Trauma Train Part 2

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For the rest of you, I will be posting an excerpt from The Silver Ninja: Narco Hotel.

Please note that this is not a final excerpt. This means that the wording, sentence structure, and content is subject to change.

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Previously . . .

Last month: Cindy asked her PTSD stricken father about the war. She wants information about a sensitive topic, but dad isn’t interested in discussing the past.

‘I didn’t invite them because I need to talk to you about something private.’ She took a long pause. ‘About the war.’

“Who wants to talk about a dumb old war?”

He waved her off. “Let’s talk about happy things. Like, who came up with the idea of putting a boiled egg in ramen? It’s delicious!”

“Dad . . .”

“Cindy, I didn’t get on that cramped PATH train to talk about my past.”

“In my defense, I offered to come to you.”

“Ahhh, I’m bored of the restaurants in Hoboken. Your choices are: Cuban, Italian, Italian, Italian, Ital—”

“I get it dad.”

They both laughed. Her father grabbed a sushi roll with chopsticks and downed it with one bite. While he chewed, she reluctantly pressed him further. “It’s really important.”

He swallowed down his food and grunted. “I don’t care how important you think it is.”

“It involves me.”

“Oh, boy.” He drummed the table with his fingers. “This better be good.”

She didn’t want to open up these old wounds. Didn’t want to relive what the war demons did to her father, how they nearly destroyed their lives. He wouldn’t hit or do anything physically abusive. What made him a terror was the mood swings and the wailing and screaming until the early hours of the morning. The bipolar shift from happy to angry just by asking, ‘how was your day?’ ‘My day was fucking fine!’ Unfortunately, she needed him, needed his guidance. She wanted what he couldn’t give her when he was a drunk. A father.

“Someone asked me to do something that would reduce crime in the city. The problem is—” she stared into his eyes. “—I have to hurt some people.”

“So don’t do it. The end.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“How do you not have a choice?”

“I just don’t.”

He turned his head and squinted. “Are we talking about wetwork?”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s a euphemism for—” he slid a thumb across his throat.

She nodded. “That’s what we’re talking about.”

He set aside his ramen bowl and leaned forward as if whispering government secrets. “Why would this individual ask you to do that? Are you involved in something illegal? Do we need to call the police? Tell me who’s bothering you and I’ll take care of him.”

“No, Dad. This is a police matter. Please don’t ask me questions I can’t answer.”

“You haven’t actually—” he gave her a knowing look. She responded by looking away. “Baby . . . no. You didn’t.”

“Dad,” she said with resolute firmness. “You can’t change what you did in the war. I can’t change the things I did.”

His harsh face softened almost to the point of weeping. “Why would you do that? You, of all people. That’s not like you.”

“They hurt, Jadie, Dad. Tell me you wouldn’t do the same.”

She could see the disappointment in his face and it broke her inside. His reaction made her feel like a failure, as if she had let everyone down. Still he was her father and he was willing to do anything for her. “What do you want to know?”

“How do you deal with what happens after a . . . wetwork?”

Trauma Train Part 3
Wilmar Luna