GRINGA

CHAPTER ONE

If I knew
an asshole was going to murder me
that warm, summer’s day in
Mexico
, I’d have done th
ings differently that morning. I would have had p
izza for breakfast, skipped the sun screen and written my family a farewell letter.

             
The letter would be
poignant and heart-
r
ending
. I would thank them for the
precious memories, tell them how much I love
them, wish them
…

             
Actually, to be honest, I would tell them to go
fuck themselves
!

      
             
             
Yep, my
letter would read:

Dad or Father – Ne
ver had the
guts
to
tell you this, but I always craved your love
. Growing up
,
I felt unwanted, alone, fatherless. Because of you, I’m
so screwed
up
.
I date older men,
borderline fucking paedophiles, because
I’m constantly searching for a father
-
figure. 

Elaine, you came into my life and said, “Call me Mommy”. You should have added “Dearest”. You eroded every bit of self confidence I ha
d with your constant belittling. You called me fat, unattractive, slow
and I
am
what I
am
today because of you – angry, aggressive, defensive.

You really are a
fucking
Wicked Stepmother. In fact, you make Cinderella’s stepmother look like the Tooth Fairy on weed. I think God has issues with me
.
She must have, if she took away my
wonderful
mother when I was
just
six and sent me you. 

Paris, my stepsister, or Miss
Los Angeles
Diva 1999, as you like to be called. So beautiful, so striking, so nasty. Meaner than a
Nevada
rattle
snake, meaner than a scorpion and meaner than
,
well, a mean girl in high school. Spent my childhood living in your shadow. You took everything – my Barbies, my books, my best friends, ’cause you could. Then we grew up and you took my boyfriend. You stole
Austin
and married him. Quickly. Then you had his baby. Very quickly. You had so many fans, but you had to have him, because I had him. I told you I was cool with the two of you hooking up
-
I lied. I told you I was happy for you both
-
I was faking it. I hurt like hell. I still do.  

             
So, Adiós family. Now
,
go fuck yourselves.

*
             
*
             
*

I stare into the murderous
, bloodshot
eyes of a monster and I
shake
with fear. He
whips out a gun and points it to me.

             
‘I gon
kill you,’ he
snarls.
What d
o you know, evil keeps its word. W
ithout the slightest hesitation, he raises his
9mm
and fires
into my chest.

             
I’m lucky though
, I don’t feel much.
Hitting the pavement hurts more than the bullet.

             
Amazingly, I’m still
aware of my surroundings. I hear distant voices,
whimpering,
a child crying,
heavy, deliberate footsteps
approaching
.

             
Someone roughly picks up my
limp
body and walks with it. Then I’m free
-
falling.

             
Suddenly, I’m wet and cold
and it’s
dark
.

             
‘Mommy,’ I call, ‘my bath water’s cold again. It’s too dark
, mom. T
urn on the light.’

  
             
‘It’s okay Payton,’ my
m
om soothes. ‘Don’t fight it
. J
ust come with me
,
baby girl. It’s gonna be okay, I promise.’

             
‘
Mom, why didn’t you take
me
to this
better
place
everyone says you’ve gone to? Why did you leave me behind?’

             
I get no answer, just a melancholy smile from my mom.

I wake up in a dimly
-
lit room. The putrid stench of decaying flesh assaults my senses. I look down at my body – it’s heavily bandaged
and
I’m lying on some sort of
narrow
stretcher.

             
My eyes scan the room. It re
sembles a large tepee
- smoky,
warm and crowded with all sorts of weird things – small dead animals in jars, bottled herbs, large leaves piled one on top of the other and various bizarre concoctions
.
Freaky
, like I’m in a witchdoctor’s room
.

             
I need to get the hell out of here. I
try to move, but the pa
in in my chest is so intense, I
stop.
Where the
fuck
am I?
How come
I
’m
hurting so much?

             
Over the next couple of minutes I start to remember. Payton Wagner - that’s my name. Twenty one
-
University of Los Angeles, on holiday in
Mexico
with my
deadbeat
father and
bitch of a
stepmother. I remember us leaving our five-star holiday resort
and visiting my Paris and Austin in Siempre, a village in remote and mountainous
Mexico
.

             
A
ustin
’
s an engineer
with
a year-long contract with the Mexican government – something to do with building bridges in isolated area
s of
Mexico
. At first, I
had
declined
Paris
’s invitation
to join her
, but she badgered us with
messages
, complaining that she desperately needed company. Since I
secretly
wanted to see
Austin
, I went
along
and a
psycho
tried to murder me.
 

   
             
The psycho! My breathing is suddenly erratic,
there
’
s roaring in my ears
and my mouth gets dry
. Am I still in his clutches?
Is he here?
Why
the hell did he shoot me?

             
I
rack my brain. I
did nothing wrong
-
I was just taking holiday photos when I heard a bloodcurdling scream
. This
swarthy, hairy, giant of a
nut job
on a black horse, scream
ed
and thunder
ed
towards me, his dreadlocks flying all over his
angry mug
.