His Princesa Mexicana | 18+

The 13th Floor - Ch 1

Notice: The speech that's in italics, is to indicate a language other than English. This is so I can avoid butchering the translation, but still stay true to the original language of the characters.
Enjoy!!!
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The weather was hot today in Mexico City; the sun felt like it was bearing itself right in the middle of my head. I leaned against the only standing building in the area to help me blend in, but either way, I still stand out. Not that it matters anyway.

Carriers are always sent to locations that are hidden and concealed, and if not, then places where suspicions and attention could be minimized, such as parks or any other public places where the sighting of children won't attract the authorities or rival dealers.

Which is why I am really angry right now. Sure, I can't express that to our suppliers, but I can still rant about it in my head. Why did they send me to this forsaken, abandoned place that's no better than a deserted asylum?

I'm used to the scenes of dead bodies, but that doesn't mean that I enjoy being in the midst of them. And when I got here, the first thing that greeted me was a corpse of a man who looked like he inhaled one too many lines of coke and met his end. Truly, it's sad. But when I think about it, isn't that what they all knew to be a possibility and still chose to go ahead with anyway?

Maybe it's my mind that's not allowing me to understand it; maybe it's a way to protect myself from the guilt of playing a part in their inevitable death. A way to keep the sanity of the eight-year-old girl, me, in check. Although, when I'm laying down at night next to my mama with the muffled noises of my aunt and her family coming in from their living room, and I reflect back on my day, guilt is the last thing that I feel, if it crosses my mind at all.

We're not the ones hurting them; they are hurting themselves.

I mean, think about it. Even if I handed it to them, they still gave me the money, took the batch with a hungry smile on their faces, and left. When they could've twisted their faces in regret and self-disgust, refused, and walked away empty-handed to start anew. And knowing they have the ability to do so, they still chose not to, so I don't get why I should feel guilty at all.

No, it doesn't matter really. Whether I should feel guilty or not, I still don't. I have never, and I don't think I ever will. Because this is what we have to do in order to survive in a world that refuses you a reputable, honorable, respectful job without education—education that they refuse to look at if you didn't dedicate it to years of hard-working experience, and experience that most refuse or refuse the circumstances that withheld you from achieving, and a law that says it will side with you, but when it's face to face with you, it laughs and mocks you and ends it with overlooking your pain. Which is why I am here, doing what seems like the only standing option for survival after all the ones before it failed.