Lesson

“Mira, chamaco,” Diablo gruffly spat, “we can’t afford no f**k-ups.”

Hel squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in his teeth when the Diablo flipped a knife from his back pocket and dealt a small, swift blow to Hel’s right cheek, narrowly sparing his eye. Diablo slid the blade back into its hidden holster and glanced away from the boy (who, now, was breathing erratically) to the sole decrepit door on the opposite side of the dilapidated room from them.

“Get out of my face.”

Not wanting to wait for the Diablo to repeat his leveling gaze, Hel scrambled to his feet and started for the door. He managed a couple quick steps before his calloused boss erupted in wheezing laughter. Hel dropped his face and shakily turned to meet the Diablo’s eyes.

“Escuchar, Helio, este es que no haces!”

“This is what I don’t do?” Hel repeated hopelessly to himself. What… else am I meant to do? As if on queue, the boss laughed again.

“Me olvide, no speaking the Spanish?” Smiling, Diablo traced Hel’s steps and patted the boy’s left cheek twice. “Or are you scared?”

“No—no, jefe,” Hel croaked, embarrassed by the sound of his fear, “I understand.”

He now returned the gesture and locked eyes with Diablo. Heart pounding in his throat, Hel shoved his trembling hands to his sides and clutched his pants, adding more wrinkles to the multitude already present. A puff escaped the Diablo’s nose as his smile widened. After what felt like hours, the shadow finally left Hel’s face as his boss’ hulking figure stepped back. Diablo tilted his calloused neck sharply toward the direction of the door, urging Hel to follow, which Hel knew meant he was expected to follow. The second the boss turned his back, Hel swiped his cheek with the back of his hand and wiped it on the bottom of his dingy, torn shirt.

Diablo led Hel to the next room down the consistently decrepit hallway, whereupon entry Hel quickly took notice of the shabby, termite-hollowed table within the room, a comparatively luxurious upgrade from the previous empty room. Hel took his final chance at cleaning his face of now encrusted blood as the Diablo shut the creaky, weathered door behind them.

“You know, when I was your age, I was already knowing how to use un pistola.” Diablo reached into his left pocket and uncovered a tarnished silver handgun, tilting it in the burnt orange light of the single bulb hanging from the ceiling in the room. “I think it’s about time you learn.” He looked to Hel and handed him the weapon, handle facing the apprentice. “Prove your worth.”

The pistol glistened in Hel’s eyes. He squinted and stiffly took the gun without a word. Knowing how his boss would react without a clear answer, Hel fluttered his eyelids and faintly nodded. This was coming for a long time; I guess this is my test.

Much to Hel’s surprise (and moderate unease), Diablo stepped up to him and placed one of his large scarred, chapped hands utop his matted golden head. The serious expression remained stone cold on the boss’ face.

“Mira mijo is the only way to defend yourself in this world.” Diablo’s eyes did not waver as he stared through the boy for the few seconds that, to Hel, felt like competition for Limbo. “Set up some bottles over there,” Diablo huskily added, removing his extended hand to gesture towards the rickety table to his left.