03-29-2019, 12:17 AM
A time comes in every man’s life when he truly regrets choices made, and Jay lamented a lot of bad decisions. When he danced with another girl at prom knowing full well that Anna Marie hated her, he later regretted that choice. When he lied to his parents and enlisted without telling them, yet another lapse of judgement. Killing that evil motherfucker Zacarías Amengual should count high on the list. Strangely, he didn’t regret dropping that bastard. Probably shouldn’t laid into him with a machete afterward, but to this day, Jay couldn’t rationalize the blind rage that animated his entire body toward violence in that moment.
As the chair tipped backward, he looked the shitface motherfucker narco defiantly in the eye just as the cloth draped over his face, blinding him from knowing what came next, and the fist of regret gripped tight on his gut. Bad fucking idea. This whole fucking thing. Texas. Axel. Amengual. Fuck them all. When he cut down all these fuckers with one of the eight-hundred ways he knew how to kill a man, they’d be grateful for the swift deaths. The kind of anger that sent machetes into Amengual’s chest gripped his hands on the chair. “Is that the best you have, you motherfucking dicksucker?”
He sucked in as much air as he could before it was stolen away.
The towel was cold. Water cold. Stink of ass-shits spread like poisoned gas over his face. The first gasp of air sprayed shitty water on his tongue. The taste made him want to gag, but a calm mind clenched the stomach tight. Choking on his own vomit was definitely not the way he wanted to die.
Sight gone. Sounds amplified. The slosh of water buckets. Footsteps. Methodical and steady. Nobody spoke to him. Nobody asked questions. Just cold water splashed his lap, his stomach: pasting his shirt to the skin. He knew it was coming. Knew it was coming. Gone through it once before in training, but still wasn’t prepared. He gasped frantically. Stabs knifed the lungs. Don’t panic, survive, he told himself, but the body revolted. Hands gripped the chair tight, he lifted his ass up and flicked his head to throw off the towel. Don’t panic. Resist. Hands grabbed his skull, yanked it back. Muscles in the neck corded tight. The towel pulled tighter. No sounds except his own gurgles flooded the ears. His throat spasmed. Ribs flared, sucking in air.
Water poured around his eyelids. Burning. More sprayed his tongue disgusting. Plugs stuffed the nostrils. He had to open his mouth for air, but the cloth stuffed cotton down his throat. When they gave him the chance to breathe, it was a choking, gagging, panicked act. Worst thing was, he knew this was only the beginning.
He was as alone as someone could be.
As the chair tipped backward, he looked the shitface motherfucker narco defiantly in the eye just as the cloth draped over his face, blinding him from knowing what came next, and the fist of regret gripped tight on his gut. Bad fucking idea. This whole fucking thing. Texas. Axel. Amengual. Fuck them all. When he cut down all these fuckers with one of the eight-hundred ways he knew how to kill a man, they’d be grateful for the swift deaths. The kind of anger that sent machetes into Amengual’s chest gripped his hands on the chair. “Is that the best you have, you motherfucking dicksucker?”
He sucked in as much air as he could before it was stolen away.
The towel was cold. Water cold. Stink of ass-shits spread like poisoned gas over his face. The first gasp of air sprayed shitty water on his tongue. The taste made him want to gag, but a calm mind clenched the stomach tight. Choking on his own vomit was definitely not the way he wanted to die.
Sight gone. Sounds amplified. The slosh of water buckets. Footsteps. Methodical and steady. Nobody spoke to him. Nobody asked questions. Just cold water splashed his lap, his stomach: pasting his shirt to the skin. He knew it was coming. Knew it was coming. Gone through it once before in training, but still wasn’t prepared. He gasped frantically. Stabs knifed the lungs. Don’t panic, survive, he told himself, but the body revolted. Hands gripped the chair tight, he lifted his ass up and flicked his head to throw off the towel. Don’t panic. Resist. Hands grabbed his skull, yanked it back. Muscles in the neck corded tight. The towel pulled tighter. No sounds except his own gurgles flooded the ears. His throat spasmed. Ribs flared, sucking in air.
Water poured around his eyelids. Burning. More sprayed his tongue disgusting. Plugs stuffed the nostrils. He had to open his mouth for air, but the cloth stuffed cotton down his throat. When they gave him the chance to breathe, it was a choking, gagging, panicked act. Worst thing was, he knew this was only the beginning.
He was as alone as someone could be.
Only darkness shows you the light.