Page 1 of Taking Me

Prologue

Life is and always will be cruel. Maybe not for everyone, but it sure as hell is for me. In the shadowed alleys of a city that never slept, where the air was thick with the scent of desperation and decay, I learned to survive.

My name was whispered in hushed tones, a legend among the forgotten souls who roamed these streets. No one knew who I really was. Some referred to me as the “Night Rider” or “La Muerte”.

As a child, I navigated a world where trust was a luxury and every corner held a potential threat. I was alone for the most part bouncing from one family member to the next.

My mom attempted to raise me throughout my life but unfortunately for her, it all had finally caught up. The drugs, the alcohol, the abuse, and the different men every night. She was killed. I have her to thank for my fists becoming my primary language, my wits, my shield.

I fought for every scrap, every breath, and every fleeting moment of peace. For myself and for her. It was just too late. I failed and I will never fail again.

The streets were my school, teaching me the harsh lessons of betrayal, danger, resilience, and cunning. I watched as friends were swallowed by the darkness, their dreams crushed under the weight of reality. Most of them turned to drugs or lethal gangs, hell most of them were dead by the age of eighteen. But I refused to be another casualty along with them.

The fire within me burned too brightly, I have potential. I just know I do—a relentless drive to rise above the chaos that is seeking to consume me.

The military was my escape, a chance to channel my rage into something more.

I enlisted with nothing but the clothes on my back and a heart full of defiance at the age of eighteen. Discipline, structure, and a new kind of family awaited me there. Or so I thought.

It wasn’t exactly what I thought it’d be. My thoughts going in would be a safe place to lay my head every night, battle buddies to look after me and protect me. Leadership that puts its soldiers above everyone else. No, I got the dark side. I deployed straight after my Advanced Individual Training to Iraq, where I thrived in the chaos of battle, my past sharpening my instincts, making me a formidable warrior.

My comrades saw me as unhinged, but to me, it was simply the only way to be—unapologetically fierce, relentlessly driven, and best yet, starving for death and vengeance.

In the heat of combat, I found a strange solace. The battlefield was a canvas, and I painted it crimson with the skills honed in the backstreets of my youth and my tactical training. Something about bloodshed fed my soul like it was starving. I moved with lethal grace, and my every action was a testament to the strength born from adversity.

My superiors did take notice, recognizing the raw potential within me. I was a natural. Some took advantage of it. They pushed me harder and tested my limits, and I met every challenge with a ferocity that left them in awe.

I’ll never forget one of my first NCOs calling me by the nickname “Tormenta” every time I was needed. It was a simple name yet one I grew to love. I also loved the fact that we never needed to be on a first-name basis here. Nicknames were earned which meant that it stuck with you no matter what.

I spent two years in Iraq until I sustained an injury. Thanks to an under trained squad leader who led us right into an IED field mine causing our HMMWV to blow up and flip into a fairly deep ditch. I was one of two survivors. My buddy Ghost luckily made it out with me. However, he sustained way more injuries causing him to lose half of his left leg. Getting medically discharged and sent back home to a place that was no longer home. I knew I needed change. I needed to do something for myself. I was alone now. I had no one to watch my six. I had no one to keep in line. I thought about Iraq constantly, blaming myself for all of the things we could have done differently.

Now, as I stand on the precipice of a new mission, the lines between my past and present blur. The streets taught me survival, the military honed me into a weapon, and now, I am ready to face whatever darkness lies ahead. Memories of my childhood haunt my dreams, a constant reminder of the battles I have fought and the ones still to come. But I am not afraid. I am a force to be reckoned with, a living testament to the power of resilience.

My journey is far from over. The world is vast, filled with new challenges and enemies who have yet to learn the true meaning of fear. I embrace the unknown, my heart pounding with the thrill of the hunt. For I am not just a soldier, not just a survivor—I am the embodiment of unyielding strength, a beacon of hope for those who dare to defy their fate. And as I step into the night, ready to face whatever comes, I know one thing for certain: I will never back down. Never give up.

My past was disturbed, it broke me in a way I can’t heal. I was abused, and my mother left trouble to follow me and break me. Her doings could not be undone. And for that I must pay.

One

Hallows Eve

Happy fuckin’ Hallows Eve. Do you know what time it is? It’s that time of the year when dumb ass, inconsiderate people think they can do whatever they fuckin’ please here in town. They assume that they are just scaring people and doing absolutely nothing wrong. They come out to fuck with people who don’t do shit to them. I can not stand that shit. It is annoying and pointless.

I never really understood it. But I can’t complain too much; it’s my hunting season. The time of year when I get to make crimson nights and final moments for those who, in better words, “Fuck around and find out.” I mean… As a huntress, my pursuits are not confined to Halloween alone. However, the chaos and disguise of the holiday provide a perfect cover. It’s a time when the streets are filled with masked faces, and the unusual is expected, making it a simple matter to blend in and easily conceal my tracks. The festive atmosphere offers an abundance of targets, and the bloodshed goes unnoticed amidst the revelry. On Halloween, the hunt becomes a game, a dance ofshadows where I can strike without raising suspicion, slipping back into the night as if I were never there.

The parties and events that get hosted are the best places for me to attend. People who attend them are usually the pricks caught in town tormenting people repeatedly. I will tell you: one thing that drives me to complete and utter rage is bum-ass men who abuse women. I show no mercy to them, and I swore to myself that I wouldn’t. I don’t care for men as is. I like being alone. Being alone only leaves me to focus on myself.

I like to make ends meet where needed. I’m the fuckin’ master at fuckin up people who deserve it, 365 days a year. I don’t just go for anyone; I’m a little picky about the ones I choose to brutally fuck up. I savor the hunt, the thrill of the chase, and that final, chilling moment when they realize their fate. Each victim is carefully selected, ensuring they truly deserve the terror that’s about to befall them. It is a mix of intuition and a little pinch of justice that can drive me.

I try looking for those who have wronged others in some sort of way, who spread fear and pain without remorse. They mostly range from men who beat on their women to pedophiles who like raping kids. Some days, I’d just get pissed off and take my rage out on some drunk at the bar in town. I show a bit of mercy—nothing a quick trip to the hospital won’t fix.

I was a God damn Goddess when it came to protecting the ones who needed it. In my own merciful way, of course. I’m no fuckin’ Wonder Woman, and I don’t classify myself as a superhero. I guess that I kind of look at myself as more of an antihero because my morals are definitely fucked up. I’m more of a vigilante, I think. I’m like the hero no one wants but everyone deserves.

Autumn is my favorite time of year; the trees start to wither and die. The bright, sunny days turn into cold, gloomy ones. People are more at home, and it’s typically the time when I tendto shine most. Holiday seasons are known for pieces of shit to do some unspeakable things.

Last year, a man beat his wife to a bloody pulp for cooking a turkey wrong. He tied up his kids to sit and watch mommy being “punished,” and once I heard about it. I had decided that he must be a prime example to those who do the same sick shit. I learned some serious skills in the Army, and I made sure to use them to my full advantage. After the incident, I got medically discharged, and my brain went haywire—my rage unleashed itself like a beast, more often than I’d like to admit. No medication could even attempt to control it. But at least I was clean and precise in my methods, like a surgeon with a scalpel.

The bastard didn’t even get jail time because once his wife came out of the hospital, she told the police it was just an accident and made up some bullshit lies to save his ass. Some women feel like they can’t survive without their abusive partner, mainly because of financial reasons or in hopes they will change. I have seen it so many times, and it’s always the same.

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