(no subject)
He’s blacked out again but this time, no dream.
He wakes up in intervals on the freeway, seeing only momentary glimpses of the world above him, like a carousel slide projector with slides missing playing at double speed.
His vision, his perfect vision, it’s all but gone.
There’s a t-shirt and a rope tied around his mid-section where the Devil ran a knife through him. The pressure on the wound keeps the blood from flowing, while his horizontal body keeps the blood running to its proper places.
Voices swirl around him, conversations cut and paste in random order, psychobabbling between his ears.
Stars shine like a galactic version of his old Light Brite nightlight in his bedroom, lights glowing and turning from color to color.
His eyes are kaleidoscopes; the world spins out of control.
Toes go numb and every so often, he can feel nothing below his waist.
Streetlights blur into long lines of white, then yellow, then white fluorescent streams running parallel to each other.
How long this goes on, he doesn’t know.
The cold is no longer on his skin but in his veins, his bones.
His fear, his ever-present fear has disappeared.
He’s numb like there’s a void where his heart used to be, like his conscience finally said “Fuck it,” and gave all control to his will.
Everything has given way to his will, his will to save a life, and right a wrong.
An eternity drifts by him, like the open air flowing around him.
Then suddenly, he hears a slam.
The truck’s tailgate slams open.
Hands grab his arms, his back
“…You don’t hurt yourself anymore…”
“We got you…”
“…Even worry about a thing we got…”
He wonders what Jesus must have felt like on his way to Golgotha.
The world spins in a spiral in front of him.
I’m here; it’s all almost over.
They drag his limp body out of the bed of the truck and stand him still.
He sways under the weight of his body, his feet the un-sturdy foundation of a collapsible building.
For a moment, nothing is said. There is only the silence of hesitation for the fear of the unknown. Like amateur fighters circling each other, fearful of making the first move.
Martirio sighs, and focuses all the energy in his body.
“You guys take off, things are going to get real bad,” he says, his voice sounding like a drunk after a payday’s drinking.
All six men stare at him, as if wanting to say something, as if wanting to tell him “No, we’re going to help you.”
But there’s something in his eyes, something so grave which reaches deep into their souls, their hearts.
Several of them look to the floor almost out of shame for not helping this kid any further. But this is as far as they go and the rest is up to this kid.
They say nothing as Chavo closes the tailgate and the rest of the men pack in to the truck.
Before hopping into the truck bed, Chavo shakes Martirio’s hand, saying “Que Dios te bendiga.”
May God bless you.
The truck starts with a whine, and then roars loud with every inch of the motor dragging the mobile forward.
Martirio stares at the truck as it drives away, he’s down the block from the house and can feel it’s presence behind him like a huge bonfire burning at his back.
A huge bonfire such as those lit in Japan, set ablaze so that the spirits of their ancestors can return home.
Home for one last visit.