Facade

16 || dirty hands

~ Gabriel ~

Growing up the way I did, I never learned to care about the things kids my age cared about.

I didn't give a shit about who had a crush on who or which kids were fighting over what because in the end, the issues seemed more than insignificant to me.

In the path of life I was given at birth, ordinary things weren't a given, even as a child.

I never played during recess. I didn't have school yard crushes. I didn't have homeboys to talk about girls or grades with.

My first love was a pistol that I shot for the first time when I was five. My playground was the underground, watching men bet, drink, smoke, fight and fuck their lives away, telling me it was the life of the gang. My only friend was my cousin, Ricky, who was raised with me like a brother since my dad took us from Mexico when we were toddlers and raised us in the city while he spread the life of the Tijuana Cartel into the states.

The only other friend I had was the closest thing to normal I ever had either; Tomás. But, he wasn't made for the evil that my life and legacy brought.

Making friends outside the bloodline of the Cartel wasn't something that Pa took lightly, and he made it a point to show me that we don't stray from our own.

That point was shooting my only normal friend right in front of me, not caring when I refused to leave his lifeless body behind as the police were coming.

At first, the lesson was supposed to be making me shoot him. For a minute, I thought I could.

I held the gun he shoved in my hand to Tomás' head, feeling my body tremble as I watched his brown eyes leak with fear filled tears.

I kept my hands steady around the metal, yet couldn't pull the trigger. I never froze when holding a gun to someone's head. Never had I gone against my father when he told me to end someone's life, but I did.

He couldn't let me off when I wasn't able to pull the trigger on the boy in front of me, crying while tied down to some rusted, metal chair, begging for his life. So, he took the gun from me instead and pulled the trigger without a second thought.

I was left with the gun on the floor holding two sets of prints - mine and my fathers - and Tomás' body in my arms, meaning I was the one taken out in cuffs at the mere age of thirteen.

The main thing I remember was that I wouldn't speak for months after that, not helping my case at all.

I didn't talk to social services or police, not caring about what would happen when I refused. I didn't aid my defense or insist upon my innocence, even within the year that my trial took to see a court.

Even after being locked up with grown men, using me how they wanted when I wasn't under the protection of my fathers men on the inside.

My mute phase wasn't due to my father's visit before my sentencing where he told me to keep my mouth shut and serve the time as a lesson and a vow of loyalty to the gang. It was simply because I couldn't bring myself to open my mouth.

I couldn't fathom the fact that I had brought an innocent kid into my life only to let him die.

After that, everything started to make sense.

I was made to be a man since before I hit puberty due to the simple fact that I had to grow up to fulfill my responsibilities. To measure up to my father's legacy and one day, run the Mexican Cartel alongside him.

Then, further down the line, lead it myself.

Emotions and connections became nothing more than an inconvenience and a liability, allowing me to fully learn how to shut them off.