My heartbeat thunders in my ears threatening to overpower the words spoken. With my cheek pressed to the cheaply constructed cell wall I listen as the raspy voice recounts in detail his offense. How he posed for a celebratory photo with the corpse of my companion.

A scene flashes across my mind. I see Rakiems widow holding the hand of their son. A look of detachment in her tear swollen eyes as the mourners lament.

Rage simmers just below the surface, my muscles coiled awaiting an order. The voice quiets. I follow him as he makes his way to the showers. The squeek of metal on metal as he turns the knobs signals me to start. I step forward while his back is to me. Expecting more of a struggle from a man his size. But thankfully brute strength is no match for training. My foot connects with the back of his knee as I force his head into the unforgiving cement wall. Strangulation is easier when they are unconscious. The pressure necessary to snuff out his life likely won’t leave a mark. Perfect.

Those wet floors can be a real hazard.

Why does it smell like margaritas and body odor? Oh yeah that's me. "Water, agua por favor" I mutter still intoxicated from the night before. The bartender glares at me with his one good eye.

"We're not open gringa" he states flatly as he slams the empty glass on the bar in front of me.

A child giggles in the doorway and pinches her little nose at me.

Do I smell that bad? I think to myself as I sniff my shirt. Ugh. I do indeed. "Hey kid, do you know where I can use a phone?" She smiles and waves me over to her. "Where you visited by the monkeys?" she wispers.

What an absured question. "What monkeys?" I ask, half expecting a rational explanation as to why and how I came to wake up on a beach in Cabo with a splitting headache.

"You know, the monkeys." She urges. Her english surpsingly good.

"No, I don't know. Can you explain?" I growl out trying not to lose my patience and the contents of my stomach.

"Well they visit my dad sometimes. They steal all of his money, trash the house and shit in his mouth." Her little face dead serious as she looks at me.

Why does death make us sad?

Are our emotions the product of our environment or a reaction to the facts?

What is the difference between emotional state and reality?

What are the realities of death?

Is loss just an illusion?

We have no way of knowing what death is until it happens to us. Perhaps it is the best part of life.

I feel uncomfortable when I question my beliefs. But I feel more uncomfortable to follow an idea without questioning its origin.

What is a belief, if not a set of ideas, that we decide is true?