Pedro never showed up, but at least he called. I'm going to be stuck here in Tijuana for a number of days, I may as well make the most of it. The glorious thing about money is that most people will do nearly anything to acquire it. I mean anything. Laying low has disadvantages, though. Like this shitty little motel. The walls are cracked and crumbling, the ceilings stained a brown-yellow piss color, the room stinks, and the roaches are big enough to carry a man off in his sleep. At least the bed is comfortable. I drift off every night almost as soon as my head hits the pillow, but quality sleep is the one comfort my money cannot buy me. Unfortunately.

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   "James, wake up James," my father's voice commanded. The tone in his voice told me what time it was. He and my mother had been drinking. That meant that they wanted to play. My mother ripped the bedcovers away from me while my father roughly grabbed my arms to drag me from my bed. Instinctively, I struggled against him. My mother grabbed my legs and they carried me off to their twisted little playroom. It was a playroom that no nine year old should ever see.

   The walls were covered in whips, chains, ltex and vinyl masks, paddles, and other devious toys of S&M torture. Sexual toys of all types littered the floor and tables in the room. In one corner there was a matress on the floor. A medieval torture rack occupied the center of the room. This was where most of my time in this room was spent. My parents were sick in a way that not many people would understand. It was in this room that they concieved, and eventually molded to fruition, a monster.

    They always took turns, courtesy in the bedroom must have been a strong suit they shared, my mother would lick and suck every part of my body before the beating and raping actually began. I guess that was her maternal instinct to take away the sting of the indignities I was about to suffer. The late night molesting sessions were normally over in a couple of hours, but I was always oblivious. I was in my own world, the one in my mind where I ripped them apart in a million different ways.

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   I sat bolt upright in my bed. The nightmares, more like flashbacks, were so realistic that it was almost as if I were being transported back through time and reliving every second. Sweat was dripping from every inch of my body. ****, why do they torture me even in death? Pedro had better have his **** here tomorrow or I may just have to find a hole for him as well.

    The bottle of bourbon beside my bed is empty. Mental note, buy twice as much alcohol from now on. I'm really going to need it to sleep if the dreams keep increasing in intensity. I just hope that I can keep my control and not make any mistakes. My emotions make it hard sometimes and I cannot afford to make mistakes. Wait a second. I am James "****" Coverstone. I don't make mistakes. Except that once. The hooker. Destiny was what she said her name was. She was a good ****. Too bad I had to put her in the mountain with the others.