Gringa - In the Clutches of a Ruthless Drug Lord (17 page)

             
I feel so drained, so broken and
tears
are already
sting
ing
my eyes. But I know I can’t afford the luxury of tears now. Don’t want to be seen as low hanging fruit – easy target
, s
oft.
             

             
‘Get the fuck out of my
way
!’
I yell.

             
She’s
looks at me with wide eyes - not the reaction she was expecting from me. 

             
I’m
momentarily taken aback at my anger.
I’m a fucking bubbling volcano right now.

    
             
Santana quickly regains her composure. ‘Ah! Gringa is
a
very brave,’ she says, as two perfect eyebrows disappear behind a blunt fringe. ‘Is a good move, acting so daring, so
valiente
. Diablo is eh, how do you say it – fascinate with you? But the question is
puta
, for how long?’

    
             
‘Wha …?’

             
‘You spent last night with him? That don
’t
mean nothing. I’m his wiiimon, his wife. I share his bed. He will never invite you to his bed. That means something, no?’

    
             
His “wiiimon” his “wife”?
W
hat the
fuck
is t
his bitch rambling on about? I want nothing to do with that scumbag and here she was, actually trying to
dissuade
me from being with him? Claiming him as hers?

   
             
‘Are you fucking crazy?’ I shriek. ‘First of all, you are his
sister
. That means you don’t get to fuck your brother now matter how ... how
handsome
he is
.
Puta
.’

   
             
She waves
away my
chastising
w
ith a flick of her hand. 

   
             
‘And ... and this is a big
And
;
I don’t wanna share his bed or
have
him in my bed for that matter. I wanna go home. I hate him, I hate this place
, I hate
you
. Get it?’

    
             
For a brief moment I see confusion in her eyes.
‘He will tire of you soon, you know,’ she says, arms akimbo. ‘Then he will ...’ She runs her finger slowly across her neck, then winks.

    
             
‘Gee, golly, I can’t wait.’ 

    
             
‘Neither can I,’ she says in all earnest. ‘Neither can
I.
Satan
!’

    
             
‘Good. We’ve cleared the air. Now get the fuck out of my way!’

    
             
She chuckles mirthlessly and steps aside, gesturing dramatically for me to pass.

             
I shake my head. Santana is a beautiful, striking – tall, slim, long brown hair that curls at her waist, burnished skin that’s probably the envy of every gringa in the world, almond-shaped, green, liquid eyes - a cross betw
ee
n Sheena queen of the jungle and a young Salma Hayak. Really exotic.

    
             
Next to her, I feel
pasty
,
dull
and frankly, I can’t understand Diablo’s fascination with me. Could be cataracts. There’s no way he could have 20/20 vision. I mean, I’m okay in the looks department - medium height, long dark blonde hair, medium built,
cloudy
blue eyes – nothing special, really. So as I said – summon an eye doctor to Tana-Mera. Pronto.

      
             
I spend the next couple of hours in my room tensing each time I hear a sound.

             
Around midnight, Diablo enters my room, whips off his shirt and
fucks
me again in the dark.

    
             
This time to cope, I work on a murder plot - his. I fantasise about slicing his neck as he fucks me. There is blood all over his chest, but not a single drop on me for some reason. I hate blood. It makes me queasy.

    
             
Back to Bastido and my fantasy
- h
e clutches his severed jugular with both hands and gurgles. The look in his eye is an admixture of disbelief and admiration. How could someone as fragile as gringa be so strong? How could someone as astute and insightful as him have missed the knife hidden under my pillow?

   
             
As his thrusting intensifies, so does my imagination.

   
             
In my mind, blood seeps slowly down his bare tattooed chest. I shove him off me and then slice off his nuts and he cries out in pain, but there is be no sound. Then I grab his gun, barricade the door and start shooting anyone that …

    
             
He rolls off before I can conclude my fantasy. Again, I shower till the water runs cold and again, I do not cry.
Tears simmer but I
refuse to.  

  
             
Anyway, it was a little less terrifying tonight as there was no razor sharp blade next to my stomach threatening me with a caesarean section each time his thrusts shook my unyielding body. (Except for the blade in my imagination – it was under my pillow and dangerously sharp.)   

Diablo’s unwanted midnight visits
take
their
toll
.
I barely eat and I no longer leave my room. Maria and Rosa are concerned with my failing spirits and attempt to entice me out of my bed with goodies they bake especially for me
and all sorts of other stuff
.

             
‘
You
must take a walk, Senorita,’
Rosa
pleads. ‘Walk is good for you.
It is good for the … exercise.
’

    
             
I
nod but
continue sleeping. Later,
she
brings me a pile of outdated magazines to read. But they’re in Spanish. However, I find an unused notebook between them and
I start to journal my thoughts.

14 July 2002

    
             
Diablo is a monster. Wait; make that an ugly, hideous, disgusting, revolting mother of a
freak
. Totally repulsive. Loathe him. Hate his stupid, barbaric, ruthless family. Especially his miserable alcoholic mother. Want to slash off his dick and let him die. Hate this place. It’s evil and dark. Want to burn it down with Diablo in it.

             
Austin
, my first love. My Ken doll. Handsome, loving and kind. I forgive him for dumping me and marrying
Paris
. I forgive him for falling under her spell. He’s human – he did what most men do when they see
Paris
. The relationship we had was too good to be true. Beautiful people like him don’t happen to girls like me, but I hanker after him. Still. That’s cos I’m a dumb fuck. Here’s another confession: I love his baby and whenever I hold him, I pretend he’s mine. Mine and Austin’s.
I’m obsessed with
Austin
, I know that.
I need therapy big time
, I know that, but thinking about him and how much I love him gives me the energy to continue.
 

*
             
*
             
*

A week passes and Maria and Rosa, fed up with my blue mood,
kick
me out of my room.

‘Go look at the pretty flowers,’ Maria says.

Having little choice, I
drag myself around the
hillside
. In spite of my mood, it’s hard not to notice

the lush scenery, the
rolling hills
, the crimson poinsettias, the sunshiny marigold and the delightful Dhalias punctuating the lush greenery – stunning,
like one of the postcards I posted a couple of months ago to Madison
and Kelly
, my roommate
s
in Los Angeles.

    
             
There’s a strange smell emanating from the land through. Harsh, but familiar – reminds me of a rock concert. Inhaling deeply, I take a closer look. It’s no shrub, its bloody weed! I can’t believe it. I’m surrounded by acres of Cannabis.

             
Madison
will die of envy when I tell her about my stint in a cannabis plantation. She’s a pot addict.

             
My
stint
. I quickly shake my head dispelling the tiny voice inside my head telling me that this is no stint
;
this is permanent.  

             
Men tending the crops pause for a moment and stare curiously at the stranger wandering in their midst then resume working, leaving me to my exploring.

             
At night, I lie in bed and dread Diablo’s nocturnal visits. What the hell happened to him and Santana and their balcony romps?

             
Anyway, its two weeks since Diablo first came calling and my fantasies are getting a little stale. So tonight, I’m changing my fantasy slightly.

             
Tonight I roofie
the bastard
– slip GHB into his
whisky
, then kill him
. M
ight as well use the drug for something useful other than date rape - like killing a reclusive monster and freeing hundreds of innocent people.
Imagine if all abused women were supplied with GHB (as party of their therapy) to use strictly on their abusers. At least two packs to aid with healing.