Page 78 of Dirty

And not now.

In the soul searching I’d done since the torture began, I learned that there were things I wished I had taken the time to say or do. If I had all of my unresolved issues settled, I’d bite my lip – and my pride – and let them take my life, leaving the earth like the man that I knew I was.

As far as he knew, I spoke no Spanish. What little time I had to prepare for what they were going to do to me came between when he gave his instructions to his cronies, and when they began the procedure.

He waved his tattooed hand toward my face. “Dientes. Jale sus dientes.”

Oh fuck. Not my teeth. Fucking Jesus.

On my back on a table in the center of a storage building, I was duct-taped to a table. With my arms, legs, chest, and neck firmly bound in place, the only resistance I could provide was mental.

My eyes darted to the side as one of his underlings dug through the pile of tools. Upon his producing a rusty pair of pliers, I clenched my jaw as tight as my tired muscles would allow.

“Los morales primero,” the one with the 18 tattooed on his neck said.

The molars first.

I didn’t know if pulling the teeth in the back of my mouth first was a blessing or a curse. I guessed in a few minutes, I’d find out.

“My mahney,” Tattoo said. “Where is my mahney?”

“I don’t have it,” I said through my clenched teeth.

Upon hearing the words pass my lips, I’d realized in some respects, they’d broken me.

My previous responses had been along the lines of I don’t know what you’re talking about, or what money?

I don’t have it was indicative of someone else having it.

It didn’t take him long to recognize the subtle change in my response. Apparently, this wasn’t the first time he’d tortured someone.

He cracked his knuckles. “Who does?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I murmured. “What money?”

“Los morales,” he said dryly.

I closed my eyes.

The rusty steel tasted bitter as he forced it into my mouth. Although Tattoo may have been experienced at torture, his accomplice wasn’t. He fumbled in my mouth for some time, and eventually attached the tip of the pliers to one of my rear teeth.

His first yank crushed the bottom portion of my tooth and sprinkled my tongue and cheeks with small particles of what I was sure would later be my first tooth to go.

“Firmemente,” Tattoo said, nodding toward my head. “Y, despacio.”

I’m sure his instructions of slow and firm was good advice, but I doubted I was prepared for anything slow or firm when it came to pulling my teeth one by one.

He shoved the pliers into my mouth again, clanking them against my teeth as he fought to find one in the rear. After gripping my tooth – and a good portion of my gums – in the jaw of the pliers, he planted his foot against the edge of the table and pulled slowly and held firmly.

The pain that shot from my jaw to my brain seemed to somehow be connected to the back side of my eye. It felt like he was pulling my left eye through the socket and into my sinus cavity.

I closed my eyes, but it didn’t help. As the gut-wrenching sound of my tooth being dislodged from my jaw was replaced by my growling, it snapped free.

As he held my bloody tooth in the air like a trophy, my mouth filled with the warm coppery taste of blood.

I choked in my effort to swallow as blood drained into my throat. While they were laughing, and admiring the length of my tooth’s roots, I spent my time gagging and spitting blood to the side of the table.

I realized if I didn’t spit it out, I’d soon drown in it. And, drowning in my own blood wasn’t something I wanted to do.