As my body strains for air, my father’s voice comes to me.
“Are you going to cry? Are you going to cry like your mama’s pretty boy or face me like a man?”
I’m four years old again, cowering in the corner as my father kicks me repeatedly in the ribs. I know the right answer to his question—I know I need to face him—but I’m scared. I’m so scared. I can feel the wetness on my face, and I know it will make him angry. I don’t mean to cry. I haven’t truly cried since I was a baby, but the pain in my ribs makes my eyes water. If my mother were here, she’d hold me and kiss me, but she doesn’t come near me when my father is in this kind of mood. She’s too afraid of him.
I hate my father. I hate him, and I want to be like him all at once. I don’t want to be scared. I want to be the one with the power, the one everyone’s afraid of.
Rolling up into a little ball, I use the bottom of my shirt to wipe the betraying moisture off my face, and then I get to my feet, ignoring my fear and the ache in my bruised ribs.
“I’m not going to cry.” Swallowing the knot in my throat, I look up to meet my father’s angry gaze. “I’m never going to cry.”
Curses in Arabic. More wetness on my face.
My mind is violently wrenched back to the present as I convulse, gagging and sucking in air when the soaked rag is removed. My lungs expand greedily, and through the ringing in my ears, I hear Majid yelling at the man who almost killed me.
Well, fuck. Looks like this portion of the fun is over.
They start with the needles next. Long, thick needles that they drive under my toenails and fingernails. I’m able to bear this better, my mind divorcing itself from my tortured body and taking me back to the past.
I’m nine now. My father brought me to the city for negotiations with his suppliers. I’m sitting on the steps, guarding the entrance to the building, a gun tucked into my belt underneath my T-shirt. I know how to use this gun; I already killed two men with it. I threw up after the first one, earning myself a beating, but the second kill had been easier. I didn’t even flinch when I pulled the trigger.
A few teenage boys walk out onto the street. I recognize their tattoos; they’re part of a local gang. My father probably used them at some point to distribute his product, but right now they appear to be bored and at loose ends.
I watch as they meander up and down the street, kicking at some broken bottles and ribbing each other. A part of me envies their easy camaraderie. I don’t have a lot of friends, and the boys I occasionally play with all seem to be afraid of me. I don’t know if it’s because I’m the Señor’s son, or if they’ve heard things about me. I don’t usually mind their fear—I encourage it, in fact—but sometimes I wish I could just play like a regular kid.
These teenage boys haven’t heard about me, though. I can tell because when they spot me sitting there, they smirk and walk toward me, thinking they’ve found easy prey to bully.
“Hey,” one of them calls out. “What’s a little boy like you doing here? This is our neighborhood. You lost, kid?”
“No,” I say, replicating their smirks. “I’m about as lost as you . . . kid.”
The boy who spoke to me swells up with anger. “Why you little shit—” He starts toward me, and immediately freezes when I point my gun at him without blinking.
“Try it,” I invite him softly. “Come closer, why don’t you?”
The boys begin to back away. They’re not completely dumb; they see that I know how to handle the weapon.
My father and his men come out at that moment, and the boys scatter like a pack of rats.
When I tell my father what happened, he nods approvingly. “Good. You don’t back down, son. Remember that—you take what you want, and you never back down.”
Cold water in my face, followed by a brutal slap, and I’m back in the present. They have me tied to a chair now, my wrists bound behind my back and my ankles tied to the chair legs. My fingers and toes throb with agony, but I’m still alive—and for now unbroken.
I can see the frustrated fury on Majid’s face. He’s not happy with the progress thus far, and I have a feeling he’s about to amp up his efforts.
Sure enough, he approaches me, his knife clutched in his fist. “Last chance, Esguerra . . .” He stops in front of me. “I’m giving you one last chance before I start cutting off some useful body parts. Where is the fucking factory, and how do we get in?”
Instead of answering, I gather whatever little saliva remains in my mouth and spit at him. The red-tinted spittle splatters all over his nose and cheeks, and I watch with satisfaction as he wipes it off with his sleeve, his body vibrating with rage at the insult.
I don’t have a chance to enjoy his reaction for long, though, because he fists his hand in my hair and yanks on it, causing my neck to bend painfully backwards.
“Let me tell you what’s about to happen, you piece of shit,” he hisses, pressing the blade against my jaw. “I’m going to start with your eyes. I’m going to cut your left eyeball in half—and then I’m going to do the same with your right. And when you’re blind, I’m going to start trimming your dick, inch by inch, until there’s only a tiny stub left . . . Do you understand me? If you don’t start talking now, you will never see or fuck again.”
Fighting the urge to throw up, I remain silent as he pushes the knife upward, toward the thin skin under my left eye. The blade cuts through my cheek on the way, and I feel the warmth of the blood trickling down my cold skin. I know he’s not bluffing, but I also know that giving in will not change the outcome. Majid will torture me to get answers—and once he gets them, he will torture me even more.