An old fan hummed in a corner. Critters chirped far away in the forest, and cold moonlight rolled off the house’s wet roofs like raindrops. Pablo was snoring behind me, and I could just barely hear him over the sound of my own, steady breaths ringing in my ears.

I twirled my cigarette between my fingers, and tapped it on the edge of the open. A sprinkle of ash fell into the night, and in return, I received a soft waft of fresh breeze, straight to my face. I felt little bumps rising on my bare skin, and something sticky crusting up on the inside of my leg.

The bright patio lights had turned off four cigarettes ago, but my wide-open eyes were still stinging. It wasn’t because of the smoke getting into my eyes, and it wasn’t because of the sleepiness settling in.

I thought there was a chance Juan might still be waiting by my bedroom door, far away on the other side of the finca. I thought I could sneak out and join him, and make his night worth the wait.

But both of those thoughts were stupid, and I was a fucking idiot.

I could have told Pablo no, that I would have rather slept on my own. I had my reasons, after all. He’d almost killed me the second-to-last time we’d been alone in this very room.

Frustrated was a gross understatement for how I felt, but my head was too weak to think of stronger words. I couldn’t keep one happy without upsetting the other. I couldn’t step out of line without ruining my chances at survival. I was torn, ripped apart, drawn and quartered.

I heard the sound of something shuffling, sheets rustling behind me, and Pablo’s snoring was soon cut short as he choked on his spit. The room went quiet again.

“Gordita, why aren’t you in bed?” he mumbled.

“I’m not tired yet.”

He chuckled, and lifted his head off his pillow. “Do you need a third round?”

“Go back to sleep, Pablo,” I sighed.

I lasted a while more, another eight cigarettes in a row, before I started to my eyelids started fighting to close shut. I woke up to the embers of my last cigarette charring the skin of my fingers. I threw the butt out the window, half of me hoping it would set fire to the building and burn all of us inside it, and slipped beneath the bedsheets.

I imagined that Juan would be pissed the next morning.

I guessed he’d ignore me the best he could, only ever looking at me out of the side of his dark eyes. He’d keep a stiff look on his face, and hide his anger beneath his tight lips.

Maybe he’d laugh at jokes made at my expense, and throw in a few taunts by himself. He might play with Manée’s hair to make me jealous. I figured he might kiss her once or twice, and then stare at me to check if I was watching.

And as much as I didn’t want to be right, I was. Because Juan did exactly that.

Well, almost exactly. He didn’t just kiss her twice, he kissed her three times, and we weren’t even done with breakfast yet. He leaned in for a fourth one, but Manée was already fed up. She yowled like a feral cat, and swatted at his face.

“What?” he protested. “This is our honeymoon."

“You need to shave,” she muttered, rubbing her cheek with her skinny fingers. “Your beard is like, burning my whole face.”

Juan rolled his eyes. “Oh no,” he deadpanned. “Are your thighs okay?”

She all but stabbed her knife through his hand, and I would have gladly joined in.

I’d been here a couple of times before, and by now I knew the drill. I knew the script word for word, and for once there weren’t any sudden plot twists.

I glared at Juan when he wasn’t looking. What did the idiot expect? For me to risk my life, just so we could fuck? We’d have all the time in the world to do that once he took me away from here.

I swallowed a slice of fruit, and it stayed stuck on top of the lump in my throat. Maybe that wasn’t in his plans anymore. Perhaps it never even was.

What if the whole Budapest thing was just an excuse to get me to have sex with him? It wasn’t a far-fetched idea. He’d been an asshole to a hundred other women before I came along. His only goal in life was to get in between every nice pair of legs he set his eyes on. And on top of that, he’d tried to make a move every single time he mentioned an escape.

I tried to reason with myself. Juan loved me more than he loved sex. Correlation doesn’t equal causation, and it only happened because the few times we found ourselves alone, he always wanted to make a move, and I always wanted to talk about running away.

No matter the train of thought, I always circled back to the same place I started in. Juan only nods his head yes to get me to shut up, he only makes big promises so I can trust him, and then he always throws in some lovey-dovey bullshit so I spread my legs.

Again, dark thoughts filled my head. I could hear evil words, hissing, whistling, howling in my head, tinted with a nauseating perfume that smelled like vanilla cupcakes. You’re an easy target.

There I was, spiraling down again, swirling around like a fat cow flying out of a tornado, spinning like a piece of shit flushing down a drain.

I sat down on a sunbed, and tried to stare at something that didn’t make me think of Juan. But even the waves in the swimming pool reminded me of all the times he’d tried to drown me, and the maids cleaning up the breakfast table made me wonder how many he’d fucked.

Every other sight made me feel just as awful, including the way Pablo’s gaze dragged down my curves. I folded my knee against my chest, and he pushed it away.

“I love how you look in that bikini,” he said.

He ran his fingers through my hair, brushing them away from my face until they got caught in a bunch of knots.

“Thanks,” I muttered, ducking a little to get out of his grasp.

“What’s wrong now?” he groaned.

“Nothing,” I murmured, my neck coiling up between my shoulders. “Just thinking about... things.”

“Things like what?”

“Mafer,” I replied with a bitter smile.

I don’t know why I smiled. As if that would make my lie any more believable. Pablo arched one eyebrow.

“What’s done is done, we can’t resuscitate her,” he shrugged. “I’m a narco, not a necromancer.”

“I know.”

“I’ll get you another maid if you want, but come on, Gordita,” he sighed, as his hand gently stroked my leg. “I thought you were doing better.”

“I was, for a while. It just goes up, and down, you know,” I said meekly, tracing a zig-zag in the air with the tip of my finger.

“Like you, yesterday night,” he snickered, before he turned to Juan and wheezed. “On my dick.”

Dig my grave, why don’t you, I thought silently. I’ll grab you a shovel, and Juan can bring an excavator, too.

I saw the bitter look on Juan’s face. How, despite his grinning lips, he seemed like he’d taken a whiff of a bad smell. I noticed the sparkle of a tear in the corner of his eye.

I imagined that was exactly how he looked like last night, minus the smile and the bags under his eyes, as he waited outside the bedroom he thought I would be sleeping in.

Perhaps Juan had smiled at first, when he knocked on the door and I didn’t answer. He would have heard a rat shuffling around in the room, and assumed it was me. He would have pictured me spraying on some perfume and throwing a lock of my hair over my shoulder as I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, wondering if I’d look good enough for him.

He would have smirked, and let out a laugh, thinking I was silly for even doubting it. He would have leaned against the wall, lit up a cigarette, and waited for me to put on my nicest lingerie.

He’d have knocked on the door a second time, and then a third, assuming that maybe I hadn’t heard him. He’d have peeked through the window, past the half-shut curtains, and only seen a dark, empty room.

He would have knocked a few times more, a little angrier every time, and figured out after a while –probably longer than it would have taken anyone else than Juan– that I was in another bed, with another man.

I didn’t know how one mental image could spark so much hope, and so much pain at the same time.

I was pulled out of my daydream by the sound of shattering glass, and the shouts of people fighting over something as petty as what we were having for lunch.

Pablo yelled that he hadn’t had seafood in ages, while Manée complained that she hated the taste of fish. Andrea tried to reason that there were tons of vitamins in seafood, and that it was a lean protein too, while Hernan screamed at everyone to please, shut the fuck up.

The only ones left on the patio were me and Juan. I turned to him, and opened my mouth.

“I don’t want to talk to you, Emilia.”

I hated it when he called me Emilia. I liked it most when he called me Em. I could have done with an Emily, or Emily Smith, and hell, even a Sarah if he wanted. But when he called me Emilia, I got the same chills down my spine as when my mother called me by my full government name.

“Then why are you here?” I retorted.

“I’d rather sit here alone than be in that kitchen, fist-fighting someone over ceviche,” he muttered.

I raised my eyebrows. “Alone?”

“Yeah,” he repeated. “Alone.”

“What did I do to you?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he spat, sitting up so fast he spilled a little bit of his drink. “You stood me up.”

“I didn’t want to,” I hissed. “Pablo asked me to spend the night with him.”

“Oh yeah, I figured you were with him. Only took me what, one hour,” he snorted, as his head bobbled in rage. “Anyways, as if that makes things any better.”

“He asked me,” I whispered, keeping an eye on the others. “I couldn’t say no.”

“Well I asked first, but you know, I guess I’m just your platonic side hoe,” Juan muttered.

I rolled my eyes at him. “Oh my God, and just what are you talking about?”

“You’re obviously hung up on him,” he said. “I don’t fucking want your ‘love’ if you’re going to give your body to another guy.”

“You can talk, you just got marriedt o somebody else.”

“Yeah, because I had no choice,” he protested.

I wanted to scream, but did my best to keep my voice as low as I could. “And you think I do? Are you stupid?”

“Call me stupid one more time and we’re over,” he spat.

“What do you mean, we’re over?” I groaned. “We’re nothing. You haven’t done shit for me. All you do is tell me you’ll help me so I have sex with you, but you’re not going to do anything, whether we fuck or not. You don’t fucking care about me, Juan.”

“Is that what you think? Is that what you fucking think? That I’m telling you all this just so I can get a quick fuck?” he asked, his words sputtering out through his clenched teeth. “Do you know what would happen to me if anyone heard this conversation? Do you really think I’m risking my fucking life for sex? If all I wanted was to fuck, I’d fuck anybody. Literally, anyone else who doesn’t make my fucking life a living hell. I wouldn’t be sitting here making fucking plans on how to escape from a fucking cartel. Fuck, Em, seriously. Fuck you.”

He stood up and left, dropping enough F-bombs in his trail to flatten a small mountainous country.

I buried my face in my hands, letting out a silent screech of rage into their palms. I sucked in a deep breath and spat the air out with a string of slurs.

Perhaps Juan was right. Maybe I did belong with Pablo. At least he, as terrible as he was, didn’t drive me this crazy. As long as I did everything he asked, or found a good excuse not to, he didn’t get mad. And then, even when he did, he just tried to kill me once and then got over it.

Jesus Christ, what am I even thinking?

Why was I hung up on either of them? Both Juan and Pablo were awful guys, and I didn’t belong with them.

I was losing focus on what I was doing. I was supposed to be planning my escape, not sitting here moping, wondering which idiot I’ll be hooking up with tonight.

I wasn’t going to be a stupid Katniss Everdeen from the dumbass Hunger Games, running around trying to pick a partner when she’s supposed to be leading a goddamn civil war. I had more urgent matters than men.

I was a grown-up, clever, independent woman. And if Pablo wasn’t going to let me go, and Juan wasn’t going to help me out, then I’d just have to do it on my own.

•••

I’d convinced myself. I’d do it. I’d do it on my own. But I wouldn’t do it tonight.

I’d wait a few days, pretending everything was fine and that I was enjoying my shitty life, convincing Pablo that I was happy with him and maybe proving to Juan that I didn’t need him. And then, when they’d least expect it, once they all let their guard down, that’s when I’d run.

I observed all the others and mimicked their behavior. Enjoying life in the twisted world of Narco-land meant sitting on a grubby leather couch in a shady-looking club, underneath a blinding pink neon light, just inches away from a stripper’s wriggling, naked butt.

It meant laughing out loud at offensive jokes, mocking the person sitting across you, heckling them by throwing them an old cigarette butt or a half-melted ice cube if their comeback wasn’t good enough.

It meant drinking so much you could hardly stand, spending wads of cash as thick as your leg on a fancy bottle of champagne with a dollar-store sparkler on top. It meant buying a whole bottle of liquor and timing how fast you could finish it by drinking pure shots.

It was as awful as it was cathartic. The more I acted like a narco’s girlfriend, the more I realized this wasn’t the life I meant to live. Fuck the mansions, fuck the parties, fuck the seemingly endless amounts of money.

I would have rather been sitting in bed, slurping up boiling microwaved ramen, watching a silly, scripted reality TV show on the tiny screen of my old laptop.

“Want another shot?” asked Pablo.

He handed me a glass of tequila, and the smell alone was enough to make me gag.

“Give me a minute,” I drawled.

I wrapped my fingers around my knees, trying to catch my breath between two drunken heaves. Pablo handed me an ice bucket, with a half-full bottle still inside it.

“Do you need to puke?”

“No,” I replied. “I’ll be okay.”

“Don’t make us wait too long,” he groaned.

I felt gross, sticky with sweat, as if alcohol oozed out through my pores once it saturated my veins. Flashes of hot pink whirled around my head, and I couldn’t tell if those were disco lights or somebody’s thong.

“Want some?”

I heard the words, but somehow not the voice who spoke them. Between my fingers was a rolled-up bank note, and on the table before me, four lines of white powder.

The music was so loud I couldn’t even hear my own answer. Either my head was spinning or my whole body was swaying from side to side.

“Gordita, don’t put that in your mouth,” shouted Pablo. “It’s been in Hernan’s nose.”

“Sorry,” I slurred, as I put down my drink and yet held on to the straw.

“Take it,” said a deep voice, as a heavy hand pushed the back of my shoulder. “It’ll do you good.”

The white lines danced before my eyes, just a few inches away from my face. I brought one trembling hand to my face, while the other gripped the edge of the table. I just wanted this to stop.

It was all Juan’s fault. If he didn’t harass me when we first met, I wouldn’t be so fucked in the head. If I’d never met him, things would be going better between me and Pablo. If I hadn’t fallen in love with him, I wouldn’t have waited. I would have run away a long time ago.

I stared down at the four lines, and took a deep breath. And then there were three.

Although my whole face felt like it was on fire, it was as if someone had dropped a bucket of ice water on top of my head. The spinning in my head came to a stop, and so did the churning in my stomach.

The inebriated haze slowly lifted. Blurry smears of colors turned to sharp lines and harsh lights. I could clearly see every face around me, every empty glass strewn on the table, every tiny bulb in the flashing light strips.

“Are you okay?” asked Pablo.

“I feel sober,” I told him.

“Be careful, little bird,” crooned Hernan. “That’s just an illusion.”

I shrugged. This supposed illusion felt surprisingly normal. In fact, I was clear-minded enough to notice that Hernan was still a weird and pervy guy, and that there was something in the tone of his voice and the way he leaned towards me that made me very uncomfortable.

So when Pablo stood up and walked away from the table, I followed him. I walked in a straight line, with my head held up high, without ever hobbling on my stiletto heels. See? Sober as a judge.

The man they called Lazaro grabbed Pablo by the arm and said something in his ear.

“What are you doing here, Gordita?” asked Pablo, as he wrapped his arm around my waist.

“Oh, I just don’t want to be alone with Hernan,” I answered. “He’s creeping me out.”

Pablo smiled. “Good girl. Hey, Gordita, could you go fetch me a drink?”

“Sure, what do you want?”

“Anything,” he mumbled. “Just go get something.”

I nodded, and walked away towards the bar. It wasn’t far, just one floor below the balcony where our table was. I asked the bartender, word-for-word, for anything he had.

He brought me a pretty pink drink, and I handed him a few banknotes, hoping that would be enough to pay for the drink. He raised his eyebrows and only took one, and went to fetch some change.

While I waited for him to come back, I took a sip from the drink. It tasted like berries, something sweet and somewhat girly, and I hoped Pablo wouldn’t get mad at me. In any case, it would be his fault for not being specific.

I quickly turned around to glance over my shoulder, and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a wandering hand hovering above my glass. The guy standing at the bar, right beside me, dropped something in my drink.

Yet another asshole who thinks I’m an easy target.

I opened my mouth to protest, but quickly stopped myself from talking. When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.

I smiled at the guy. “Hey there,” I murmured. “Did you just fall from heaven?”

“Why, do I look like an angel?” he laughed.

“You look like you hit a few branches on your way down,” I replied, and slid my change towards him. “Have one on me, you ugly motherfucker.”

I left the man behind, looking confused and slightly offended, and gave Pablo his drink. He was back sitting at the table, now that Lazaro had left.

“What’s this for?” he asked, as he grabbed the glass.

“I don’t know, you asked me to get you a drink,” I muttered.

Pablo chuckled, and left a kiss on my table. “I forgot I’d said that. Thank you, Gordita.”

I replied with a tender grin, and watched him take a sip. I felt proud of myself. Who needs a man when you have a brain and a spiked drink?

The next minutes went by slowly. Pablo still seemed normal, and I was almost disappointed. Obviously, the man spent his life guzzling up any drug he could find, it wouldn’t be surprising if this one had no effect on him.

But soon, he started sinking into his seat, batting his eyelashes as his eyes rolled to the back of his head. His mouth hung half-open, quietly gasping for air. He tried to read the label on the little vial of powder he’d brought, holding it up in front of a light to check how much he’d taken.

I hoped he’d taken enough. I hoped he’d taken too much. Pablo could die, for all I cared. That meant less problems for me once I got out of there.

I felt my heart pounding in my chest, the tips of my fingers frantically tapping the side of my leg. My jaw clenched a little harder every time I tried to swallow the lump in my throat.

“Is he okay?” Oscar asked me, pointing toward his brother.

“I don’t know,” I said, faking a worried voice. “Pablo?”

Pablo didn’t answer. His eyes opened wide, and a string of drool dribbled out of his mouth. He tried to stand up, all but wrestling the couch he was sitting on, as thick drops of sweat pearled up on his forehead. As soon as he found a semblance of balance, he stumbled away, and Oscar rushed in his steps.

The others all sat stunned, watching them both as they ran down the staircase. All, except for Juan, who was glaring in my direction. I wiped a smirk off of my lips, and stood up.

“I’ll go check on them,” I said, ignoring Juan as he stared me down from head to toe.

I wiped my clammy hands down the sides of my short dress, and headed in the direction Pablo and Oscar had left. I was quick enough to see them crash through the door leading to the bathroom, where Pablo collapsed just as his brother shut the door.

I stared at it for a short second, and then glanced at the crowd in the center of the club. I was on my own now, and nobody could stop me.

Pablo was puking his guts out in a dirty bathroom, Oscar was doing his best to stop him from choking, the others were clueless, and this time, Juan wouldn’t be there to ruin everything.

I pushed my way through the crowd, guided by a bright red sign, whose glowing letters spelled “Exit”.

Independent Woman

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