joaquin has other ideas.
trying to act casual, he slips his hand beneath his pillow, searching for the spike while simultaneously trying to keep Chakal occupied. His hands grasp something cold and he knows he had to act fast- if Chakal had any time to reach his shirt then Joaquin was dead for sure. He pulls Chakal down for another kiss before making his move. He swings his makeshift weapon with all the energy he didn't have. It punctures easily and he lifts it again and stabs down again... and again, and again... Chakal rears back in pain before throwing his razor-sharp metal hands around. He managed to catch Joaquin's face and stomach, but soon his frantic fighting slows to a stop. His body grows heavy with dead weight, and blood pools on the bed.
Joaquin pushes him to the other side of the bed and sits up. He lets the knife slip out of his hands and onto the bed softly. He curls up into a ball and stares at the man across from him with bated breath. Logically he knew Chakal was dead. The medals soft green glow could be seen across the room, and too much blood was decorating the bed for his heart to still keep beating... but Joaquin was still scared that by some big cosmic joke Chakal was alive. So he sat there, curled into a ball, staring until the throbbing from his wounds grew too painful to ignore.
His stomach wound wasn't bad. It hurt like a bitch, and was in a spot that would take long to heal, but it wasn't bad. The worst was his face. More specifically, his eye. Chakal had torn right through the delicate skin and muscle, and no matter how hard he tried, the mess was bloody and unsalvageable. He couldn't exactly walk to the medic at the moment, so he would have to remove it himself. One clean-cut later and he was done. He fetches the simple first aid kit from Chakal's bedside table and begins to wrap himself up. Chakal had specifically brought that in for him. He knew sometimes Joaquin had small cuts that were exposed to infection, and he wanted to decrease the chances of Joaquin dying. Ironic, huh?
Fully wrapped and healthy as possible, he began to search around for new clothes. His others had unfortunately been caught in a spray of blood. He spots Chakal's clothes first, Rumpled on the floor or wadded into a ball, He reaches down and wraps his fingers around the shirt first before suddenly throwing it back down once he caught sight of the medal. That thing had fucked up his mind... after he had first been brought down here, he had begun to go through the symptoms of withdrawals. Shaking, hallucinations, paranoia, the irrevocable, undeniable rage he had felt... it was one of the worst experiences of his life. Not to mentions what it did to him while he was wearing it! The sudden dark thought, the need to be the best, the arrogance, etcetera, etcetera. Joaquin never wanted to touch that thing ever again, but he couldn't just leave it here...
He takes a step away from the clothes and decides he'll cross that bridge when he gets to it.
He eventually does find some clothes. Chakals old ones. The pants are an off-white color and fit him almost to a t, but the shirt is too big and hangs off his frame awkwardly. It's dark brown and complements his skin tone nicely. There's a spot of what looks like blood on it, but Joaquin decided it's fine. He also manages to dig up a pair of black boots and a small burlap sack perfect for the Medal. He delicately unpins it from the shirt and drops it in easily. it calls to him when he touches it, but he ignores it.
He fetches the keys on Chakal's pants and unlocks the doors that he stores his precious swords in. He may trust Joaquin to a degree, but not enough to leave weapons lying about in the open. He surprised to see the other weapons- guns, throwing knives, bombs... Chakal had never brought anything other than his swords to fights before. Joaquin would have broken into this sooner if he had realized the other weapons it stored. absent-mindedly he begins to take all the weapons and one-by-one strap them to his person until he was almost ten pounds heavier. Another thirty pounds and he'll weigh as much as he did when he first got here.
He steps up to the door leading out and his fingers brush the knob. He had to get out there and kill every Bandido in there. If he took out enough of them, then some of the many other slaves would be free... and if he killed them all, then he could walk out with them. He wasn't sure he was going to be able to fight with his ruined depth perception, but hell he was going to try.
He was getting out or he was going to die trying.
I want to say thank you to everyone who reviewed! Enjoy :3
I do not own The Book of Life. Jorge Gutierrez does.
