Chapter 15
Duelling
Disclaimer: I do not own Sands, although I wish with all my might that I did.
Rating: A strong R for language and violence and disturbing things overall
Summary: The time has come. Sands faces the madness within.
Author's Note: This is a *very* dark chapter. Please please be warned.
****
El was dead.
He had killed El.
Sands flung himself away from the body, trying to put as much distance between it and himself as he could. Too soon the wall caught him at his back, and he turned around, pressing himself into the corner.
He shook his head, desperately trying to negate the truth. "No," he whispered. "No."
The voice within laughed. Looks like it's just you and me from now on, kiddo.
No wonder no one had come running at the sounds of the struggle. No one knew there was any reason to come running. El had gotten free from his captors and come back here for a rescue, in that annoyingly selfless manner he had.
And you killed him! The voice howled with joy. You finally did it! Took you long enough, but you finally did it. I'm proud of you!
El was dead.
He would just let the cartels take him now. Let the casino people stand him on the platform and sell him to the highest bidder. What did it matter anymore? There could be no life for him after this. What was he supposed to do now? Return to Culiacan and tell Chiclet that he had killed the mariachi?
It's like this, Chiclet. I am a very fucked up person. And I've never known anyone like El before. I don't understand him, and why he does the things he does. I don't understand why anyone would do things for me. So you see, Chiclet, I never once thought that he would be coming back here for me. It just never occurred to me. So when he walked in that door, I thought he was one of the bad guys, and I killed him. I didn't even hesitate. I just...killed him.
Oh god. Oh god. He could just see the betrayed look on the kid's face at hearing such a speech. The boy would walk away and never have anything to do with him again. And who could blame him?
He drew up his knees and rested his forehead on them. He thought he was making a sound, some kind of anguished keening, but he couldn't hear anything, so he couldn't be sure.
El was dead.
It wasn't possible. He had never known anyone as alive as El Mariachi. El had more passion than any two people put together. He had strength, courage, and a streak of nobility that would have been right at home on a knight in the Crusades. He had almost no sense of humor, but an amazing ability to see the good in all things. A musician's ability, a poet's talent.
How could that man be dead?
El was the first person in all his life who had made him feel like he had a reason for existing. Like there was a reason to get up in the morning and carry on with his sorry life. El was proud and sometimes arrogant, but El made him feel safe. El kissed him at night and made his body come alive until sometimes he thought he would fly apart with emotion. El made him feel hope -- for himself, and for the future. When he was in El's arms, there were no voices in his head telling him that he was crazy, or worthless. When he was with El, everything felt...right.
He liked El. He respected El. He trusted El. He...
What?
You love him, don't you?
I told you once before, there is no such thing as love.
True.
But....
I think I could have learned to love you, El. If only I had been given more time. If only you had been there to help me. I came so close, I think. And now I'll never know.
The voice in his head went wild with glee. Listen to this! Oh my god, I didn't think you could sink any lower, but listen to you! Look at you!
So what? he snarled at it. Fuck you. No one wants you, but El wanted me. That's more than you'll ever know.
This made the voice pause. Really? it asked slyly. Are you sure about that? Sure you don't want me here? Sure you don't need me?
I'm sure.
Better think carefully about that one. Because when Sanchez and his men get their hands on you, you'll be crying for me all too soon, and we both know it. They'll make what Barillo did to you look like a papercut by comparison. And you'll be screaming and pleading, and guess what, fuckmook? I won't be there. You'll be on your own.
Well, what did it matter? Yeah, they would kill him, and his last few days alive would be ones of screaming horror, but how was that so different from his life now?
"Fine with me," he said, lifting his head from his knees. Just a little, and slowly. It hurt too much to do otherwise. "I don't want you around anyway."
Yeah, right. How many times have I heard that one before? And every time there's trouble, who do you come crying to, to save you? Me!
But that wasn't true. He did not ask for the voice's help. He had not, in years. It was just there, whenever things happened. And sometimes even when they didn't. Sometimes it was just there, delighting in its chance to take control and sow chaos in the world. It was the voice that had said, That spill just cost you your life, before shooting Belini and the unfortunate waitress. It was the voice that had urged him to think about taking the payoff money meant for General Marquez. It had been born in a time of trauma and chaos, and it reveled in those things. It lived for them.
"I don't need you anymore," he said. The words were tinny and distant. "There's no need for you."
Yeah? El isn't here to protect you anymore. Besides, he was getting pretty sick of you by the end. He was awfully tired of bending over backwards for you and all your messed-up shit. I think he was getting ready to kick you out on your ass.
"That's not true," he said. But he knew it was. A man could only take so much, and El was hardly the most patient of men to begin with. It was truly a wonder that the mariachi had put up with him for as long as he had.
And by the way, just what do you really think is going to happen when those cartel men get their hands on you, on pretty little you?
"No," he moaned. That was his own deep-seated fears talking. Men like his Uncle Tommy, like Marco of the cartel, were few and far between. The voice was just playing on his fears.
You go ahead and keep telling yourself that, if it helps. The truth is, you need me, and you know it. You don't have to like it – hell, you know how I feel about you – but you do have to accept it.
Did he? Did he really? There were dangers in the world, no doubt about that. There were sick fucks out there like Uncle Tommy and Boston. But he could take care of himself. He had proven that time and again. He did not need anyone's help.
Besides, you keep telling me to go away...where the fuck do you think I'm going, Einstein? I'm you! I'm not going anywhere!
Oh god, it was right. Where could it go? How was he ever going to escape from it?
Maybe, maybe...maybe there was no escape. Maybe he had had it wrong all this time. Maybe the best thing to do was to let the voice win. Maybe he just had to stop fighting. Maybe then all the pain and confusion would go away.
Maybe then he would finally know peace.
Slowly, Sands lowered himself to the floor. He lay very still.
All right then. You win. I give up.
He waited. He wondered what it would be like. If he would still be able to feel, and hear, and know what was happening to him. Or if it would be like dying, and his conscious mind would just cease to exist.
And from somewhere deep within, in that place where resided all his secretmost yearnings, came a new voice. This one was different from the other voice, the one he hated. This voice sounded...familiar somehow.
Don't, it said.
Don't do it, the voice said mournfully. If you do, he will take control, and he will never let you out again.
He knew that voice. It was himself. Seven-year old Sheldon. The innocent child he had once been. The child who had ceded control to the monster in his head in exchange for protection.
"You're still here," he gasped aloud, unable to hear the words at all.
I never left, whispered the child. You just couldn't hear me before.
"What do I do?" he cried. "What do I do? Help me!"
You know.
"No, I don't!" he cried. "Help me! Tell me what to do!" The need to be rid of the voice was overpowering. He had never felt such loathing before, such atavistic revulsion. He had to get that thing out of his head, he had to, he had to.
You know what to do.
And he did.
He pulled himself painfully up to his knees. He crawled forward on his elbows and knees, his head hanging. Every step hurt, but what did it matter? Nothing mattered anymore, except exorcising himself of the demon within.
What are you doing? demanded the voice of his madness.
"None...of your fucking...business," he panted.
There. There was El's body. He let his fingers brush over El's chest until they found the scorpion dagger. The dagger that had once belonged to El.
He pulled it free, having to tug hard when the blade got hung up on El's breastbone. It finally came loose with a grisly squeal of metal on bone that he felt more than heard.
Sands raised the bloody point to his face.
What are you doing?
With his left hand he removed his sunglasses. With his right, he placed the point of the dagger at the base of one empty eyesocket.
"You're me. There's no escaping," he said, breathing hard with terror and wild, desperate hope. "That means we have to live with each other, asshole. And it means that one of us has got to be in charge." He pressed in with the blade. "And that person is going to be me. You savvy?"
You won't!
"Try me, fucker!" he snapped. "Cartel's going to have me in a day or two. I'm already a dead man. So you go on, try me."
Blood ran freely down his face. He supposed he ought to be in pain, but he could not feel anything. There was no pain. Only a deep exhilaration.
You can't shut me up forever! the voice shouted furiously.
"Maybe not, but I'm willing to bet you can give it a good try."
You're not strong enough. You'll never make it!
"Wanna bet?" He dug the blade deeper.
What are you doing? You're crazy!
"I know," Sands laughed. In the next instant his voice dropped, became low and cold. "But I think, not anymore."
You need me! The voice threw images at him, things he had not let himself think of in years, rotting memories from the past that made him recoil with shame and fear. "No," he moaned. "Stop."
You see? You can't do it on your own! You need me!
The mental onslaught continued. There was his six-year old self, huddled in the hall while his father shouted at his mother who just stared back with sedative-glazed eyes. There was his seven-year old self, cowering in terror from a hand reaching for him. There was Ajedrez, sitting down at that table. You really didn't see it coming, did you? There was Barillo. We must make sure that does not happen again.
"No," he pleaded. The knife sagged in his hand, the bloody tip trembling downward.
The voice just laughed, and threw more at him, decaying memories dredged up from the fetid swampland where it lived.
Barillo. Belinda Harrison. A thick Boston accent and a cold gun. Hey, it's Shelll-don! Uncle Tommy. You know what happens to bad boys, don't you? They get punished. Now come sit on my lap.
A drill. Dr. Guevara. It's kind of hard for me to tell because I'm having a very bad day.
I can't see! Oh god, I can't see!
Look out there! It's a fucking coup d'etat!
I can't see fuckmook! I have no eyes!
Wait!
He drew in a shaky breath. Wait. Stop.
Because that memory, that nightmare moment in the cab, that was not so bad.
Why?
Because he had not been alone then. Someone had been with him.
Who?
Chiclet.
The swarm of images faltered. He heard the voice snarling in rage, but he barely noticed.
Chiclet.
Thoughts of Chiclet led inexorably to thoughts of El.
He had good things to remember too.
And that was it, wasn't it? The horrible things the voice wanted him to remember? They were just memories, after all. They had happened in the past. They could not hurt him anymore.
He felt his strength return. "No! I never needed you!" he shouted. "You made me think that, but I never! Now go away, and leave me alone!"
You can't! shouted the voice.
"I don't need you!" he screamed.
The voice gave one last shriek of hatred, then it was gone.
The dagger fell from his hand. It clattered on the floor.
For the first time in thirty-five years, there was only silence in Sands' head. Just before he passed out, he thought he had never heard anything more beautiful.
****
He could not have been out for long, because when he woke, he was still bleeding. He rolled onto his back. "Fuck."
The sound of his own voice was still muffled, but it was clearer than it had been. He was getting his hearing back.
For a long time he just lay there, listening to the far-off sound of his own breathing. Blood ran down the side of his face and pooled on the floor beneath him. The pain was like ice, freezing him all the way through. He wondered how badly he had cut himself, then decided he didn't want to know.
After a while it occurred to him that he needed to get up. He needed to get moving. He needed a plan. He had killed his best friend today – his only friend – but the world still went on. Luis Sandoval and the rest of Casino del Suerte still planned to auction him off to the cartels.
He had to get out of here.
Slowly, he sat up. He felt carefully for his sunglasses and put them on. Immediately the lens on the right side was coated in blood, and he smiled bitterly. Deja vu, folks. The Day of the Dead all over again.
Now the dagger. He let his fingers tap along the floor, searching for the knife. It had belonged to El. It had taken El's life. He could not leave it here. He would keep it always, a reminder of what he had once had.
His fingers brushed something, and he drew back instinctively. Then he reached out again.
Cool skin. An arm. A wrist. A slack left hand.
He gathered El's hand in his. "I'm sorry," he said. He raised El's hand to his lips and kissed the smooth skin. "I'm so sorry."
He laid El's hand back on the floor, gently. In death he could touch El with all the gentleness he had found so hard to summon in life. El had touched him that way, but he had rarely returned the favor. He wished forlornly now that he had been stronger, braver, not so fucked up. If only he had realized what he had had.
If only...
The dagger lay close by. He slid it back into its sheath in his boot without bothering to wipe the blood off the blade. He turned toward the door.
And it hit him.
The smoothness of the skin on El's hand.
A shudder of hope worked through him. He whirled around, scrabbling at the floor, searching for that hand again.
There. There! He ran his fingers over the palm of the man's hand. The man's left hand.
The skin was smooth.
No scar.
Not El.
This was not El.
A low groan escaped him. It wasn't El.
El was not dead.
Overcome with a gratitude so powerful it left him weak and trembling in its wake, Sands bowed his head to the floor and just laughed.
****
After a time he realized his laughter had become semi-hysterical sobs, and he forced himself to stop. His sinuses burned with a prickly pressure he had felt only twice before – once in Puerto Vallarta, and once again when Chiclet had come back to him after the disaster at Christmas. It was the burn of a body that wanted to cry, but no longer could.
"No time for that now," he panted. Plenty of time later, if he wanted. Hell, a lot had happened here tonight. And there was still a reckoning in his future. The madness was silent now, but not gone. Not by a long shot. And when it came back – as he knew it would – it was going to be really pissed.
"Not now, though. Okay? Please?" He sat up slowly. Oh Christ he hurt, mostly in his head and shoulder. Blood streamed down the right side of his face, but strangely, there was not much pain. There was only that freezing sensation. He knew this to be a bad sign, but at the moment he could not bring himself to care.
"You still in there, little Sheldon?"
Nothing. All the voices were silent. That was good.
"Okay. We're getting the fuck out of here."
Now that he knew the body on the floor did not belong to El, he had no qualms about going through its pockets. He took the man's gun, but there was no key to the handcuffs. There was, however, a key to the door.
"That'll do just fine," he grinned.
And then he stopped. His sense of self-preservation shrilled at him to get out, get out now, but he was curious. He had to know.
Slowly, he explored the remains of the dead man's face again. This time, now that he was calm, he could feel the differences between this man and El. This man's nose was broader than El's, and there was a cleft to his chin that El did not have.
And El would not have shot at him. El would have hit him, sure, anything to get him off, but El would not have shot at him.
Sitting here right now, it seemed crazy that he had mistaken this man for El.
"Crazy, yeah," he laughed humorlessly. "That's me."
He crawled over to the door, lurching forward on his elbows and knees in short little steps. His shoulder screamed with pain every time he moved his right arm forward. When he reached the door, he used the barrel of the gun to investigate. He wanted to postpone as long as possible the moment when he would have to stand up.
The door was still open. Just barely ajar, but open.
Sands grinned. "Ready or not, motherfuckers, here I come."
He pushed himself up to his feet, trying to keep his balance so he wouldn't fall into the wall at his right. Whatever was wrong with his shoulder, it was really unhappy right now. And the room was growing steadily colder. Or maybe that was just him, growing steadily colder, the ice spreading through him from that hole in his face where once upon a time in Mexico his right eye had lived and died.
I'm not staying here. I can't.
No one responded. The voice was still silent.
He eased the door open and shuffled out into the hall. The collar of his shirt clung clammily to his throat, soaked with the blood that ran down his face and neck. He held the gun in both hands, down low, cocked and ready to use.
It was hard to keep his balance. He ended up leaning heavily against the left-hand side of the wall, stumbling along it. The high-pitched ringing in his ear was fading, but it was still there, obscuring his ability to pick out sounds and use them to know what was happening around him.
So when the suits found him, he couldn't really claim to be surprised.
"Hey! Stop right there!" The shout came from ahead of him, along with at least two sets of footsteps. It was hard to tell. A thin roaring had joined the ringing in his ears.
He didn't hesitate. He was valuable property to them; they wouldn't shoot.
He, however, had no such scruples.
He shot the man who had called out, and at least one other. Footsteps scrambled along the floor as they hurried to get out of the way, ducking into doorways or behind corners, or whatever the hell they were doing. A gun cocked, and immediately a voice shouted, "No! Don't shoot him!"
"That's right," he said. "You just listen to him." He sidled forward again.
"Holy shit, look at his face," one of them breathed. "What happened to him?"
A footfall sounded behind him. Just one. And it had to be close, if had heard it at all. Snarling with frustrated fury, he spun around, bringing up the gun. A thick bolt of pain slipped through his skull, and he swayed.
Someone tackled him. From behind. They had snuck up on him, making him turn around, and then the ones who had cowered in front of him had attacked from what was now the rear. He was knocked to the floor, yelling and cursing. "Fuckers! Get off me!"
Hands grabbed at him, holding him down. His right shoulder screamed in protest. Someone tore his sunglasses off. "Oh my god," someone said.
He wanted to keep fighting, but he had come to the end of his strength. He slumped, struggling no more against their hands.
"Get the doctor," someone ordered. Footsteps hurried away.
The doctor. No! Fear gave him new strength, and he twisted in their grip. "No! Let me go!"
Someone planted a knee in his back. Hands gripped his shoulders, and he screamed at the pain that shot all the way up his right arm, leaving his fingers tingling.
Another firm hand held his head down. "Stay still."
The doctor. Oh Christ. The doctor.
A new set of footsteps came forward. "Here."
"Good," the man holding him down said.
He made one last effort to get free, and the man holding him down lost patience. A fist struck the back of his head.
The last thing he felt was the prick of the needle in his neck.
****
Time passed. He didn't know how much. He measured the passage of time by the way the sounds of the world grew steadily clearer. And as they did, so too did the terrible pain in his head. It was the Day of the Dead all over again, all right. And this time he had no one to blame but himself.
But the voice in his head remained silent.
He wondered dimly where he was. He lay on a bed, a cot, really. A fresh new bandage covered the ruin of his right eyesocket. Occasionally something plastic bumped his mouth, and he drank. One time he was awake to feel the prick of the needle, but mostly he just slept.
Finally there came the sound of approaching footsteps. Hands hooked under his arms, pulling him to his feet. "It's show time," someone said. "Are you going to give us any trouble?"
Trouble. He supposed he would, if he was capable of it. Unfortunately, he wasn't.
The hands shook him. "Well?"
He made a bleary sound that they must have taken for a negative, because the shaking stopped.
His hands were pulled around behind him. His shoulder shrilled in protest, and he tried to pull away. The cuffs were cold about his wrists. "Don't," he gasped.
"What is it?" asked one of the men.
"My shoulder," he breathed. Ah, that he should have sunk so low, begging the enemy for help.
Well, who else was there to ask?
"Cuff his hands in front of him," said the man.
"What difference does it make?" asked another. "He'll be cartel fodder in an hour anyway."
"Don't be an asshole," snapped the first man. "Just do it."
The second man gave an exasperated grunt, but did as he was told. Sands slumped in relief. His shoulder still hurt, but the pain was less when his hands were in front of him.
"No trouble now," said the first man.
"No trouble," he repeated.
They started walking for the door. He went with them docilely.
El, if you're out there, and you're not too sick of me, it sure would be nice to see you again.
******
Author's Note: Here is where I must sincerely apologize for the end of chapter 14. But you see, it had to end there. For chapter 15 to work, you all to be in the same dark place Sands was. You had to believe El was dead. I'm so very sorry for being cruel, and I hope you all don't hate me, but I very much needed you to be there right alongside Sands. I only hope I accomplished that without alienating any readers. My apologies if I have.
And to everyone who reviewed or e-mailed to say they had faith in me, you cannot know how touched I was by your words. Thank you all. I hope I have not let you down.
Rebecca