Author's Note – this was actually a fun chapter for me to write, mainly because I spent part of my time looking up Spanish poetry, which was fun. Just happened to love the poem in this chapter, and had to give it to you in both English and Spanish form. Without the original Spanish, I'm not sure it's quite as enjoyable. It really struck a chord in my about how Sands must be feeling right now.
AN2 – got the soundtrack today. Love it. That's all there is to say. Just love it.
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Trapped. He was trapped. The lack of light was pressing all the air from his chest, weighing down his arms and legs, slowing his mind, curdling his wits. But it did nothing to dampen his hearing.
The voices. The y were going to drive him out of his mind, which by now might be a relief. Anything to make the voices shut the hell up. He couldn't even identify half of them or what they were saying. But against the audio background provided by the incomprehensible murmurs were other, clearer voices.
Those were the ones he would have given anything to ignore, to silence. Accusing voices, pleading voices. Voices raised in anger, shaking with fear and pain, letting out a last surprised gasp before dying. Mocking voices, condemning voices, voices taunting the great Sands who now found his every strength, every tactic, every defense bound as tightly as his sight.
And then, rising above all the other voices came his own, the voice that had ultimately betrayed him. He heard himself explaining his entire plan to Ajedrez, heard himself explaining the glitches in his plan to the higher-ups. Heard himself talking, walking himself through his self-proclaimed, fool-proof plan. And what if the planner is a fool? Heard his voice tinged with desperation and madness after emerging from the cartel's lair. How he hated that voice.
He couldn't take it anymore. If he listened any longer, he'd awake to find himself babbling nightmares and nonsense. But how did he wake up?
Open your eyes Sheldon. The madness in his voice was mocking him again. Oh, wait, you can't, can you? Poor Sheldon. Can't wake up, can't open his eyes. Stuck with me for company. Come play with me, Sheldon. Poor, poor, weak, helpless, stupid, Sheldon. He felt a cool hand gently stoking his brow and heard the soft, mournful voice of a woman saying,
"No tardes, Muerte, que muero; Do not linger, Death, for I am dying;
ven porque viva contigo; come so I may live with you;
quiéreme, pues que te quiero, love me, because I love you . . . .
Sands woke with a start only to find more darkness.
It was the third hour after dawn by the time Sands awoke. Tess had used that time well, having changed the dressings on not only her wound, but on most of her patient's as well. She had left his face alone, wanting some of the sensitivity to go down before she tended it. Or perhaps she was waiting for the rest of the drugs to work their way through his system so she could give him more effective painkillers. He should have awoken at least once by now. There couldn't have been that much of the drug in his system or he never would have passed out in the first place. Even with her doubts though, she decided it was best for him to sleep, to perhaps find some peace in unconsciousness.
She took his pulse, blood pressure, and temperature. While his blood pressure was a bit lower than she would have like to see it, it was within acceptable limits for a man who had been wounded as severely and who had lost as much blood as he had. However, his temperature had her a bit concerned. It was hovering around 99.0 degrees, which was high for a man who by all rights should still be chilled by shock. She'd have to watch him closely to make sure he didn't develop any infections or a temperature.
All this had only taken an hour or so, but she had done a bit of cleaning, had washed his clothes and set them out to dry. It was unusually warm for October so far, so she thought that they would be dry by noon. After checking on her patient, who was still sleeping, she had washed her hair in the kitchen sink. I wonder if I have any black thread about. Needles I have in plenty, but I'd hate to mend his clothing with catgut.
Idly she wondered when Marcos was going to make an appearance today. If she knew the boy as well as she thought she did, he wouldn't let anything from militia to parents stop him from coming by today. Time to go check on her patient again.
Still asleep. She laid a hand on his forehead, checking to see if his temperature had risen considerably in the last half hour. He was warm, but not near warm enough to start worrying about quite yet. As she sat on the edge of the bed she roller her head back and forth, stretching her neck and shoulder muscles. Last night had been fairly uncomfortable, but productive; every one of 'Giovanni's' stitches were still in place.
She thought about the man she had found yesterday and compared him to the stranger in her bed. One of the many poems she had memorized to help quell the voice in her mind rose to her lips at the thought of that black and blood clad gunman. Still stroking his forehead, she recited, in Spanish; "Do not linger, Death, for I am dying; come so I may live with you; love me, because I love you –"
Apparently her words had reached the ears of the sleeping man, for Sands woke with a start, nearly making her scream. She jerked her hand back and stood up. slowly backing away from the bed, her heart in her throat, she asked, "Señor, are you well?" He started coughing when he tried to reply, his throat and vocal chords too dry to make any sound. She reached for the water bottle by her bedside, "Here, drink some water, it'll help." He held out a hand and she placed the bottle in front of it.
Sands drank from the bottle gratefully. Anything that would stop the coughs, stop the pain exploding in his head each time his lungs forced air out his throat. The water didn't taste as if it were straight from the tap – it was free of the chemicals pumped into the city's water supply. Despite those chemicals, he had avoided drinking any of the tap water here. Yes, he had gotten the required shots before coming out here, but he didn't want to take any unnecessary risks.
Right. No unnecessary risks. Though he was awake, the voice still mocked him, although not as loudly. Willing himself to concentrate on something else, he lowered the bottle from his lips and asked his doctor, "Is that how you break bad news to all your patients, or am I a special case?"
If he could have seen Tess, he would have seen her blush, abashed at being caught at what she considered a childish pastime. "No." The word got caught in her throat; Sands heard her clear it. Trying again, she said, "No. I was simply passing time until you woke up." He heard her approach the bed again, her steps hesitant as if she saw him as a wounded animal who would lash out at her at the slighted provocation or opportunity. He liked that idea, that even lying down in a bed he was still dangerous.
Tess saw the man smirk and knew it was because of her hesitance. Gathering her courage she quickened her step, taking the now empty bottle from his hand. Turning to throw it in the wastebasket she said, "You should lie down again. You're still weak after losing so much blood yesterday. I doubt your body has recovered."
Damn the girl, she was right. He could feel the pain taking prominence in his mind, drowning out the last echoes of that voice that haunted the darkness that now surrounded him waking and sleeping. While he no longer had to try to ignore that voice, he now wanted to take his mind off the pain. "What was that poem you were reciting?"
"Umm . . . that was part of 'Dos Canciones' by Jorge Manrique. He's one of my favorite Spanish poets."
"Grim subject material."
She was surprised, not that she was sure why. She hadn't thought he knew Spanish for some reason, but surely he had to have some knowledge of the language to get into so much trouble with the cartel. Most of their written intelligence was coded Spanish, and most of the members didn't even know English. She saw he was waiting for a reply of some kind. "Yes, well, a favorite nonetheless."
The American sighed. "Well, don't let me stop you. I'd hate to have to look up how it ended for myself, especially since that might take me awhile." When he didn't hear his hostess say anything, he commented, "What? Scared of a private recital, niña? Or don't you know the rest?" If she wasn't going to talk, perhaps he could entertain himself with pissing her off.
It was working to. Tess was glaring daggers at the man, not that it was having any affect on him. She supposed it was hard to intimidate a man who couldn't tell you were trying to. Why don't you just humor the man? Afraid of admitting you need help to ignore me?
No, I just don't want to. That's why. Go mind your own business.
You are my business, dearie. Determined to show her know-it-all mind that it did not know everything about her, she started where she had left off. " . . .for with your coming –"
"From the beginning. And in the original Spanish if you don't mind."
Tess sighed and started from the beginning. Within seconds she was lost in the language and feeling of the poem.
"No tardes, Muerte, que muero; Do not linger, Death, for I am dying;
ven porque viva contigo; come so I may live with you;
quiéreme, pues que te quiero, love me, because I love you,
que con tu venida espero for with your coming I hope
no tener guerra conmingo. not to struggle with myself.
Remedio de alegra vida There is not, by any means,
no le hay por ningún medio, a remedy to make life happy
porque mi grave herida because my grave wound
es de tal parte venida has come from such a place
que eres tú sola remedio. that only you can be my remedy.
Ven aquí, pues, ya que muero; Come, then, because I am dying;
búscame, pues que te sigo; look for me, because I follow you;
e con tu venida espero and with your coming I hope
no tener vida conmigo. not to keep life in myself."
Only after she was done, did Tess consider that might not have been the best thing to say to her patient. It must have struck too close to home for him at the moment. She knew that it did for her at times, that she had memorized the poem thinking that should she ever wish to commit suicide, it would have made a lovely parting statement, a fitting epithet. She couldn't tell what the American was thinking, and she wasn't particularly eager to find out.
Before she could inquire as to the state of his psyche, there was a loud knocking at her back door, a kind of desperate pounding meant to wake the very dead from their graves if that's what it took to capture attention. "Crap," Tess muttered. She sincerely hoped that it was Marcos at the back door in a state of extreme excitement. She wasn't sure she could take anything else being heaped on her plate right now.
Crouching down, she removed two of 'Giovanni's' guns from their holsters. Making sure they had ammunition, she gave one to him and took the other for herself. "I'm going to go see who is trying so enthusiastically to get my attention. Try not to shoot me. It would be a rather abrupt ending to a short day." He flipped her off.
Holding the gun down at her side, she approached the kitchen where the backdoor was. It was a small house so this didn't take long. She sidled along the walls, trying to remain out of sight of the small window in the door. Carefully she peeked out it, blows falling on the wood the entire time. "Shit," she breathed. Louder she called out to her guest, "It's just Marcos."
She opened the door and let Marcos come in along with his three siblings. The two middle children were crying, the youngest a babe, too young to realize anything was wrong. Tess felt her stomach sinking as she met Marcos' eyes. They were far too serious for one so young. "What is it Marcos? What has happened?"
"My parents . . . they're dead. Our home isn't safe. Can we stay here?"
