Trust me

Cigarettes, regret. I can smell it on my hands as I bury my face in them as if there might be an answer there to these emotions I can't even begin to describe. I hate looking at my hands. The scars there remind me of every pain I’ve ever felt and inflicted. You could say I did what I had to do to survive. That doesn’t make it right. Lives ended, ruined. That’s the weight I carry. But the heaviest weight of all is that I’m alone.

I will always be alone.

I always have been. I tell myself I’m used to it. That I don’t care. I tell myself I don’t want friends anyway. Who needs them? The truth is, I’m incredibly lonely. Being used to it doesn’t mean that I want this. It has to be that way. I’m dangerous. I’m rotten to the core. I was born rotten.

My mom was a typical junkie. She was always too drunk and high even to know if I was alive or not. She spent all her money on substances to cope with her own loneliness. Am I any better? As for a dad, what even is that? I never had one. He was just some guy. I don’t think she even knew his name. I did what I had to do to survive.

Right?…

I was always good with technology. I used to hack the school computers and change my grades if I knew I failed. I initially started hacking just cause I was a poor kid and wanted free video games. How stupid could I be? I got good at it. Really good at it. I was hungry. I had no food, no lunch money, no money at all. I used to steal whatever I could find out of the garbage cans in the neighborhood.

Then I met him.

Alexi Peréz. A grown ass man with way too much interest in a ten-year-old girl, now that I think back on it. I thought he was my friend. He seemed nice at first.

No one is really your friend.

He had me do hacking jobs for his gang, “Ojo Del Diablo”. Eye of the devil. What a fitting name. It started small. Hack into some guy’s computer, decrypt these messages, and delete this evidence. It began to get more serious. Hack an ATM, hack the security system of this building, and delete the camera footage. He decided I’d be more useful if I knew how to fight. I didn’t want to fight. I was afraid of it. I tried to run away.

Once you’re in, there’s no easy way out.

I was threatened and beaten. At just eleven years old, I began extreme combat training. My mom didn’t even notice that I was gone for weeks at a time. She didn’t notice I was coming home cut up and bruised. She was passed out or mindlessly staggering around the house any time I came home. I trained for years. I went on missions wherever he sent me.

None of that was enough for him. He wanted more from me.

The training only got more prolonged and more intense. After a time, I wasn’t allowed to go home anymore. No one ever came looking for me. I was alone. I trained, and trained, and trained until the only things in my mind were these: fight, survive, kill. I did just that. So many lives ended because of me. Before I knew it, I was an even better weapon than he’d ever dreamed of.

That’s when I truly lost my humanity.

He decided to make more like me. I don’t know if he ever did. I wasn’t allowed to know. It became a program run by the gang. Take in small, innocent girls and train them to be weapons that can take down any man. That’s when he put the tattoo on me—the true loss of my humanity.

It still makes me sick. I wish I could cut it off my skin.

A barcode with the numbers “001” underneath. A momentous occasion for him that signified I’d be the first of many. It sickens me. I did his bidding for years. So many years. I killed, I stole, I took down entire groups on my own. I remained in his captivity from age eleven to eighteen.

Seven long years of hell and torment.

Then one day, he sent me out to kill a man he didn’t like. I don’t know his name. I never saw his face. I approached the bar where he supposedly was. I had my knife in hand. I was going to sneak in, sweet-talk him for a while, then kill him while no one was looking, and get out before I got caught.

I couldn’t do it.

It wasn’t even about the violence. I couldn’t allow myself to be controlled any longer. I did the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done, and I ran. I kept running. I sliced the GPS tracker right out of my skin. It bled like hell. I think I cut a vein doing it. The thing was embedded in my wrist. I stomped it into the ground and crushed it. I felt like I was going to die. I was bleeding like a market pig, dizzy, panting.

Yet I kept running and didn’t look back.

I ran for days. I almost got caught a few times. I saw his debt collectors scouring the town looking for me. I had no money, just my feet. I kept going until I was two cities away. It took weeks. I was exhausted. I stayed in a homeless shelter for a while.

It felt so great to be out of that hell that the rickety old bed of the homeless shelter felt like a five-star hotel to me.

I stayed for two weeks. It didn’t take me long to decide I wasn’t going to allow them to do this to another little girl. Some poor, innocent thing with a shitty excuse for a parent and an empty belly will do anything to feel like she has something to catch her if she falls. That’s not what this is. It's hell, guilt, pain, fear, suffering, abuse, and I guess in some fucked up way it’s survival.

I won’t let it happen to another girl.

I made it my life mission to work against such forces. I take down trafficking rings all by myself. It’s not like I have anyone to help me. I keep an eye on the news for missing kids. I find them and kill the bastard who hurt them. I can’t exactly go to the police. I drop them off at home. I wear a ski mask so they’ll never know my face.

I’m still a killer. I'm still rotten. My hands are forever stained with blood.

Truth is, I hate violence. It has to happen sometimes, and I’m the one who takes on the burden. What’s a little more rot to an already rotten soul? I’m a knife fighter by preference, but I can shoot too. I assemble my own firearms. I trust no one else. I only shoot when I have to. The sound of guns gives me flashbacks.

God, the blood, and the pain. I’ll never forget it.

I took down an entire sub-gang on my own. I was so hyped on adrenaline, I didn’t even feel the bullet hit me. All I heard was the bang. I thought it missed. I killed the last guy—the one with the gun. I started walking back to Alexi’s hideout. Suddenly, I was on the ground. I looked down to see blood everywhere.

I was dying, and there was no one to save me

It was bad. Really bad. The bullet was stuck beneath my ribs. I had to use my own knife to get it out. My god, the pain. That wasn’t even the worst of it. I was bleeding out fast. I could see my vision fading at the edges. I really thought about letting myself die that night.

Maybe I should have.

I had a Zippo lighter in my bra, which I used for lighting my cigarettes. I was already smoking at 15. I used it to heat my blade. Jesus Christ, the pain. The sizzle. I couldn’t scream, or I’d risk revealing my location. Once it was done, I had to keep walking. I could barely think. I was in survival mode.

I walked eight fucking miles like that.

No one helped me when I got back to the hideout. Most of the men just laughed. Alexi slapped me for being stupid enough to get shot. My punishment was starvation and weeks of more brutal training so it would never happen again. That night taught me one thing and one thing alone.

I will always be on my own.

I’m okay with that. I’m safer alone. Trust is a weakness I refuse to ever allow in myself again. So here I sit on the cold tile floor of my shitty little apartment with my face buried in my hands and a half-empty pack of cigarettes next to me. What am I even doing? I stand up off the floor and put my cigarettes back into my bra.

I need to get out of this apartment before it drowns me.

I throw on a simple, long, white dress. The sleeves are slightly too long and hang over my hands just a little. I keep them that way on purpose to hide the combat scars on my arms. The dress has a Victorian-style high ruffle collar to hide the old knife scar between my neck and shoulder. I put on a simple white headband to add some style to my unstyled curls. I have to leave my hair down to hide the barcode behind my neck.

How would I even explain that to someone?

Without a thought in my head, I walk out of my apartment. The stairs creak ominously beneath my feet as I descend. Of course, this shitty apartment complex doesn’t have an elevator. My apartment is on the third floor. This whole place is full of shady people. I hear doors creak open as the stairs make their obnoxious announcement of my presence.

It’s just a bunch of nosy jerks with nothing better to do than play hallway peekaboo.

It's nighttime, but I don’t care. I’m not afraid to walk at night. I keep my switchblades holstered on each wrist. I’m not a small woman, but I’m not a large one either. I’m average height and average weight. I train a lot even now that I’m on my own, so I’m pretty fit. My expertise is in combat, gymnastics, parkour, martial arts, and firearms.

It’s saved my life many times.

You’d be surprised how just the sound of a woman’s footsteps tends to draw out every scruff pup of a man from every little corner of the alleyways. I’ve taken down loads of dirtbags cause of it. I don’t kill them. I make sure I leave them scared enough to think twice next time they get grabby with a random woman.

I hate how dangerous it is to be a woman.

It’s perceived as a weakness by so many. Having been born a woman somehow makes me less in their eyes. It makes me angry. I make it my job to prove them wrong. Anything I can do to lessen the chances of them trying anything on some other poor woman who can’t defend herself is a win in my eyes. I decide to enter a random bar.

I really need a drink.

The bar reeks of liquor and bad decisions. There’s a guy slumped over a table in the far corner with a cigarette still burning in his hand. What an idiot. The bar is full of men who all look like they fight bears for a living. They’re wearing all black clothing. Each man has his own style, though. They’re all tattooed. They could be gang-affiliated. I’d better be mindful of them. I take a seat at the far side of the bar away from them. Unfortunately, I’m still sitting one stool away from one of them. He turns to look at me.

Great. He’s probably gonna try to hit on me.

“Can I buy you a drink? You look like you could use one.” I offer a polite smile because I don’t want to be rude, but I’m not here to make friends either. “No thanks.” He doesn’t object. He doesn’t push the matter as most men would. Instead, he offers me a handshake. This is new. “I’m Dante. Dante Lee.” Is he actually just being polite? What’s his motive? “Loretta.” I don’t offer my last name; I use my first. I return his handshake.

I’m not an asshole. Not that much of an asshole at least.

He does this knowing nod like he immediately saw right through me just with that one word I spoke. It makes me nervous. I ordered myself a whiskey neat from the bar. I don’t want anyone buying anything for me. That’s debt. I don’t accrue debts. He stays silent for a while. He gets caught up talking with his guy friends again. I notice he’s glancing at me now and then.

What does he want? He doesn’t seem threatening, but no one is just nice like that. I should leave.

I down my drink in a few smooth swallows, just to get it down and leave. As it turns out, I don’t have to leave after all. A man from across the bar, sitting at the farthest stool from me, shouts out, “Let’s go, men, we’ve got work to do!” God, that voice is deep. That’s the most baritone voice I have ever heard in real life. He should join a choir. His voice is so commanding that it even makes me turn around. All the men immediately stop their obnoxious chatter and turn to look at him. He’s obviously the leader of their group. That much is easy to see.

Is this a gang? They don’t seem like a gang.

There’s genuine camaraderie amongst them. Gangs don’t have that. No one is in fear of anyone else. Something about that tugs at my heartstrings. They’re not afraid of this man, but I can see the way they respect him. I wonder what they do? Just from the few words he spoke, I noticed he has a thick British accent despite looking Hispanic.

A Hispanic man in New York City who has a British accent. How on earth did that come about?

I watch from my peripheral as the men pile out the door. I wonder what sort of work they do. Oh well. It’s not my problem. I order myself a second whiskey now that I don’t feel I have to rush out. As I swirl the amber liquid in my glass, I stare deeply into its depths, as if there might be a solution to the thought stuck in my mind. Who were they? What do they do? The better question is, why do I even care?

I really shouldn’t care.

I do care, though. I can’t stop thinking about how those men all sat around and laughed together. They were actually friends. Friends who work together. I down my whiskey in one go. I want to go home now. I’ve had enough socializing for one day. It’s time to go and drown in the silence of my apartment again. The door jingles behind me as I walk away.

I hate buildings that announce me.

You never know if there’s some creep hiding in a shadowy corner somewhere just waiting for a lone woman like me to be walking alone. I can handle whatever comes at me, but it still makes me angry. What if I’d been some other girl? A girl who holds her keys between her fingers, thinking that will protect her. I always take the back roads home—less chance of some idiot trying to drag me into his car. This night feels just like any other. I walk alone. I always do. It feels normal. Suddenly, it’s not a typical night anymore. I hear a single gunshot.

That was really close by.

My brain goes into fight mode. I know what direction it came from. Should I go check it out, or should I run home as anyone else would? Any sane person would run home and lock the door behind them. That isn’t me. I draw my switchblades, keeping them at the ready in my hands. I climb up the side of a building using the fire escape. I’m up within seconds. The sound was in an alleyway. These buildings are close enough together that I can use their rooftops for cover. I hear men shouting as I approach the darkest part of the alley.

Someone is definitely hurt. Dammit, I should just leave. I can’t just leave.

That stupid savior instinct kicks in again. I can’t leave someone who needs help. I cautiously look down to see one group of men fighting another group. It’s the men from the bar. The men they’re fighting look like gangsters. I can’t tell what the fight is about. They’re losing. Someone is dead. I pull out my phone and use my camera to zoom in.

Oh my god. It’s Dante.

The man who tried to buy me a drink is now dead on the pavement with a hole in his head. One of his friends is trying to carry his body with them as they slowly retreat backwards toward a different exit to the alleyway. Something about that guts me. They cared about him. He wasn’t just a pawn to them. He wasn’t just another chess piece. He was a friend. I can hear the sorrow in their voices as they shout at each other to stay low and retreat. There are a lot of gangsters. They’re outnumbered on a large scale.

I should just leave. This isn’t my fight. Dammit, I’m an idiot. I have to help.

I pull the pistol from my thigh holster and switch off the safety. I hate the sound of gunshots. I feel each one in the scar on my ribs. I aim, and fire. Fifteen shots fired, 11 dead. Dammit. It’s so hard to hit a running target from this high up without a rifle. There are 9 men left. The men from the bar haven’t distinguished that my shots were separate from the enemy fire.

There are only five of them left living. They’re still outnumbered.

I pick up my blades, which I had set down on the building ledge. I have four more holstered to my thigh. I have six blades total. I can make that work. I slide down the nearest fire escape. All those years of training taught me how to climb and descend buildings silently. I approach the gangsters from behind. They’re focused on the men from the bar. Just like that, I see another body fall.

Jesus Christ. They killed another one.

I don’t remember his face well, but I recognize him. He was sitting toward the center of the group at the bar. I can hear the sorrow in their shouting. It looked like he had tried to peek out from behind the building and return fire—the poor bastard. Despite the peril they’re in, they won’t leave him behind. Something about that breaks my heart. That’s pretty hard to do with someone like me who’s got a rock in her chest.

Not again. I won’t let another one of them die.

I’m out of the shadows and in the middle of the fight within seconds. The gangsters weren’t expecting me, so I used it to my advantage. Years of brutal training are paying off. My white dress is splattered with blood like someone threw a bucket of it at me. I have four of them dead in mere seconds.

Five left.

They’ve noticed me now. Only three of them have guns. The other two are armed with switchblades like mine. Perfect. I focus on the gunmen first. I throw the two blades in my hand with perfect accuracy, sending them straight through their eyes. Three left. A shot is fired straight at me. I dodged it just in time. I heard the bullet rush by my ear. Damn. I’ve already drawn two new knives from my holster. The two knifemen decide to be brave and rush me.

Idiots.

I use a nearby wall to rebound myself just high enough into the air to toss my blades again. They land on the sides of their throats. Once I’ve landed again, I pull my blades free from their flesh just as they begin to fall. I am now very bloody. The last gunman fired a shot at me while I was in the air—another near miss.

It’s time to finish this. I want to go home.

I throw my blade one last time. This time, I miss. Shit. He dodged me too fast. This time, he is open-firing directly at me. I run just fast enough to dodge behind a building before he can hit me. Just as I was reaching for my pistol, I heard a gunshot that definitely wasn’t the same gun that I’ve been dodging. I use one of my blades as a mirror to peek around the corner. The gangster is dead. It must have been one of those men from the bar who shot him.

Shit. Did they see me? My identity isn't even slightly concealed right now.

Before anyone can approach me, I climb the building I’m hiding behind like my life depends on it. I’m at the top within seconds. I really don't want to be seen. I know nothing about these men. I'm an idiot. I jump a few rooftops to look down at the men still hiding. The big one is hurt. The baritone man. He has a massive slash across his side just beneath his Kevlar.

I should leave. They probably saw me. I can't leave. I have to help. I'm a fucking idiot. Screw it.

I jump down from the rooftop. They are looking right at me now. Fuck. I don't say anything. I don't even know what I would say. I can see the wound better now. It's bad. The gash is deep and long. That needs to be cauterized. Now. He's already getting dizzy and sweaty. I can see his long hair sticking to his skin.

What do I say?

“That needs to be cauterized. I've done it before.” It's simple, straightforward, and to the point. They stare at me. They just watched me slice up those gangsters like deli meat, and my white dress looks like a horror movie. They are definitely freaking out. One of them hands me a knife, looking quizzical.

If I just saved them from getting killed, surely I won’t kill them, right? I can see that's what he's thinking.

I pull my Zippo from my bra and heat the blade until it's glowing red. I can see he’s looking at me with that one eye he has open. He's starting to fade. His breathing is rapid and labored. I approach him slowly, making sure my movements aren't threatening. “This is going to hurt. Use this.” I fold up my headband for him to bite down on.

I feel so bad that I have to hurt him, but it's the only way to save his life.

Once I see my headband securely between his teeth, I do it. No warning. Warnings make it worse. His friends have to hold him still. God, the sizzle, the scream. I feel it in my old scar. Once it's done, I leave. No talk, no nothing. While his friends are distracted, making sure he’s settled, I silently climb the building I dropped from.

I am so fucked. They saw my face.

I use the rooftops to get out of range, then drop back to the ground. My dress is soaked in blood. What if someone sees me? I stick to the shadows and climb my own apartment building.

I cannot go up those stairs. All those nosy busybodies will lose their fucking minds if they see me right now.

I climb up the backside of the building where my apartment is. Thank god. I pick my own window lock and climb in. It makes me nervous that it’s that easy to break into my apartment. I immediately peel the blood-sticky dress off my body and put it to soak in the bathtub with some peroxide and baking soda.

It’s no big deal. It’s just a pain in the ass. I hope he's alright.

I light a cigarette and keep it between my lips as I pour myself a glass of whiskey. I know I had two at the bar, but Jesus Christ. I need another. I let my back slide down the refrigerator and sit on the cold kitchen tiles. I haven’t even bothered washing the now-dried blood on my hands before I bury my face in them. I’m right back where I started my night, except now I’m bloody.

Great.