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And he saw the light disappear as quickly as it appeared.
The lead he acquired; was gone.
Nicotine filled the room, tattered clothes and forgotten bottles of whisky laid strewn on the ground. Javier sat, his mind filled with endless words and endless faults as he diminished the small red tip into smouldering ashes. He graved a sigh and picked up his half-empty whisky glass, downing the remaining amber liquid. The liquid sent a dull burning sensation through his throat, making his tongue hiss with bitterness. The manila folder sat limply on his coffee table, his gun not so far off- uncocked and laying there- the heavy weight not missed on his hip.
Fucking Escobar. He swore.
It weighed him.
He eyes the half-emptied liquid in the bottle, his throat yearning for the stinging sensation that burned his throat, the temporary solace he’d get to forget about the pain that rooted itself deep in his chest.
Fucking Escobar.
Javier shook his head and sighed, reaching for another cigarette. The flame on his lighter flickering as the air lightly breezed back. His eyes fixated on the red-orange flame, the heat singeing his hands, sending sharp pains through his calloused fingers but he didn’t care.
It was a hell of a lot better than what he was feeling.
Fucking. Escobar.
He let out a staggered cough, the silent feeling of relief filling his lungs as he sucked the tightly wrapped nicotine. Smoke flew in front of him, lingering in front of his parched nose and tired eyes, causing them to no longer water at the smell of the burnt chemicals.
It was only temporary.
The whisky, cigarettes and sex.
They were only temporary.
Fucking- He hated him.
He forgot how to sleep. He’d seen enough blood, killed enough Sicarios and injured enough civilians to fill his nightmares. The memories of failures that haunted him even with dawn breaking.
Javier hated the trembles, the feeling of fear that he woke up too as he clutched his gun in the corner of his home, desperate for the sun to come up and tried desperately to forget the fraught fears heaving in his chest.
Sleeping wasn’t an option anymore. He couldn’t take the wrangled breaths and whimpering sobs as he reached for the nearest thing to defend himself. How angry he’d felt when he remembered the intel he supplied, the confidence as he insisted on this and when the thought dulled, the only thing that followed was the memory clawed at his throat and drilled into mind.
He knew, he knew, that he should sleep.
But all he could hear was the shell-casing falling from Carrillo's gun and the gentle thud of the child’s body as it fell; limp.
And the feeling of flames licking Carrillo's car as they met the ambush. His body riddled with bullet holes and the havoc that Escobar left.
He still remembered how he found it with Steve. His cold body lying slack against the pavement as the pool of blood reflected the angry flames around them. He watched as other members shouted words - of anger and sadness, of violence and murder - but all he could do was stare at the scene he had caused.
And he tried so hard to compose himself as he watched the maniacal flame engulf Carrillo's car and the roaring heat cackling ugly words at him. He should've been angry or scared but all he could do was feel the little bits of him falling apart, sinking into the depths of his guilt and despair.
That’s all he saw when he closed his eyes. And it haunted him.
He needed something.
But it wasn’t enough.
The whisky, cigarettes and sex.
He could still see- feel - the pain. It didn’t take much.
But it would have to do.
Javier blankly stared at the whisky bottle that sat in front of him, a little piece of yearning spilling in his throat as he reached forward and poured himself another glass, finishing it.
He could only bury himself in his grave for so long, desperately trying to forget the blood that flowed freely on the stony streets, how the muscle and bone would lie unnaturally in it’s shattered position and how the smell of iron would linger on his clothes when he arrived home. He’d remembered the sound of heavy, limp bodies as it dropped into the back of the truck and the taunting cardboard sign stained in crimson blood.
He just needed something to forget.
The guilt, the pain, the sadness.
He just needed to forget. If only for a day.
His daily downing of cigarettes and whisky only dulled the ache, never enough to drown himself in it. The pure ecstasy when he had sex only lasted for a few minutes before the pain crawled back into his heart and drowned him.
He wasn’t sure if he was trying to forget the pain, the guilt or the sadness.
One of them. Or all of them.
Javier wasn’t sure.
He’d convinced himself that this was all Esocbar’s fault but in reality, there was no way out of the sins he committed trying to catch them. Los Pepes. He knew what he’d done, he’d seen the bodies.
Sometimes you have to do bad things to catch bad people.
Every time he unravelled another body, he felt the wind being knocked out of his polluted lungs, as he struggled to breathe.
He shouldn’t be exempt from punishment.
It was just a matter of waiting now.
Fuck. Whisky. He reminded, reaching for the glass to drown out his pathetic sorrows. It burned him. Made him forget if only for a few hours, the throbbing pain in the back of his head and the guilt that lined his soul.
If there was a way out of this war, he couldn’t see it. It just kept going, going, going. Where was the endpoint? He couldn’t see it.
He couldn’t see it.
And it scared him.
Even if he crawled to the end, it would be filled with enough bodies and bloodshed. Was it worth it? Everything he’s sacrificed for this war, was it worth it? That was the existential question that ran through most Agents - even the Ambassador - but nobody dared say it out loud.
Was it worth it?
When he steps out of this, would it be? Everything that they’ve suffered through - the anguish and guilt that constantly throbbed at his mind. The pain that sinks through his throat and into the pits of his stomach, trying so desperately to forget the way his mind screamed for any, any, form of relief. It screamed in pure agony every time he found another body, every time he slipped another note to Don Berna, it burned with all it’s white flame through his conscious and merely sat - raw and unsettled by the constant thinking.
Was it worth it? He doesn’t fucking know anymore.
Sitting up, his guilty conscience began to scream about the intel; the one that got Carrillo killed.
Javier pushed himself up from the sofa, throwing off the heavy leather jacket onto the sofa and reaching for an unopened bottle of whisky. He poured himself another glass, excitement rising in his chest as he marvelled at the liquid that flowed out and the relief he’d feel burning down his throat. He downed half the liquid in one swig, the alcohol stinging his tongue. Javier reached for another cigarette, lighting it quickly and inhaling the smoke that danced in front of him.
And for a minute: he forgot. The memories, the bloodshed, the guilt.
It flickered away.
If only for a minute. Javier forgot the confrontation he had with his panicked emotions, only feeling the sweet relief of nicotine and alcohol filling his system.
And just like that, the light disappeared as quickly as it appeared, drowning itself in the misery that he’d known for so long.