Original chapter title, I know. Many thanks to my beta ShelobTinuviel for her help with the beginning of this musing.

The worst thing about having my eyes drilled out is not the blindness. That I can deal with. (That is something with which I can deal?) It's not the dreadful inconveniences caused by it, nor is it the fact that my subscription to Hustler is now a complete fucking waste. The worst part about the whole fiasco was what I had to see just before it happened. A big fuck you, thanks for coming, the lights are going out now.

The drugs they gave me made it nearly impossible to see straight. Ajedrez, Barillo, Guevara – they were all swirls of fleshy colors, except for Barillo the Mummy, now that I think about it. Yet within my trippy vision the drill stood out so clearly in all its shiny, pristine horror. A pink spot on the bottom third of Ajedrez's face twisted into a smirk, and suddenly everything was spinning 'round, right 'round, baby, right 'round...

Now looking back at it (goddamnit, I wish there were fewer idioms which refer to seeing), I wonder if Guevara made that drill just for me. I rather hope so, because then I could feel super-special. Congratulations, Mr. Sands. You've made cartel history by being the first test subject for our new line of torture devices. Please accept this plaque as a token of our gratitude; the original drill will be melted down and made into commemorative coins...

Despite all the drugs, it still hurt, although it was more of a distant pain. Lucky me. I guess it was the psychological aspect of it all; if I didn't actually have to see it coming and then fall into darkness, it wouldn't have been as bad.

I was screaming as it happened. Not that I'd ever tell anyone that, unless maybe they asked specifically, and I was in a good mood, and they were someone I trusted. Which, in essence, means that I'd never tell anyone that. I couldn't help it, really. When I had one good eye remaining and saw the drill descending again, I fucking freaked. No words came out, and I didn't beg, about which I am very glad. But in my mind I was praying to anyone or anything or any deity who cared to listen to me. If Thor or Isis or Satan were to come save me, what the hell – I'd kiss their feet for all eternity, so I figured. For a second I even hoped that El would bust in and shoot the place up, but that little bit of wishful thinking passed quite quickly.

I'm alone, I thought.

Not alone.

Interestingly, at the same time a small part of my mind was thinking, "Well, this is quite an eye-popper." And I wanted to laugh and laugh and laugh, except all that came out was more screaming. Then I thought about whether eyes were slimy but firm on the inside like peeled grapes at a Halloween party, or if they'd just cave in and collapse into a bloody mess.

Icky.

And, well, the rest is history. Congratulations, Mr. Sands...

Review Responses:

vanillafluffy -- Hello again! Heh heh, I don't know. No reason why dear Sands shouldn't like Van Halen ;)