No Quiero Entender

No quiero entender. I don’t want to understand. I just want to take. I just want to keep. I don’t want to release.

No quiero entender. I don’t want to understand. I will take. I will keep. I won’t release.
              The Boss Man was always watching, always raising quota. Always. Wanting. More. Of course, the Boss Man sent me to this lovely hellhole known as Texas. The Boss Man said he was about to break loose here. He was about to reign this place.
              The Boss Man sent me to Vel-As-Co. Velasco was no job for me. Shots rang out. The rebels, the little Texans, against the homeland, the big Mexicans. I had seen into the future, just because that’s my job, my not-so-much life. I would have smiled, if I wanted to be seen. Gun after gun, bullet after bullet, shot after shot, until the shooting stopped. The Mexicans left. Up and left. They lost their Legos, got mad, and went home. Just a little skirmish. Just. A. Little. Battle.

The Boss Man, relentless and cruel, forced me into a new place. Gonzales. Gon-Zal-Es. The Boss Man said this was where he’d start. This was where he’d end one of my sires. Peace. Harmony. The Boss Man grinned his awful sneer, his cold, hard, smirk. He slapped me on my thin back and nearly sent me sprawling. But he didn’t.

The Boss Man sent them in. The Mexicans. They tried to take the most trivial thing from the Tiny Texans, their tiny tinny cannon.   Eighteen men. Eighteen Tiny Texans. They were all that tried to protect their protection. The Mexicans advanced. The Texans fired. Chaos broke like a rubber band. Snap!

The stinging pain the rubber band left on me wasn’t allowed long before I felt the tugging. The pull. Like a dream, hazy, numb, and unclear, I felt myself being pulled toward the epicenter. Through the fog of my brain my feet found a man. And he was covered in a deep crimson.

I knelt down and softly brushed his cheek with my hand. He was still warm and his skin softly gave under my butterfly-like touch. The man’s face was peaceful, without lines or creases of stress or worry. I gently brushed some hair out of his face.

The warmth he lent my fingers was beginning to fade. Reluctant to take him but knowing I must, I slipped my arms under him. He was light enough for me to cradle him like a baby. I took one last deep breath over the spot he had laid, and turned away. I could feel him shrinking, deaging. I watched his face. The sharp contours gave to softer lines. His hair went from brown to fuzzy beige. Finally, I held a baby in my arms.

This baby didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, didn’t cry. In his chest there was a gaping hole, the size of the baby’s fist. The crimson no longer rushed. The baby was frozen in time. “Ave Atque Vale.” I whispered, and brought my hands into a ball. The baby shrank into my fists.

I opened my fists and wisps of smoke escaped from my fingers. They were mostly light blue, dusted with gold. There was one wisp that was pure black. His evil, his demon. This man was a good man, but every man has a dark side. Every man has a demon will never leave him, not even in death.

It was purely business. Every time, every single time, it was a baby I shrank into. Every time I let go of the wisps that was that baby. Not every time were all the wisps blue.

And thus Gonzales was done. The Tiny Texans won, by what cards, I do not know. But the Boss Man does. He always knows. And he always instigates.

All too soon I found myself at Béxar. Bay-Har. The pull was strong here. I lost count this battle. A tiny Texan by the name of Ben Milam was the most notable to me. Who would follow him, if they knew he would meet me? Ben Milam had twin streams of black wisps. The thought of what he could’ve done made me shudder.

The Alamo was almost too much. The good old boy, General Travis, his line, Jim Bowie. I collected them all. The tiny Texans’ last stand turned many into wisps. Black wisps, blue wisps, and gold wisps. Many gold wisps. Mexicans, too. A lot of them. Three sole survivors. Susanna Dickinson, her daughter Angela, and Travis’ slave. The whirlwind was too much for me.

Goliad was awful. Go-Li-Add. Every last Texan, every single prisoner of war, executed. I held so many in my arms. I wanted relief. I wanted to end it. No quiero entendar. I was imprisoned. But I don’t want to understand.

The Boss Man never knew what the future held. He enjoyed the bloody conflict. I made plans for suicide I couldn’t commit. I only enjoyed the release of grace and mercy. This was cold blooded murder.

San Jacinto was the Boss Man’s demise. He would not get release. He only lay in wait. After the deciding battle.  Within 18 minutes, I had released so many sleeping soldiers, murdered in their beds. The Texans didn’t win that war. They only cheated the checkers. But their war was just getting started.

No quiero entendar. I don’t want to understand.

My job was a lonely one.

No quiero entendar.

I was the true killer.

No quiero entendar.

But that didn’t matter.

I am, I was, I always will be Nakir.

No quiero entendar.