A Photographer Kidnapped in Mexico

Part 1

Note: this telling of real events includes strong language and descriptions of torture including sexual assault.

The cartilage connecting my ribs to my sternum is badly bruised after one of the men hit me in the chest with the butt of an AK-47.

Self portrait of the author, taken in Western New York.

I’d been forced to stand against a wall and my back took as much of a blow as my rib cage. There is a burning straight through my chest to my spine and Advil doesn’t touch it. Nor does tramadol.

There’s a scab on the top of my head where the same man ground the barrel of a 9mm pistol into my scalp, saying he was going to sodomize me, kill me, cut off my lips, fingers, and dick.

I grew up with guns. I’d never been beaten with guns before. Dozens of beatings with dozens of guns. And fists. And feet. And words. Guns at my head. Guns in my ribs. Guns in my mouth. Guns for endless games of Russian Roulette. Guns as heavy as hammers.

And which testicle did I want shot off, the left or the right?

My jaw doesn’t move the way it should and it aches all the way to my inner ear when I try to sleep. That came from being kicked in the face by another cartel member in steel toe boots, a kick that rid me of a few more teeth.