He always sleeps, when I am here. I don’t know why. I don’t think he’s able to pretend anything, so I guess it’s casual. But still I hate him. Still I would like to see his eyes open. Open and conscious. Still I would like to talk to him. Still I would like to be a spectator of his agony.

No, I am not a sadist. I am just scared. Fear turns into anger quite easily, for me. I am doing what I am doing because I am still afraid of him. And it doesn’t matter if I see him harmless and weak and powerless. He still has this effect on me.

I look at his hands and the only thing I think about is that those same hands hurt my wife. I look at the idiotic expression on his face and I only remember the neglectful, evil grin he had that night. I only remember his words.

“Who the fuck are you? Police?”.
He has these clueless eyes and I would like to shoot him with no further delay.
“You don’t know me. You know my wife”, I say, calmly.
He frown and licks his lips and just that makes me feel sick.
“Your wife…?”.
“Carmen Morales”.
I can almost hear the gears working into his brain.
Then, this look of sudden awareness.
“Aaw, the caliente chica!”, he smirks.
“Why are you here, huh? Will you make me pay for injuring your lesbian bitch?”, he teases me.
I tighten the grip on the gun.
“Yeah, that’s what I am going to do”, I answer.
“You know what? I hate you dykes. You’re so full of shit. If I knew your tamale was a dyke, I would shoot her right in the head”, he says, aggressively.
“On your knees”, I growl at him.
He opens his eyes wide, in disbelief.
“You gotta to be fucking kidding me! I’m not going to kneel down in front of a lesbian”.
And he spits on the ground.
…
“…But I have to admit your chicana is pretty good. If I wasn’t in a hurry, I would gladly bang her…”.
“Why?”, I ask, coldly.
“Why? Why what?”, he asks back.
“Why did you shoot her. She wasn’t menacing you. She didn’t do anything”.
He swallows and tries unsuccessfully to get up.
“Don’t move. Just tell me why”, I stop him.
He raises his head towards me.
“Is that your question?”.
“You’re such a putrid little prick. Tell me why”, I spit out.
John James Sanders stares at me and shrugs.
“…Why not?”.