2018-07-18: Narcos II Claire's epilogue
She doesn’t know how long she’s in the freezer; darkness and cold distorts time brutally well. Her blood slows and stops as it clots in the various places where she’s hurt. Pain is there, a constant reminder of what has been done to her. After a while, she’s too exhausted for tears and curls up against one of the shelves, resigned to wait for death, or worse.
When El Yayo’s sicarios come to pick her up, night has fallen outside. They lift her out of the pile of glassy-eyed deer heads which she has covered herself with for some warmth, and once more she’s stuffed into the trunk of El Yayo’s car. Absence of cold is a blessing, and she sleeps there, awakening only when the car stops and her head hits the hatch, sending fresh waves of pain through the raw wound that was her ear.
Someone cleans and ties her wounds, after digging the bullet out and bringing her back to consciousness, but it’s nothing more than that. Then she’s shoved into one of the large cages in El Yayo’s lab park, stumbling under the sharp fluorescent lights and staring incomprehensibly at the twenty-something other women staring back at her. None look to be in much better shape than her, although perhaps less bloody.
There seems she does have some tears left, after all.
----------
The days go by in a blur of pain, of stinking chemicals and of gradually losing any self worth she might once have felt. There’s one woman, Ekaterina, who’s nicer than the rest. She holds her hand when Claire cries at night, whispers soothing nothings in russian and holds her for warmth. She reminds her of Giorgi’s wife, what was her name again? She can’t remember.
The guards are ever present, with their steel pipes or gun muzzles or raw hide thongs to make the chemists work faster. Or just for fun. El Yayo walks among them every day, on his grated platform high above. She cowers under his gaze, doesn’t want to draw attention.
But it’s harsh, harsher than anything she’s known. One day, Ekaterina is gone and another is pushed into the cage with them. It happens often, there’s no end to the human resources for this cartel. After a few days, she can’t remember Ekaterina’s face. And then, not at all.
Herself, she’s an empty shell, numbly doing tasks that require neither thinking nor living.
----------
When they come for her, she doesn’t struggle. Maybe now she can rest, stop hurting, stop being hungry, stop being afraid. It would be a blessing.
But instead she’s taken to a bathroom, the clean tiles almost blinding her as she hears the door click shut behind her. A new set of clothes on a bench makes her cry; dry, quiet sobs that won’t stir the guards. She washes, luxuriates in the warm water and feels her strained limbs relax just a tiny bit. The feeling of soft, clean cloth falling over her bruised body is one she will want to keep in memory forever, so she tucks it carefully away in a small corner of her brain where nothing but darkness has resided until now.
----------
He says she was a month in the factory, but she has no way of knowing if that’s true. It doesn’t matter, she’d rather not think of it. Instead, she turns to the problems he poses her with the vigor of someone who’s been brought back from the brink of giving up completely, striving to make him satisfied.
A new derivate of cocaine that’s cleaner, purer. A derivate that can be merged into another compound for logistical purposes, making it harder to detect at customs. And her own, free work; to make new drugs that will make him rich.
The purpose doesn’t matter, it’s that she actually has a purpose that does. And he seems pleased with her, sits with her daily and listens to her hypotheses, points something out or just nods with confirmation.
After a while, he doesn’t scare her as much. Maybe she even starts looking forward to his visits. Maybe she even starts to feel safer when he’s there, or when she knows he approves of what she’s come up with.
----------
Half a year has passed, or something near it, since she came to Bolivia. What came before is unimportant, so she doesn’t think of it. That it also carries a world of hurt adds to the ease of ignoring it, of course, and she has a good life now. El Yayo lets her tour his lab park, visiting the factories to control some of her adjustments to the processes. She can’t help but cringe and shrink when entering those loud, bustling and stinking places, seeing the women held there and reacting instinctively. Yet El Yayo is by her side and she goes untouched, other than by the looks of utter contempt and scorn that the prisoners give her.
----------
Visiting the plantage is on her list, but she hasn’t had time for it until today. El Yayo won’t be coming, he has something to do by the border apparently and is away. Her usual group of his trusted sicarios accompany her on horseback to the endless coca fields where other captives and loyal locals work. While biology is not exactly within her field of expertise, it might help to see the process from start to end, or so El Yayo thinks. Of course she agrees.
The steaking sun makes her glad for her wide brimmed hat, but also makes her long for the climate controlled lab of her own. How long does she have to be out here? She turns to the leader of the sicarios to ask if they might return now, and a flash of light catches her eye. Something in the sky, drawing closer. And then the sound of rotor blades, rising in her head along with the completely incomprehensible image of a helicopter. Has El Yayo returned so soon?
Visiting the plantage is on her list, but she hasn’t had time for it until today. El Yayo won’t be coming, he has something to do by the border apparently and is away. Her usual group of his trusted sicarios accompany her on horseback to the endless coca fields where other captives and loyal locals work. While biology is not exactly within her field of expertise, it might help to see the process from start to end, or so El Yayo thinks. Of course she agrees.
The steaking sun makes her glad for her wide brimmed hat, but also makes her long for the climate controlled lab of her own. How long does she have to be out here? She turns to the leader of the sicarios to ask if they might return now, and a flash of light catches her eye. Something in the sky, drawing closer. And then the sound of rotor blades, rising in her head along with the completely incomprehensible image of a helicopter. Has El Yayo returned so soon?
And then her horse balks and throws her off, and she feels the rich, dusty soil enter her mouth, her eyes, her nose as she rolls. Above her, weapons fire splits the air and screams erupt among the exploding coca bushes. Whimpering she covers her head and curls up into a ball, lying still but shaking and praying to a god she doesn’t believe in that she won’t be trampled by a horse, run over by a car, hit by spraying bullets or burned alive by a bomb.
When shouts and running feet approach her, she doesn’t comprehend the mouthed words screamed into her face. Cannot comprehend. She’s carried to her feet and shoved towards the helicopter, and all she can hear is the rotor blades. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. Surely these people don’t speak english. Surely their faces don’t exist anymore.
Inside the helicopter, he’s waiting for her. Gabriel. His face is drawn, from disease or worry or both. It’s as if she’s dreaming, or perhaps far, far gone into the haze of drugs. How can they be here? Where is El Yayo? How are they still alive? Is she?
She’s numb as he reaches forward to take her hands, icy cold despite the Bolivian heat. He shouts something at her but it’s lost in the engine roar as they take off. She sees the tears standing in his eyes, and knows she should do something. Say something.
Her voice is void of emotions, as is her face, her posture, her entire being. She’s so cold, her mind reeling and trying to shut down in order to protect itself. At last, she speaks.
“You didn’t come. Why didn’t you come?”
When El Yayo’s sicarios come to pick her up, night has fallen outside. They lift her out of the pile of glassy-eyed deer heads which she has covered herself with for some warmth, and once more she’s stuffed into the trunk of El Yayo’s car. Absence of cold is a blessing, and she sleeps there, awakening only when the car stops and her head hits the hatch, sending fresh waves of pain through the raw wound that was her ear.
Someone cleans and ties her wounds, after digging the bullet out and bringing her back to consciousness, but it’s nothing more than that. Then she’s shoved into one of the large cages in El Yayo’s lab park, stumbling under the sharp fluorescent lights and staring incomprehensibly at the twenty-something other women staring back at her. None look to be in much better shape than her, although perhaps less bloody.
There seems she does have some tears left, after all.
----------
The days go by in a blur of pain, of stinking chemicals and of gradually losing any self worth she might once have felt. There’s one woman, Ekaterina, who’s nicer than the rest. She holds her hand when Claire cries at night, whispers soothing nothings in russian and holds her for warmth. She reminds her of Giorgi’s wife, what was her name again? She can’t remember.
The guards are ever present, with their steel pipes or gun muzzles or raw hide thongs to make the chemists work faster. Or just for fun. El Yayo walks among them every day, on his grated platform high above. She cowers under his gaze, doesn’t want to draw attention.
But it’s harsh, harsher than anything she’s known. One day, Ekaterina is gone and another is pushed into the cage with them. It happens often, there’s no end to the human resources for this cartel. After a few days, she can’t remember Ekaterina’s face. And then, not at all.
Herself, she’s an empty shell, numbly doing tasks that require neither thinking nor living.
----------
When they come for her, she doesn’t struggle. Maybe now she can rest, stop hurting, stop being hungry, stop being afraid. It would be a blessing.
But instead she’s taken to a bathroom, the clean tiles almost blinding her as she hears the door click shut behind her. A new set of clothes on a bench makes her cry; dry, quiet sobs that won’t stir the guards. She washes, luxuriates in the warm water and feels her strained limbs relax just a tiny bit. The feeling of soft, clean cloth falling over her bruised body is one she will want to keep in memory forever, so she tucks it carefully away in a small corner of her brain where nothing but darkness has resided until now.
----------
He says she was a month in the factory, but she has no way of knowing if that’s true. It doesn’t matter, she’d rather not think of it. Instead, she turns to the problems he poses her with the vigor of someone who’s been brought back from the brink of giving up completely, striving to make him satisfied.
A new derivate of cocaine that’s cleaner, purer. A derivate that can be merged into another compound for logistical purposes, making it harder to detect at customs. And her own, free work; to make new drugs that will make him rich.
The purpose doesn’t matter, it’s that she actually has a purpose that does. And he seems pleased with her, sits with her daily and listens to her hypotheses, points something out or just nods with confirmation.
After a while, he doesn’t scare her as much. Maybe she even starts looking forward to his visits. Maybe she even starts to feel safer when he’s there, or when she knows he approves of what she’s come up with.
----------
Half a year has passed, or something near it, since she came to Bolivia. What came before is unimportant, so she doesn’t think of it. That it also carries a world of hurt adds to the ease of ignoring it, of course, and she has a good life now. El Yayo lets her tour his lab park, visiting the factories to control some of her adjustments to the processes. She can’t help but cringe and shrink when entering those loud, bustling and stinking places, seeing the women held there and reacting instinctively. Yet El Yayo is by her side and she goes untouched, other than by the looks of utter contempt and scorn that the prisoners give her.
----------
Visiting the plantage is on her list, but she hasn’t had time for it until today. El Yayo won’t be coming, he has something to do by the border apparently and is away. Her usual group of his trusted sicarios accompany her on horseback to the endless coca fields where other captives and loyal locals work. While biology is not exactly within her field of expertise, it might help to see the process from start to end, or so El Yayo thinks. Of course she agrees.
The steaking sun makes her glad for her wide brimmed hat, but also makes her long for the climate controlled lab of her own. How long does she have to be out here? She turns to the leader of the sicarios to ask if they might return now, and a flash of light catches her eye. Something in the sky, drawing closer. And then the sound of rotor blades, rising in her head along with the completely incomprehensible image of a helicopter. Has El Yayo returned so soon?
Visiting the plantage is on her list, but she hasn’t had time for it until today. El Yayo won’t be coming, he has something to do by the border apparently and is away. Her usual group of his trusted sicarios accompany her on horseback to the endless coca fields where other captives and loyal locals work. While biology is not exactly within her field of expertise, it might help to see the process from start to end, or so El Yayo thinks. Of course she agrees.
The steaking sun makes her glad for her wide brimmed hat, but also makes her long for the climate controlled lab of her own. How long does she have to be out here? She turns to the leader of the sicarios to ask if they might return now, and a flash of light catches her eye. Something in the sky, drawing closer. And then the sound of rotor blades, rising in her head along with the completely incomprehensible image of a helicopter. Has El Yayo returned so soon?
And then her horse balks and throws her off, and she feels the rich, dusty soil enter her mouth, her eyes, her nose as she rolls. Above her, weapons fire splits the air and screams erupt among the exploding coca bushes. Whimpering she covers her head and curls up into a ball, lying still but shaking and praying to a god she doesn’t believe in that she won’t be trampled by a horse, run over by a car, hit by spraying bullets or burned alive by a bomb.
When shouts and running feet approach her, she doesn’t comprehend the mouthed words screamed into her face. Cannot comprehend. She’s carried to her feet and shoved towards the helicopter, and all she can hear is the rotor blades. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. Surely these people don’t speak english. Surely their faces don’t exist anymore.
Inside the helicopter, he’s waiting for her. Gabriel. His face is drawn, from disease or worry or both. It’s as if she’s dreaming, or perhaps far, far gone into the haze of drugs. How can they be here? Where is El Yayo? How are they still alive? Is she?
She’s numb as he reaches forward to take her hands, icy cold despite the Bolivian heat. He shouts something at her but it’s lost in the engine roar as they take off. She sees the tears standing in his eyes, and knows she should do something. Say something.
Her voice is void of emotions, as is her face, her posture, her entire being. She’s so cold, her mind reeling and trying to shut down in order to protect itself. At last, she speaks.
“You didn’t come. Why didn’t you come?”
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