“Dejame morir,” Pistol wheezes, more blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. I light a cigarette, letting the smoke circle around me. “I’ll be waiting,” I tell her, ending the call. “When I said I would help you out, I didn’t know I would be keeping a man alive just so you could kill him,” Teena’s voice comes over the phone. I use the phone on the wall, hit speaker, and dial the number. I tear the tape from my hands and go to recline against the wall, watching as the blood trails down his neck to his chest, and right there, just below his collarbone, I see it: a bit of unmarked, unblemished skin. I use my hands to stop his body from spinning listlessly. The thought of not having him to take my anger out on again is what makes me stop. I go a little too far when blood spews from his mouth and his body heaves with the force it takes for him to gasp. I pound into him over and over, each time telling him I know what he tried to do. “The hija I never would have known existed if you had gotten your way,” I add. “The hija who is two and does not even know who I am,” I tell him, pummeling him again and again. The hija you helped steal from me,” I growl, slamming my fist into his rib. Now that my hands are taped, I circle his body. He should figure out by now that he dies when I’m done, not before. I might not have heard it, except he begs for the same thing every time. “Mátame,” Pistol says, the word coming out barely more than a soft whisper.
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