by V. F. Mason
We slip inside just before more thunder rocks the sky and it starts pouring hard, the droplets splattering against the asphalt noisily while Santiago points with his chin to the bed. “Feel free to rest.” By how detached his voice has become, I’m assuming sex is no longer on the table and he prefers to not talk at all, rather than answer my question.
He presses the cigarette butt in the ashtray, leaving the door slightly open, allowing the fresh smell to slip in and envelop us as the wind whooshes inside, billowing the curtains in different directions.
Placing the rose on the round table next to the couch, I focus my attention on the bookcase that holds dozens of books that talk about myths; three of them have the four horsemen in the title in some variation.
Going closer, I take the jacket off and run my fingers over them before snagging one and flipping it open, finding explanations and myths about them.
This is the perfect source of information for my research that will allow me to present it to the kids in an appropriate and fun manner. After all, he probably has all the books there could even be on the subject, so I will be saved from making any mistakes.
Santiago takes off his shoes and then removes his shirt, throwing it in the hamper, and once again my heart hurts when I see the scars marring his tanned skin.
Without saying a single word, he walks outside, and I blink in surprise when he tilts his head back, allowing the rain to cascade down on him and soak him, his jeans turning dark blue.
Pressing the book to my chest, I pad to him. “You will get sick.”
His mouth curves in a smile, his eyes staying closed, as he replies, “Hardly. I’ve done it so many times and never got sick.” Another thunderclap reverberates, and I glance warily toward the sky.
“It’s dangerous to be outside while there’s lightning. What if it strikes you?” Showing how much I care about his well-being probably gives him material to tease me with to no end, but I don't care.
I’m starting to think that everything I ever thought about Santiago Cortez was wrong.
“Then you’ll be a very wealthy widow,” he announces as if it’s no biggie, while I just watch him in confusion, not understanding anything.
Why? The man is clearly not in love with me. Does a monster’s obsession run so deep he devotes himself to his favorite prey? We’ve known each other… what? Two days? Three if we are counting that disastrous ball.
I have an excuse for crushing on him; what’s his?
Or does Santiago not value his life, so he doesn't care about the future and lives in the moment, fully giving in to his desires, because they might not last for long?
Glancing once again at the book, I ask a different question. “Why do you all call yourself the Four Dark Horsemen?”
Silence greets my words, another lightning bolt appearing in the sky, and I lean on the doorjamb, extending my bare foot to feel the warm rain on my skin.
“Our moms have known each other since we were little, and all of us innately clicked. We’d gotten into trouble so much they jokingly called us the four riders who might cause an apocalypse one day.” His amused voice pulls my gaze back to him. “Never understood what it meant. Until I turned seventeen and my parents didn't know what to do with me, so they found me a new therapist, since all the previous ones quit. Or rather my father fired them.” He chuckles, although it lacks any humor. “Compared to all my previous ones, the woman actually listened to me and suggested I read the Bible, where maybe I’d find answers.”
He opens his eyes, his blue orbs glistening in the night, yet he makes no move to come inside, still standing under the rain. “At that point, religion meant nothing to me, and I didn't believe in God anyway, so I laughed in her face and wished her a good day. The next morning, Jimena accidentally spilled orange juice on me, and I snapped, shouted so much she ran to the corner and sat there, covering her ears from me in fear. I couldn't think about her though. All I did was relive the moment when someone else spilled their juice on me and ordered….” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, but he doesn't elaborate on the juice part. “She had so much fear in her eyes until Dad showed up, pushed me aside so I’d finally shut up, and scooped her into his arms.” He stops, inhaling a breath, and by how his tone changes, I know he beats himself up to this day for that. “She wouldn't come near me and called me a mean Santiago.”
Resting my head on the doorjamb, I whisper, “So you went back to the therapist?”
He shakes his head. “No, they couldn't help, because I refused to share about my problems. I didn't want them to cure my instincts or my rage. I needed it to survive. Otherwise, all my nightmares would have been worthless.”
I’m starting to think he was kidnapped as a child, as it’s the only logical conclusion, but shouldn't this information have been mentioned somewhere? “I decided to read the Bible. And stumbled upon the verse about the four riders. I got so interested in the subject and the idea of four magnificent beings bringing so much chaos that I started researching.”
“The therapist was right, then,” I say, although I believe she had something else in mind when she suggested he’d find answers in the Holy Bible. “Did you go back to her office?”
The rain slows down, leaving only light drops settling on his face. Wiping the water away from his face, he strolls back inside, and I quickly move farther inside to give him room.
He grabs the towel on the nearby hanger and starts drying his hair, sending droplets flying everywhere. “Just to discuss the book. Sadly for her, it was too late to salvage anything in my psyche at that point. She quit herself after I told her killing excited me far more than her talk about forgiveness and acceptance.”
Noticing a small electric kettle full of water several feet away on the small desk in the corner, I walk to it and turn it on. The humming sound fills the space and silences my internal voice screaming at me to stop asking questions about his past.
However, it’s impossible to put the brakes on my curiosity now, and I will have to live with whatever consequences come my way.
Putting the book next to the kettle, I spin around to face Santiago, who’s snagging a whiskey bottle from the small bar in the corner. “I thought you only drank tequila.”
He flashes me a smile before flipping the lid and tipping the bottle up, greedily swallowing the brown substance that must burn his throat. “Whiskey is my second favorite. Sometimes it just reminds me of men I wish to forget. But ever since Mom found my tequila stash when I was sixteen, she forbade it in our house.” He drops onto the couch, uncaring about his wet state, his jeans stretched against his muscled legs, and continues our earlier conversation.
“I started gathering all the limited information there was about the four riders, and I loved one metaphor the most. God sent them as a punishment on earth. What a great concept, isn’t it? Some humans just don’t deserve mercy.” Steel laces his voice, his eyes becoming absolutely dead, and a slight shiver travels down my spine in anticipation… and not the good kind. As if I’m on the brink of discovering the truth. “They also say they’ll show up on judgment day to end time and put earth to rest. Conquest, War, Famine, and finally Death.”
The kettle shakes wildly on the desk, and I turn it off, pour water into the mug, and wrap my hands around it, welcoming the heat enveloping me since the door is still wide open. I originally prepared it for Santiago, but I don't think he needs one with how he’s drinking the whiskey. “And this somehow spoke to you?”
“I loved the metaphor, because it represented the cure for the darkness and the evilness in this world that exists in the shadows ready to strike any innocent standing in their way and forever smear them in never-ending suffering. A suffering that sometimes people don’t survive. Those people on the grand scale of things are never punished.”
My brows furrow. “We have laws and—”
“True, we do. You think the law catches everyone? Or every crime is reported?” He shakes the bottle in his hands, watching as the l
iquid sloshes across its walls. “Not even close. Sometimes, the most evil people roam freely, doing whatever the fuck pleases them. So only divine punishment kills them. They don’t deserve to die in peace.”
My hands tremble when I lift the cup to my mouth, sipping it gently while musing on his words that should send me running outside, yet I’m still glued to my spot, holding his gaze that’s so hollow it seems no soul resides in the magnificent body in front of me.
“So what does it all mean? You associate yourself with four riders, thinking you bring justice to this world by harming the bad guys?”
At least I have that, right? Knowledge he doesn't harm the innocent, although in the current situation, it doesn't sound like much.
He chuckles. “Justice? Claro que no. Darkness is like greed, querida. It pollutes your mind until it consumes you so much you no longer recognize your reflection in the mirror. Your driving force becomes the alluring smell of fear that’s always attached to your victims. I call it payback and revenge not everyone needs or wants.”
“And what do you mean by that?”
“Thousands of people and children go through terrible shit. Most are strong people, who choose the good side and learn to move on from their experiences, because they don't define them. There is always a light at the end of the tunnel. But for the very small percent, it’s too late. We don't need the fucking light. We want people to suffer in our darkness.” He touches his temple. “The key is to have a cold head. If your head is gone, then you just viciously roam around the streets, seeing the smallest of details in your past and acting on those impulses, harming those who don't deserve it. A thin line one must know not to cross.”
His words, his calm tone, the lack of any remorseful emotions on his face indicate without a doubt he will never feel sorry about his deeds and always see them as the right way to live. However, killing bad men who do horrible crimes doesn't make him a saint; he is a sinner like the rest of them.
A cold-blooded killer who enjoys the cries and pain of his victims. A predator ready to sink his claws into any prey he deems fitting the crime.
A man who learned to channel his rage and anguish into a cause he created instead of seeking help when he had all the resources.
Loving family, money, social status.
Yet he chose the dark side, and he thrives in it, dragging his best friends with him, since they formed that stupid brotherhood.
Why?
Digging my nails into the mug, I take one more sip before putting it back on the table. Inhaling deep, I then step toward Santiago, who watches me intently as he places the bottle on the table and rests his hand on the back of the couch, his bicep flexing, which only brings back attention to all the scars and tattoos on him.
Stopping in front of him where a small table separates us, I cross my arms and finally ask the question that will bring me all the answers I need in this fog of constant confusion he has created around me. “What happened to you?”
He freezes, his dark lashes falling over his cheekbones before he snaps his eyes open. The familiar mocking smile—which is fake in its nature—stretches across his mouth then turns into full-blown laughter, the echo of it so cold it chills my blood and has nothing on the wind still swirling around us. “Ah, querida. Por qué? If you know the truth, I’ll stop being a monster?”
“No, you’ll be one till the day you die.”
His jaw twitches, but that’s the only reaction I get from my statement.
“Think about every hideous crime that could be done to a child.”
I still; this time coldness sinks into my bones and almost crushes me when various pictures play in my head from his detached words.
Various crimes? Not just one?
He stands up and comes toward me, his bare toes touching mine, and he catches my wrist, bringing my splayed hand up to place on the angry red, slashed scar in the middle of his chest. “Kidnapped at age seven. Beaten, starved, and tortured till I was nine.” He drags my palm up to his collarbone with the faint burn marks from cigarettes or God knows what else. “Raped, beaten up till I was twelve.” He shifts my hand to his six-pack to several burn marks above the ax scar. “Raped and beaten at a different location until I was fifteen and we finally escaped.” Gasping, I cover my mouth with my free hand, tears forming in my eyes at the truth, but he doesn’t let me cry for him—oh, no. My heart squeezes so tightly, ready to break from the uncovered truth that holds so much hidden pain. “Their cruelty birthed a monster all those years ago, and you are right, querida. I will be one till the day I die.” He pulls me harshly to him so our chests bump against each other, and he leans closer to me, his breath fanning my cheeks as he drops his voice to a whisper. “Your heart hurts for me, baby?”
Tears stream down my cheeks so rapidly, probably smudging my makeup, and he wipes away a tear when I nod, because how could I not cry for a small boy who should have never experienced this? How did he even survive all this without going mad? And still managed to go back to a semi-normal life?
“Don’t. Nothing done to me in the past excuses what I do in the present.” Blinking in confusion, I tilt my head back so our gazes clash, and the familiar cynicism flashes on his face when he fists my hair, making me wince when he tugs on it painfully. “I chose darkness a long time ago and never looked back. Because I’m a lost cause, but someone else might not be.” A beat passes and then, “Unfortunately, you became my obsession, querida. What I desire, I get, and that’s your cross to bear. You’ll never be free, so don't feel sorry for me or build an image in your head of some savior who brings goodness to this world by erasing the evil people. Goodness dies when you pick murder and mayhem over moving on and living a normal life. I’m not a beast who will magically turn into a prince if you love him hard enough. I’ll forever be cursed.”
The thunder echoes in the night as his hold on me loosens and he steps back, ready to leave me alone after delivering his speech. But my hand grabs his belt buckle, keeping him still, and a question sparks in his eyes as my other palm still stays on his chest. But this time, I slide to his heart, noticing for the first time its wild beating, showcasing the emotions he still feels, despite his words.
Watching him now, lit up by the moonlight mixed with the dimmed light, I see the scars on his skin and his gorgeous male beauty in a different light, as he is no longer a tempting devil luring me to his hell where I’ll be burned alive.
No.
He’s a man whose heart knew so much heartbreak he still can’t forgive his parents for not protecting him enough, mainly his father.
A man whose childhood was ripped away so suddenly the only way he knew how to survive was to enjoy the darkness killing provides.
A man who pushed his pain so deep he probably isn’t even aware it still eats at his soul.
Is this why I crushed on him? Felt the instant pull toward him, even though my subconscious screamed at me to stop being pathetic?
A tortured soul recognizes another one just like hers, seeking to soothe all the cracks it has and fill it with bright stuff, overpowering the dark. But that’s impossible.
Because you cannot wipe away years of anguish. Nobody forgets what has been done to them. But it’s possible to cherish the future without condoning the person.
Licking my dry lips, I whisper, “I don’t love you.” Nervous laughter slips past me, and I inch closer, drinking in his features and enjoying seeing the slight confusion on his face as if he doesn't really know why I’m still not running away. “How can I? We know each other so little.”
“I don’t love you either,” he replies, honesty ringing in his voice, and then frowns. “I obsessively want you, and this need has no explanation.”
For a man like him, that’s almost a love declaration, but it’s based on his damaged cravings. When life takes away everything a person once had, even his humanity… he latches onto the things he wants and holds so tight in fear of it being snatched away again. They so desperately desire love that they show
case all their monstrous nature at once, hoping that someone will love them despite their sins.
Santiago Cortez couldn't have ever wanted anyone in a different way, our paths would have led to a quick marriage regardless of his reasons to marry me, which I’m still yet to discover.
I bet he is Conquest, because everything in life he conquers.
His circumstances, his psyche, his life while hunting the prey who try to avoid him like the plague yet never manage to do so.
And I became one of his conquests, who he snatched up on his horse and rode me to his hell where a different perspective exists.
My husband is a monster who does not intend to stop killing people. This alone should make me seek help to examine my head.
However, if he kills only those who deserve it… I can live with it.
And it scares me, so much my body trembles, but the prospect of never, ever knowing what it’s like to love scares me more.
In this world, he is the only person who ever needed me so much, and I want to soak in its warmth, discover if time can intensify those emotions and bring me warmth.
So I won’t ever be cold again.
Love is a privilege not all people have, and for the first time in my life, I want to be selfish.
I palm his head. He jerks a little under my touch, and I drag his head closer as I rise on my tiptoes so our mouths are inches apart, as I say, “But I can fall in love with the monster without trying to change him.”
Santiago
Her plump, soft lips touch mine almost shyly as if she’s not sure about the welcome she might receive after her statement, and I palm her head, gripping it tightly, while thousands of unfamiliar emotions rush through me, one weirder than the other, but all of them have one thing in common.
