An Angel's Vice

Chapter 1 - Dancing With Death

A/N: Y'all are only getting a preview. The other chapters will be released soon, and half of them being released depends on y'all showing tf up. All of this is free, so is showing up and that is all I ask in return for the effort I put in to write good stories, to entertain, to make it an experience involving all kinds of emotions but overall fun.

Ride this wave or get off now. Please just appreciate the art for what it is, you'll have so much fun no trying to control it. Let it hit you. Enjoy this first chapter, the next one is Candy.

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Medellín, Colombia - 2008

"Quien es esa chica?"

"Quien?"

"Ella. Sentada en el bar sola. Ella se parece a la persona de la que se queja nuestro patrón. La blanquita que nos ha estado robando." (Sitting at the bar alone. She looks like the person our boss is complaining about. The white girl who has been stealing from us.)

The glass, dry against her calloused fingertips that graze the rim but doesn't commit to picking it up to finish off the rum staring back at her. She sways like a weak branch in the wind and takes up space on the bar stool with her broad slouched shoulders and elbows expanded like wings on the aged wooden bar top that reeks of ash, cinnamon and all the alcohol contents spilled from today's populous party. The thick bundles of her bold black mane hides her face like a smothering shadow, as her head hangs and seldom raises. No one has a clear view of what she looks like though anyone can see the long overdue ash that continues to grow from the burning cigarette dangling from her lips. The grey guayabera shirt, larger than her appropriate size, she wears fashionably—although it may as well be a rag used to clean the dirty hood of a car considering its state—and it juxtaposes the brown baggy sweatpants hanging off her dangling legs. What an unusual girl, standing out amongst the company of relatively glamorous hookers for drug dealers, as though she seeks attention on purpose but plays those around her so they see her as someone who wants to be left the fuck alone. The woman these two men speak of doesn't talk at all. In fact, the only words muttered from her were to clarify the order of her drink she'd stick to the remainder of the late night.

Next to her glass of rum are planks of half eaten avocadoes coated with chili flakes and juices squeezed from the limon slices lying on a napkin, a sharp short knife with a fine leather handle, and pinchos de lomito on a small plate, untouched and no longer sizzling hot. She ignores the men sizing her up and talking at her in all kinds of crazy ways when met with her resistance and disdain. She doesn't get up and dance to the Cumbia songs the DJ plays in the other room west of the bar, she doesn't even look up for the soccer game from earlier replaying on the old flatscreen mounted on the wall for those who missed it. Such arrogance...such disregard for life, for culture, the warm and inviting nature of the people in this country and in this barrio. And when the short, round shaped man approaches her, matching the energy she disrespectfully exudes, she doesn't even flinch or pay him any mind. What she does do is finally ash her cigarette, light a new one, then goes back to hiding like a turtle in its shell.

The clearing of his throat is distinct before he asks as a warning, "Quién eres tú?" (Who are you?)

No response. His laugh is as short as his patience, as he clicks his gun that he now holds and aims at her. The man reduces the distance between them enough to catch a whiff of her entire weekend on her clothes and alcohol stronger than the one on his own breath. His nose crinkles and he sneers. "Este es mi bar y tú eres una extraña aquí. Dime quién eres y qué haces aquí. Si no..." (This is my bar and you are a stranger here. Tell me who you are and what you are doing here. If not...)

"Guarda tu arma, no la vas a usar," she slurs. (Put away your gun, you're not going to use it.)

"Oh si?" he chuckles darkly and makes a point of sweeping her greasy hair behind her shoulders with the barrel of his glock. "Y por que no?"