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Benito and Irma, who shared the bedroom, were still in bed, still naked.

The covers had been yanked off and tossed to the floor.

Irma was physically unharmed, but next to her, Benito was in bad shape.

His jaw had been shattered.

It hung limply to one side.

One eye was sunken and facing in an odd direction.

The socket shattered.

Both his arms had been broken, bones protruding from the skin.

A knife jutted from his heaving chest, having been jammed between two ribs.

His feet had also been smashed, toes pulverized and ankles broken.

Two of the men must have gone at him with bats.

Maybe all four of them had.

The bed and Irma were covered in blood.

My mind struggled to process the terrifying imagery, coming in dark flashes of sickening violence.

Part of me rejected it, wanting only to push it away.