![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Jul. 26th, 2005 04:20 pmHe makes it to his room just about, and has never been more thankful that he's alone. He hadn't let Roy stay the night, he'd kicked him out after a few hours of fun. Fun for him anyway, he'd hit him about a bit - and its all there, screaming at him from inside his head...every bruise he'd made on the sick man's body, every welt he'd raised with his teeth, every cut on the wrists from tying him too tight...and God even worse, the humilitation the man had felt, the way he'd known he was helpless and...
He screws his eyes up as he slumps on the messy sheets, clutches at his head, but it wont go away, and its not the only image in there. Everything is there...the kid he had kicked into a coma when he was seven, the teenage years in the back streets of Bogota where he'd stabbed more people than he could remember...well, he thought he couldn't remember. But not now, they were all there waiting to remind him of what he'd done and he couldn't find an escape...the women he'd raped - and the men - the torture he'd inflicted, the children he'd killed in front of their parents because of some percieved betrayal, the fights and the brawls, the broken glass he had shoved in people's faces, that one night when he was twenty five, jamming his knife into the eyeball of a fallen rival and pulling his eye out of his head in a stinking alley behind a filthy bar...Ramon clutches his head and moans at the pain, the screams he heard, the way he had just stood quietly and watched the man go into shock, and then die in agony when it wore off...he'd just stood and watched the whole time...
He locks his fingers in his hair and rocks quietly, his whole body tense. How could anyone live like this? How? Surely it wasn't possible to do it and not go insane?
There had been a man, the man that had tortured his oldest son to death - he'd caught him. He'd returned the favour, kidnapped his oldest daughter and made him watch her die over three days. Every second of those seventy-two hours was replayed for him now, he saw the beating and the rapes, the way she'd just been a broken mess underneath him by the end...and the agony of her father, forced to watch it all, and he'd killed himself two days afterwards...
And the people that died from the drugs he'd sold, the gunfights and the way he degraded everyone, he even made his brother feel like shit the whole time...and everyone who worked for him, they were at the mercy of his whims - he'd had employees killed for minor offences before. He dropped his face into his hands and fought for control. He wanted to be sick, but couldn't. Everything was in his head...he repeated it to himself...its all in your head, you can make it less...
...and then he was seeing Kim, feeling her terror as he violated her space, experiencing her shame and embarrassment when he licked her wet cheek and kissed her. Her pain when he squeezed her neck and hit her across the face, the way he'd made her feel utterly helpless and degraded, he felt it all as if it had happened to him.
He didn't know what to do. There was nothing he could do. It was right there in his head, he was carrying it around non-stop and there were over thirty five hours left to go. Sleep was impossible, there was no way he could even contemplate it. And he couldn't just sit here and let it take him...
Alcohol was the only option. He'd drink until he passed out. There was nothing else he could do. He got up and headed for the door, guilt dragging him back every step of the way, crushing him with its weight and telling him that for once in his life, he was going to face the things he had done.
He screws his eyes up as he slumps on the messy sheets, clutches at his head, but it wont go away, and its not the only image in there. Everything is there...the kid he had kicked into a coma when he was seven, the teenage years in the back streets of Bogota where he'd stabbed more people than he could remember...well, he thought he couldn't remember. But not now, they were all there waiting to remind him of what he'd done and he couldn't find an escape...the women he'd raped - and the men - the torture he'd inflicted, the children he'd killed in front of their parents because of some percieved betrayal, the fights and the brawls, the broken glass he had shoved in people's faces, that one night when he was twenty five, jamming his knife into the eyeball of a fallen rival and pulling his eye out of his head in a stinking alley behind a filthy bar...Ramon clutches his head and moans at the pain, the screams he heard, the way he had just stood quietly and watched the man go into shock, and then die in agony when it wore off...he'd just stood and watched the whole time...
He locks his fingers in his hair and rocks quietly, his whole body tense. How could anyone live like this? How? Surely it wasn't possible to do it and not go insane?
There had been a man, the man that had tortured his oldest son to death - he'd caught him. He'd returned the favour, kidnapped his oldest daughter and made him watch her die over three days. Every second of those seventy-two hours was replayed for him now, he saw the beating and the rapes, the way she'd just been a broken mess underneath him by the end...and the agony of her father, forced to watch it all, and he'd killed himself two days afterwards...
And the people that died from the drugs he'd sold, the gunfights and the way he degraded everyone, he even made his brother feel like shit the whole time...and everyone who worked for him, they were at the mercy of his whims - he'd had employees killed for minor offences before. He dropped his face into his hands and fought for control. He wanted to be sick, but couldn't. Everything was in his head...he repeated it to himself...its all in your head, you can make it less...
...and then he was seeing Kim, feeling her terror as he violated her space, experiencing her shame and embarrassment when he licked her wet cheek and kissed her. Her pain when he squeezed her neck and hit her across the face, the way he'd made her feel utterly helpless and degraded, he felt it all as if it had happened to him.
He didn't know what to do. There was nothing he could do. It was right there in his head, he was carrying it around non-stop and there were over thirty five hours left to go. Sleep was impossible, there was no way he could even contemplate it. And he couldn't just sit here and let it take him...
Alcohol was the only option. He'd drink until he passed out. There was nothing else he could do. He got up and headed for the door, guilt dragging him back every step of the way, crushing him with its weight and telling him that for once in his life, he was going to face the things he had done.
