I did nothing when El Presidente poured the boiling water over Jorge’s head. I only stood there. Watched his skin melt away. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t implicate myself.
Normally, El Presidente leaves the torture for the good folks who run his dungeons. Jorge was a special case. His crimes–our crimes–were too great.
I don’t know why he didn’t betray me, but he didn’t.
I don’t know why I didn’t help him.
I was five meters away.
It would have been so easy to draw my gun and put a bullet in El Presidente’s skull.
But I didn’t.
This story was written for Friday Fictioneers. I almost didn’t post one this week. My first three attempts resulted in stories that weren’t even remotely worth sharing–I’m not even sure this one was worth sharing–and I’m going away for awhile this weekend so I won’t have a lot of time for reading the others, but I’ll try to at least get a handful read.