Free Gringa - In the Clutches of a Ruthless Drug Lord by Eve Rabi Page B

God!’ All that blood, the man’s body jerking around – I fight the urge to vomit.  
                  I’ve never s een 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. ‘ S ugar water , ’ Senorita,’ she says, kneeling in front of me. ‘I mus t 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 put her finger to her lip as Christa and her men re-enter the villa. I shut up and straighten up. 
                  By the time Diablo re turns , I’m fairly composed and sitting at the table. He’s changed his clothes and plonks himself back o n 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 , l ike bitchface and her d aughter t hey’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 in which he did it, how the blood gushed over his hands and how he causall y wiped his knife on the grass , like he messed it cutting an apple or something.
                  Christ , w hat a monster. What a savage .
                  Elaine said I was fearless. Bullshit . What does she know? I acted brave with 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 licence 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 . I t’s fashionable, yet shielding. Like the new bullet-proof vests worn by bad-ass rap artists, 50 c ent 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