Mommy Issues
Vaas wipes the blood onto the fabric of his cargo jeans. His victim howls in the distance, his bloodied mouth garbling out obscenities and pleas of mercy that he knows he won't give.
"We're going to do this one more fucking time, okay? And believe me, amigo, I really, really, really, hate repeating myself." Vaas sets down the pliers. Teeth decorate the ground beneath him, evidence of his method of interrogation.
He's not fucking around; there had been recent rebellions that have torn areas of the island into war zones. After Hoyt's death, there has been fights regarding the division of power and so far Vaas is having none of it. His crown is mighty heavy this time around; as usual, Hoyt leaves behind a mess for him to clean. If he was alive, he'd muster up the strength to kill him himself.
The man tries to speak, but it comes out distorted because he's spitting out mouthfuls of blood.
"Shh…don't talk. We can find other ways to communicate, yeah?"
The victim moans in pain.
"Trust me, amigo, I'm an understanding guy. I'm not fucking crazy, you know. How about we play a game: You scream for yes, shake your head for no. Let's try it: does it hurt when I do this?"
His thumb pushes in the bullet wound; the man screams in agony.
"See? You're getting the hang of it! How 'bout it?"
Vaas leaves the interrogation compound, wiping the blood and gore from his hands off a filthy rag. The man was weak; he died from the pain before he could even get a few valid answers. That's okay; he's got a few more fuckers lined up; all it takes is for one fuck-up and soon he'll get down to the bottom of it.
But right now, he could do for a beer and some food.
He makes it back to his turf and is greeted by the familiar smells of spices and roasting meat. The Rakyat eye him with fear in their eyes, scrambling to get out of his way; they know better. He comes to the common area where the kids have gathered to dance and sing, flashes of his youth greeting him. He turns around and finds the hairstylist and the cook stirring something in a pot, the hairstylist then moving to turn over some charred pork, her hair tied taught with a rag of sorts.
Seeing women cooking dinner and him not having to scavenge is a pretty good change.
He whistles.
The women freeze and stand at attention, erect and unsure.
"California girl!" he greets with a grin.
"I can't wait to see what you've prepared for me, yeah? I've had a long fucking day and I can't wait to have some food that's got a…a womanly touch."
The darker-skinned woman with the loosely curled hair stiffens.
"Y-y-yes, sir. I've prepared a seafood stew with barbecued pork in a coconut and mango glaze, with…rice and beans. I hope the meal is to your liking."
"Thank you…uh…"
"Carmen, sir."
"Carmen! Now, Carmen, I hope your little friend here helped you and made sure you didn't slave over a hot stove alone…?"
"Oh, no! She's been a very helpful assistant. She even helped prepare the pork."
"Good, good. Dominique!"
Her eyes widen and her eyebrows narrow.
"I can't wait to see what you've done with my room. I've been looking to eat and lie back in a freshly made bed, no?"
"It's…clean. I was on my hands and knees scrubbing at the…mess."
Vaas nods his head.
"Come. I want to see what you've done with it."
Dominique swallows deeply.
"Okay."
When Vaas enters his temple, he notices the smell of death isn't as strong; it's masked with the smell of cheap vodka he pilfered from Hoyt's crew weeks ago. He makes his way to his room and is somewhat satisfied.
Bed made, walls wiped down, drugs untouched, weapons and ammo neatly stacked and tucked away, his porno mags shelved away like valid reading material.
"You did a nice job, girl. Maybe you're useful after all." He flops down on his bed.
"Thank you." Dominique answers, hands behind her back.
"Come here." Vaas pats the bed.
Her eyes widen.
"I'm not going to ask you again, California girl. Or do you want me to come over there and…?"
She sits on the bed with him.
"Did I ever tell you what the…definition of insanity is?"
"No."
"Insanity…is doing the exact…same fucking thing…over and over and over again…expecting shit to change." He grabs a strand of her hair and tucks it behind her ear.
"This whole fucking island is insanity. It's like…we're…we're doing the same thing over and over and over again, you know? Same shit, different day; people die, some California white boy tries to play hero and he always comes back like a fucking cockroach…the fucking cockroach you swore you killed time and time again. Only this time, he's killed your sister, gutted you like a fucking fish, and left like a coward.
"I figured…why the fuck not? Why not put an end to my misery, escape the insanity? Then you and your California friends, come on my fucking island with your big ass boat, your loud music, your fucking liquor and your obnoxious American ways. At least I can respect that you're not trying to play hero, that you're actually fucking useful."
He grabs her hair and pulls her head back. She yelps, trying in vain to pry his hands away, but no avail. Vaas hooks his other arm around her neck and slams her against his chest on the bed, the smell of sweat, denim, and fear wafting in his nose. Dominique thrashes and tries to elbow him, but connects to nothing. She's kicking, screaming and flailing, trying to get him off her; it makes Vaas chuckle.
"You ain't going nowhere; you think you're the first person I had in this position? I could just snap your neck, Dominique. Just like that."
He jerks her head to the side.
"No! No, please, stop!" she shouts. She starts to buck, her face wet with freshly streaming tears.
"I'm going to tell you right now; begging and fighting won't do you any justice."
That did the trick. She falls slack against his body, the soft flesh molding into him.
"Please," she sobs, "please, please, please…not like this. Not like this."
Vaas says nothing; her soft body becomes comforting to him. How long has it been since he held someone this close? It's been so long since he had a womanly touch, a touch that feels familiar and soothing. She's so warm, soft, and her hair smells faintly of artificial coconuts and pineapples; must be the hair products she uses. His hand slides free from her hair and instead cups her curvy middle.
Her begging fades out into white noise; he drifts off into a memory of when he would embrace his mother on a daily basis, before Hoyt and his members came and pillaged them. he remembers the look in her eyes as Hoyt shot her point blank in the head, right in front of him.
He clutches her tighter.
"Sorry I shot your mama, Bambi. But the bitch should've done what I asked. Now, either you make yourself useful and work for me or you can die with her."
Hoyt aims the gun at him.
"Make your choice, child. I don't have all day."
"Mama," he whispers against Dominique's hair.
"Mama, forgive me."
The body on top of him is wracked with sobs.
"Please, please, please…"
"I should've died with you instead. Maybe, Citra and I would've been saved."
"Oh, God…I don't want to die…"
"Shh…shut the fuck up for a second, okay?"
He strokes her middle.
She stifles her sobs and instead convulses.
Vaas holds her for a few seconds more, breathing in her scent.
"You remind me of my mother, you know? With your big, doe-like eyes. They're even the same shade of fucking brown. Fuck, man. I wonder if this is fate's way of telling me something. Telling me to…to…to right my fucking wrongs by her. Maybe that's why I can't kill you so easily, even if I wanted to."
More shuddering and hiccups.
"I'd do anything for her, you know? Kill, steal, hunt, fight, protect. It was enough for her, but not enough for Citra. No, no no no no no please, nothing was enough for Citra. Give her a fucking inch and she wants the whole mile!" his grip tightens.
"I warned that white boy. I told him he was fucked; she wanted him to take my place in that fucked up ritual, those fucked up traditions. My own fucking sister, man. Those fairy tales have been fucking with her head, those goddamn drugs those witch doctors put her on have really fucked her up. She wasn't the baby sister I helped raise; she turned into a fucking monster who's obsessed with folklore that ain't even real.
"The sad part is, after everything she put me through, after all the shit I've sacrificed for her, I still love her. She was family. She was all I had left…she was all I knew back then. I'm empty, you know?"
She stiffens. Vaas takes it as she's understanding.
"Do you believe in fate, hermana?"
"N-no."
"Of course you don't. You Americans, man. Always believing in your fancy cars, your useless money, your boring lives." He snorts.
"But here," his hand reaches out to gesture towards the corridor, "fate is real. Magic is real. Destiny is so real it's staring at you in the fucking face. This island, man. This island will never leave you. You will never leave this island, no matter how many times you try."
He laughs bitterly.
"Gods know I fucking tried."
He releases her. Dominique shoots up, scrambling to the opposite side of the wall, clutching her neck and massaging her scalp. Her big brown eyes lock onto Vaas in fear, confusion, distaste.
He likes it.