25. Inés
25
Inés
T he best thing about dreams is that you don’t have to tell anyone about them. A secret for only you to know about. I was weak. I showed my weakness to the woman who gave me life just to eventually take hers in a way.
But one thing that I forgot about through all of the shit that I have been through is when life throws you a curb, lean into it. Don’t let it cause you to wreck.
The man in my room has been bouncing his leg nonstop, causing the keys in his pocket to jingle. He is restless. Something else is going on, and I don’t know what.
“Fuck!” He shouts, and I hear him smack his hand against the window in the room. “You just had to fucking play captain save a ho, didn’t you G. You always have to do what’s right in your eyes.” Someone sounds pissed off. When he says “G,” he must be talking about Ghost.
What is going on out there? Darkness begins to creep up on me, and I can’t help but fall right into it. It’s my comfort place. Darkness has been there for me in the most shittiest parts of my life.
The room falls into complete silence. No more beeping monitors, no rattling keys, no furious voice tearing through the air. Just an unnatural stillness, thick and sickly, pressing in like a hand around my throat.
Then the past claws its way in, reminding me of why I am the way that I am. It doesn’t creep—it slams into me, violent and merciless. Flashes of my overseas tour explode behind my eyes, each memory slicing through me like jagged glass. Screams—piercing, agonized—rise above the chaos of gunfire, drowning out the metallic clicks of reloading weapons. The air is thick with the stench of burning flesh and spilled guts. My battle buddies are being knocked one by one, choking on their own blood.
I look down. My hands are drenched in blood. Some of it is theirs. Some of it is mine. A war I never asked for but threw myself into anyway, to release my trauma.
More photos come crashing in. The women who were beaten by the man who was supposed to love them and protect them. I remember each and every one of them. Shaking. Broken. Their body a canvas of suffering, painted in bruises and torn skin. I did what I could to save them all. Tried to quiet the pain. But I was never built to heal—only to destroy. And no matter how much I fought, how much I bled, the truth remains.
Monsters don’t save people. They only leave more ruin behind.
But ruin isn’t enough. Not yet.
A distant, rhythmic beeping tries to pull me back, but the darkness clings to me like a second skin. My body is heavy, trapped beneath invisible chains, but my mind is awake, clawing for the surface. Vengeance is a fire in my veins, scorching away weakness and any hesitation. I didn’t survive hell to rot in some sterile hospital bed.
I focus on the pain—it’s the only thing that’s real. The ache in my ribs, the slow throb of my skull, the sting of IV needles in my arm. Pain means I’m still here. Pain means I can still fight. Moments ago, I couldn’t feel a damn thing.
And I will fight to get back to my life.
For the ones who never made it out. For the ghosts that haunt me, whispering their unfinished stories into the hollow of my soul. For him. The one who risked what seemed like everything just to save me.
I force my fingers to move, curling them into a fist. It feels like lifting a dead weight, but I push through it, grinding my teeth. The beeping speeds up. The man in here must have noticed. Footsteps shuffle beside the bed, a voice murmuring in panic, but I don’t care to listen.
For all I know, he may think I’m weak. Broken. Just another survivor dragging myself through the aftermath. Or, better yet, he could be part of the reason why I am here.
No one has any idea of what is to come.
I’m waking up. And when I do, there will be nothing but blood. Redemption. Vengeance.
I was weak, a fool. I let my guard down and wasn’t prepared for what came. That will never happen again—not now, not ever. I am fire. I will burn those who dare cross me ever again. No second chance. No questions asked. Just pure flame.