Boycotting Blue

31/Lou

Lou

 

 

I curled up against the bed, pulling the blanket over my head and staring at the wall. My back was to them, but who cared? I was as good as dead. Roberto was only holding me until he got what he wanted.

    I couldn’t even cry. I felt numb inside. I was shaking with the kind of shakes you only got when you were terrified and couldn’t express it otherwise. It felt like the soundtrack of my life was playing some intense music that was only building. If my life was a movie, the audience would be on the edge of their seats, biting their lips, waiting until the gunshot. Or the knife wound. Or the poisoning.

   Oh, God.

   Would I die soon? Or would he torture me? Would he carry on some message to my family?

   “How will I die?” I called out to Hector.

    He stopped whatever he was doing and breathed out a sigh that sounded like he was in pain. “Hopefully quickly,” he mumbled, like he didn’t want me to hear. Louder, he added, “I have no idea. However Roberto feels. Probably shoot you in the head.” His voice was matter-of-fact like we were discussing a movie, or someone else’s life.

   I blinked my eyes to stop the tears from coming.

   My stomach churned.

   Nope. I was going to die strong.

   I clenched my teeth together to stop the panic from crawling out of my throat. I was not going to appear weak in front of them. I want them to know I didn’t care either way. But they couldn’t see my heart, couldn’t feel it beating three hundred miles an hour. So I touched it underneath the cover, trying to remember the feeling because once I was dead, there was no more heartbeat.

   “Thanks,” I said finally, heaving a sigh like I was bored with it all.

   I inhaled through my nose. After twenty-four hours, the person is as good as being dead. But I wasn’t dead yet. There could be hope, but I wouldn’t dare allow myself to think someone would save me. My parents were probably enjoying life without me right now.

   I let a tear slip down my cheek.

   “I’m sorry, Mama,” I whispered, like she could hear me anyway. I thought of her, tall and vivacious, caramel brown skin and long, flowing hair. The same features I had. Her younger looks, her full lips and pretty smile. Her warm, tight hugs. There were good things about my mom, things I only thought about now.

   Like every year on my “sick” day, she would take off and make my hot chocolate and we would watch all our favorite movies, laugh and cry at all the right moments, and spend the day in the living room. We would order expensive food and sip grape juice out a wine glass and dress in heels and long dresses and pretend we were invited to fancy balls. We would go through our closets and match outfits we would truly never wear in public. That day was always perfect, and I always forgot how my mom had ruined everything.

      I inhaled sharply. A jolt went through my body, momentarily paralyzing me. I stood there and let my thoughts run though my head.

   Dad. Mom. Mario. Juan. Blue. Their pictures came up one-by-one, and I pictured one thing I’d miss about each of them. Dad, the way you always laughed at my get-rich schemes, but encouraged me to follow my heart. The way you thought it was perfectly normal to name your daughter after your favorite video game character. The fact that you always argued with Mom about my name, even seventeen years later. The corners of my mouth twitched up.