6 PM. The men arrive from work and the ranch bursts into life. There is drinking, loud laughter, profanity and music.
I’m in my room, peeping through the blinds, mainly on the lookout for Diablo. Every time I think about him, the knot in my stomach tightens.
Suddenly, my door is flung open! I suppress a scream. Diablo?
But it’s Christa and Santana. Santana is smiling so I smile back, relieved it’s them. Christa does not smile. Her eyes are hard, her lips a thin line.
‘H ... Hi,’ I say.
Maria and Rosa are so friendly towards me - maybe these two will come round, become my friends, maybe even take pity on me and ask Diablo to release me. I really could do with their help right now. They’re women, they ought to be sympathetic.
They enter my room and to my surprise, immediately begin sniggering and mocking me in Spanish. Why the fuck?
Slowly, they circle me and laugh and I feel like I’m seven years old and being bullied by Laura Kimble and Justine McCready on the school playground. I can’t understand everything they’re saying, but bitchiness manifests itself as bitchiness in any language and I get the gist very quickly. Especially since they’re pointing to my hair, my breasts, my hips, my dress, making me feel like a slave at a human auction.
‘Ugly,’ Santana says.
Yeah? Well, I got news for them - I know that already. Elaine pointed it out to me when I was six. But she was able to problem solve: I was to marry rich so that I could engage the services of a good plastic surgeon. A few visits to him and I’d look as good as Paris, she always said.
A man they’re call Tongue, (I assume that’s his nickname and that he still has his.) cradling a whisky bottle, swaggers in. ‘Tell me, tell me,’ he says.
Howling with laughter, the bitches fill him in and the humiliation sale continues.
He listens then turns to me. ‘Bebe, I am pleased to make your acquaintance,’ he says and bows dramatically. ‘My name is Tongue and I have balls. Look.’ He sticks out his tongue to reveal his piercings. Two silver metal balls on a long, greyish, spotted tongue. ‘See? I knew you be impressed. Women are my weakness, bebe. Especially young women like you ... scared ... frightened. You are how old – thirteen? Fourteen?’
What an asswipe.
‘Makes me hard,’ he says as he runs his hand over my butt. ‘Whachusay? Huh? Whachusay?’
Mortified that he would even touch me, I slap his hand away.
‘Bebe, there is no reason to be afraid,’ he says, his voice raspy. ‘I can make you feel very good. My room is on the top over there,’ he says and points to a villa at the top of the ranch. ‘Whachusay?’
He inches closer and drops his voice. ‘Do you know why they call me Tongue?’
The room erupts with laughter as my face flames.
Suddenly, everyone stiffens and I see fear in their eyes. They rush out of my room, stumbling over each other in the process.
What the hell ...?
Then I hear the thundering of hooves. Diablo. It has to be him. Only he rides like a madman.
Crushed by the humiliation I just suffered, I slowly sink to my bed and suppress the urge to bawl. How do I live like this? Clearly they hate me and they’re going to make my life hell. That Tongue, he’s such a loathsome toad. How do I cope with him?
Maria enters the room, looks at me and sighs. She shakes her head and gives a rueful smile. ‘Señorita ... Señorita ... ’
Her sympathetic look brings tears to my eyes and I furiously wipe them away. I need to toughen up. I seem to be crying so much recently. It’s really bad for my tough-chick image. She takes my hand in hers. ‘I have to be strong, Señorita,’ she says in a solemn voice. ‘I have to stand up and fight back or they will make me loco, Señorita. They will take away my brio. I be scared of Diablo. Nobody else, Señorita. They do anything to me, Diablo, he kill them.’
I nod. It’s comforting to know that I am somewhat safe from them.
A hurried hug and she scurries away.
Fight back. Mfff! I’m outnumbered.
The men and women are now sit around the huge dining table in the villa I’m in – Diablo’s villa. It’s spacious, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, the largest dining-room I have ever seen, a lounge and a gourmet kitchen.
Curious, I sneak out of my room and peep into the dining room. Everyone is there except Diablo. They’re guzzling whisky, tequila and vodka. There’s a lot of high-fives and backslapping. Productive day, no doubt.
Then, Diablo appears and conversation halts. At the sight of him, I dart back to my room and shut the door. Seeing him again leaves me unhinged. I sit on my bed and rock back and forth like a mental patient.
Then suddenly I hear, ‘Gringaaa!’ Diablo’s voice.
I sit rigid, barely daring to breathe.
‘Gringaaa!’
I scramble to the back of my king size bed and shove my knuckles into my mouth.
The doorknob rattles. Someone is entering my room. I scream into my hands. It’s Maria.
‘Please come, Señorita,’ she says.
‘M ... Maria why ...?’
‘Don’t be scared, child,’ she says and squeezes my hand. ‘Diablo, he just want me to join him for dinner. That’s all.’
‘I don’t ... Oh God ... I can’t ... ’
‘Hush,’, she soothes, ‘Diablo won’t hurt me. Only if I hurt him. You his Mujer, you must sit at the dinner table.’
I take no comfort in her words. The bastard shot me three times and threw me over the cliff without any provocation. To me, he is just a cruel freak of nature holding me captive.
‘Come eat,’ she urges, taking my trembling hand in hers.
I absolutely do not want to eat with them. The thought of eating any kinds of meat with them nauseates me. Having no choice and terrified I may anger the malevolent Diablo, I stand up, fight for composure and slowly trail Maria to the dinner table.
Maria eyes my hunched shoulders and frowns. ‘Strong, Señorita,’ she whispers, jerking her shoulders upright and raising her chin. ‘All the time, in front of everyone at Tana-Mera. Strong and I will be okay. I be weak, they kick me like a dog on the ground. Diablo like me, because I’m strong.’
Fake it? I can do that.
About thirty pairs of drunken eyes follow me as I amble in my oversized clothing towards the dinner table.
Strong ... Strong ... Strong ... Shoulders straight … chin up.
The sniggers and the snide remarks begin the moment I enter the dining room, but I grit my teeth and ignore them. Diablo is seated at the head of the table and watches me with narrow eyes. When I get close to him, he growls in Spanish at Santana, who is seated at the opposite end of the table.
At first, Santana just gapes at him with slack jaws. Then her green eyes blaze as she argues with Diablo. ‘No!’ she finally says.
Christa jerks up, points to a vacant chair and argues with Diablo.
I don’t want Santana’s seat, I want to go back to my room, back into a wall and chew the last of my nails.
Diablo’s fist crashes onto the table and I jump. Santana quickly shuts up and surrenders her seat to me. Christa’s nostrils flare as she silently sits down.
Santana’s shoulder brushes hard against me as she passes me. ‘Puta!’
‘Sit,’ Maria mouths.
Thanks to my Spanish lessons with Enfermera, I have a fair understanding of Spanish and if they speak slowly enough, I may get all that they’re saying. Still haven’t progressed to really speaking the language though.
We play musical chairs and eventually Santana is seated close to Diablo. You think she’d be happy with that? No. Her bottom lip sticks out.
‘My clothes!’ she hisses when she realizes I’m wearing her dress. ‘You give ’em back.’
Fuck off.
As Maria said, they can’t do anything to me because Diablo will not let them.
Frankly, after the way she treated me earlier on, I don’t give a fuck what she thinks or feels. It is the hairy monster at the head of the table who is unnerving me. He is openly staring at me. Everyone is staring, nobody is eating. Daunted by the eyes on me, I look for a napkin to fidget with. None is available. The fuckers don’t bother with napkins. I’m really self-conscious now and I sneak a glance at my chest to see how much cleavage I’m revealing. Too much. Want to be as asexual as possible right now. I surreptitiously hitch the top of my dress to cover up.
Bad move; Diablo notices my move and his gaze rests on my breasts.
Fuck!
Strong ... Strong ... Strong ... Shoulders straight … chin up.
As Maria said, Diablo’s fascination for me stems largely from the fact that I stood up to him, challenged him and did not appear intimidated by him. God! If only he knew.
Meanwhile, I will maintain a false bravado and never let him see my white knuckles gripping the edge of the table.
‘What’s her name again?’ a man with a ruby in his tooth slurs.
‘Payton,’ someone answers.
‘Satan?’
The house shakes with laughter and try as I may, I can’t hide the colour that flushes my face. Diablo is not laughing. He’s just staring at me.
A young man with long, dark hair and big muscles mutters in a surly voice, ‘Leave her alone.’
I glance at him, wanting to give him a grateful smile. But he does not look at me. He’s sullen and morose and focuses on his drink. He too has three tattoo lines across his forehead.
I feel like the new kid at school, minus the buddy system. Diablo’s the school bully, Santana and Christa are the mean girls, Tongue is the class clown and the long-haired, surly guy is the cute, dark dude who smokes behind the school toilets.
After a while, conversation resumes and I’m left alone. The men are talking to Diablo – reporting, more like it. I release my grip on the table and sit back. I want to look at Diablo but I’m scared. I don’t dare lock eyes with him.
It is safer to concentrate on the colourful conversation around the table. Almost every sentence the men speak is littered with profanity. Me, I’m skilled in the art of profanity and I’m tough. I have to be – I’m going to be an FBI Criminal Profiler someday. Besides, look who raised me – a she wolf called Elaine, remember?
But now, I cringe as I eavesdrop. I can’t help it – they’re talking in both English and Spanish over me. Conversation between two hairy men on either side of me goes like this:
‘Where da fuck you been t’day, dickhead?’
‘Why you fucking questioning me, fuckhead?’
‘I fucking wanning to fucking know, cunt!’
‘Why you fucking wanna know where I fucking was, ma’fucker?’
‘Because yo’ mother was sucking my dick and she ask me.’
‘Ma’fucker, you should tol her I was beesy fucking yo mother in the nalgas!’ He stands up and thrusts his hips suggestively.
Diablo looks at me, then at him and the man shuts up.
Christa guffaws at his obscene gesture. What a cool mommy.
Maria and Rosa bring out dinner and a small riot ensues. The men wildly attack the food as if it is alive, stuffing their mouths and chewing loudly, trying to maintain their swearing and cursing while eating.
The change in Maria and Rosa during dinner intrigues me. Maria is quiet and seldom makes eye contact with anyone at the table. Rosa stays in the kitchen and when she does help out in the dining room, it’s obvious, she can’t wait to scurry back to the kitchen.
At first, I assume they’re terrified of Diablo, like I am. But after a while, I realise it’s not Diablo they’re afraid of, it’s Christa. In fact they always talk endearingly of Diablo and that adds to my confusion.
I quietly study the food. Chicken? Well, it looks like chicken and it smells like chicken, so I assume it’s chicken, but...
I notice Diablo and Maria talking, their heads together. Diablo nods slowly, his eyes never leaving my face.
‘Eat!’ he suddenly shouts. His voice sounds like it is being emitted from his gut, not his larynx. I tense at his address, the reef-knot in my stomach tightening.
Maria nods at his instructions.
I shake my head and mumble something about being a vegetarian, which I’m not. After my months of vegetable broth with Juan and Emfermera, I wanted steak and sausages and shavings of ham and …
I would need forensic analysis on this food before I touch it.
‘Eat!’ he bellows so loudly, that conversation around the table halts and all eyes dart between Diablo and me.
In an endeavour to well, save face, I shrug, then dish myself some vegetables, which I mimic eating. But the vegetables taste so great that after a while I give in and find myself actually eating them.
I breathe an internal sigh of relief when Diablo focuses on his previous conversation. He doesn’t talk much to anyone, he just listens, his eyes darting around the table. The only person he gives his undivided attention to - the big muscle, cute guy who defended me earlier on. They call him Troy.
Troy. Nice name. He’s around twenty five and bearded, but no rings around his peepers. Reminds me of Zorro, but without the mask. No Catherine Zeta-Jones either. He seldom speaks and is morose.
Christa and Santana look like twins conjoined at the head. They’re looking at me and whispering. Then they burst out laughing. Christa’s drinking shot after shot of tequila and suddenly bursts out, ‘“You think I’m scared to die, you bastard? I’m not. But you shot me three times and I’m still here. Back from the dead. How many times do you need to try before you give up, eh?”’
Everyone cracks up with laughter. Even Diablo grunts a chuckle and his eyes start to shine.
I remember those words – Bitchface is mimicking me. My face is burning now and I probably look the colour of the tomato in the salad. I glance thoughtfully at the carving knife.
When they finish eating, one of the guys brings out a bag of white powder. They start to snort it off the dining table.
Tongue whispers in my ear, his lips brushing against my earlobe like a slug, ‘Bebe, I have Marijuanaaa, heroinaaa, amphetaminaaa, cocainaaa - anything you want. Whachusay, eh? Whachusay?’
I jerk away and shake my head.
‘Why?’ He seems surprised. ‘Come on, you party with me.’
I continue shaking my head, but I secretly wonder if he has opium there. Fuck! I’d give anything for opium right now.
I can’t tell who’s doing drugs and who’s not, but I’m judgmental enough to assume they all are.
Tongue leads the pack on the snorting. I watch him whip out a credit card, cut up three plump lines on the glass table, block one nostril and snort a line. He leans back and wipes his nose. Some of the men use short straws while others use rolled bank notes. Initially, I find it fascinating, almost entertaining. But after a while I’m bored and I’m longing to get back to my room. When I look up and see Diablo watching me, I quickly shelve any thought of asking to be excused. So I stay and ache through their loud, drunken laughter and foul language, wanting the earth to open up and just swallow me whole. An earthquake or a tsunami right now, is just what I need.
Suddenly there’s shouting outside. The men race out the door, pistols in hand.
Christa and Santana follow the men.
Diablo doesn’t appear very interested in what’s happening outside and remains seated.
‘Diablo!’ Christa calls. ‘Diablo!’
For a while, Diablo ignores her calls. Eventually, he reluctantly scrapes back his chair and saunters outside.
The moment he leaves the room, Maria, Rosa and I cram around the window and look outside.
I see a man on his knees. They’re slapping and punching him.
The poor man – he appears terrified and sounds like he’s begging for his life. I would be too if I saw about scumbags high on coke and booze muscling in on me. From experience, I learned that when these men say they are going to kill you, they do.
Christa walks over to the man and talks to him in hushed tones.
‘Senora please,’ the man says, ‘is all a misunderstanding.’
‘Si,’ Christa says, nodding several times.
The man calms down obviously relieved to see Christa’s lack of hostility.
She continues nodding, an affable smile on her scarlet lips.
Diablo stands on the side, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. He spends most of his time glancing back at our villa. It looks like everything is going to be okay.
Then, Christa turns to Diablo and says, ‘Kill him Diablo.’
What the …?
‘Senora, please!’ the man cries, his eyes filled with terror.
Slowly, Christa starts to circle the man. ‘He must die, Diablo. He must die. He can’t come here. He has no right. We never invite him. Nobody come here unless we …’
‘No!’ the man shouts. ‘No!’
‘He must die,’ she repeats, looking Diablo in the eye. ‘You have to kill him, Diablo.’
Diablo doesn’t move. He scratches the back of his head, rubs his chin and glances towards our villa.
Surely they’re not going to kill him. Whatever he did, it just couldn’t warrant this.
‘Diablo, I am your mother,’ Christa says. ‘You must listen to me. You must respect me Diablo, because it is right. You must kill him and show your men how to rule. Show them you are in charge. Show them your pover or they will think you don’t have no pover, eh? You show them you are strong. You must teach them. Please Diablo, please. That is how you be a good leader, Diablo.’
I don’t believe what I’m hearing. Fucked up in the head, she is.
Diablo glances at the expectant faces around him but does nothing.
It looks like he’s not eager to kill.
Christa claps her hands over her head and chants, ‘Diablo! Diablo! Diablo!’ She looks at the men around her and they immediately join her and chant.
‘Diablo! Diablo! Diablo!’
Diablo glances at our villa again and I get the impression he just wants to return to the dining room and continue staring at me, like people do when they buy goldfish for the first time.
‘Diablo! Diablo! Diablo!’
Diablo shakes his head hard. Then, to my absolute horror, he unsheathes his knife, jerks the man’s head back and slits his throat.
At the sight of the blood, Christa throws her hands in the air and starts jumping and dancing like a woman possessed. ‘You are a good son,’ she says, slapping her breasts. ‘You listen to your mother. You are a good leader. Everybody clap. Come, everybody. Come clap for your leader. For your boss, for your Diablo. He is great. He is Diablo!’
‘Diablo! Diablo! Diablo!’ she chants.
Then men join her and shout, ‘Diablo! Diablo! Diablo!’
Diablo looks at the blood all over him, frowns, then walks away.
‘You are a real man,’ Christa yells after him. ‘You are our master. Diablo! Diablo! Diablo!’
I slide to the ground and collapse in a heap. ‘Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!’ All that blood, the man’s body jerking around – I fight the urge to vomit.
I’ve never seen a man die before and I’m shaking. My head feels light, my body is suddenly clammy and I think I’m going to faint.
Maria quickly hands me some water. ‘Sugar water,’ Señorita,’ she says, kneeling in front of me. ‘I must drink it. Now.’
Rosa fans me with a magazine.
My hands are shaking so much; I spill most of the water.
A few minutes later, I’m sitting on a chair and rocking. ‘What the hell is wrong with these people?’ I burst out loud.
Maria shrugs, while Rosa mumbles something inaudible and starts clearing the table.
‘How …they’re so cold-blooded! How could Christa …she’s so ruthless, so ... so evil? What an evil woman!’
Both women purse their lips tightly and nod.
‘You guys …how can you be so like, unaffected by what you just saw, eh?’ My voice is shaky but reproachful.
They look at each other and shrug.
So this killing is no big deal to them. What have I let myself into? The villagers were right, Diablo and his family are ruthless, cold-blooded killers and I have walked into a venomous snake pit.
Rosa looks at me and puts her finger to her lip as Christa and her men re-enter the villa. I shut up and straighten up.
By the time Diablo returns, I’m fairly composed and sitting at the table. He’s changed his clothes and plonks himself back on his throne. Everyone follows suit and lingers around the table.
I can hardly stand being in the same room as him. My mind drifts back to the man they killed – is his body still outside?
It takes great courage on my part but I finally say, ‘May I be excused?’
I do my best to avoid eye contact with him as I fear I will lose what little confidence I have.
My good manners are entertaining to some people, like Bitchface and her daughter they’re at it again - sniggering at me.
He nods and I hurry out of the room, resisting the urge to break into a sprint.
I reach my room and collapse on my bed. I cannot shake the picture of Diablo slicing at the man’s throat, the ease with which he did it, how the blood gushed over his hands, how he casually wiped his knife on the grass as if he messed it cutting an apple or something.
Christ, what a monster. What a savage.
Elaine said I was fearless. Bullshit. What does she know? I acted brave around them because it was my survival technique. If I didn’t, I would have been crushed by Elaine and Paris. It worked - they backed off, labelling me difficult and rebellious. That suited me and gave me a sort of license to be bad, act bad.
The only emotion I displayed: anger. A case of one emotion fits all. I cling to it, sometimes unleashing it before it is due. I get them before they get me. It’s just ... safer this way, I guess. I feel safer this way.
Although, I’m uncomfortable with this delving into my soul - makes me feel exposed, vulnerable and, I hate this word, sad. I preferred to be called angry. It’s fashionable, yet shielding. Like the new bulletproof vests worn by bad-ass rap artists, 50cent and Decapitator.
But my anger that shielded me in the past, drove me into the clutches of a madman? How could I fuck up so badly? If tonight was bad, what would tomorrow be like in this quagmire? What about next week, next month? I need to get away.
Maybe I could kill Diablo. Yes, somehow use a knife – whatever, just kill him. That would solve my problem. Then I would be free. Free. Brilliant idea.
Hang on …but then I would have to contend with his brutal family if he is dead – Christa, Santana and Tongue, especially. Fuck! Never thought of that. There’s no lesser or greater evil here; all are equally evil.
Christa is psycho.
Diablo is a rabid animal.
I am trapped.