The sound of my body hitting the ground was not enough to jolt me awake. The pain didn't, either.
It was the sound of gunshots what did.
In the span of maybe a minute I'd gone from standing up on my own two feet, lucid and alert to what was coming my way, to immersed in the deep rabbit hole of my mind. I couldn't tell you what was the trigger. The sounds all around me were as familiar as the smell of coffee in the morning. As familiar as mi papá saying he'd be late for dinner because of work.
Those were two things I was raised with. Having been born in a tropical country with the best coffee grain in the world, there hadn't been a single day without the aroma in my house. Of course, having been born in a what also was an oil country with a dad who was the CEO of an oil consulting firm, also meant I was used to seeing his face in picture more than in person. That morning, when everything changed, had been an exception.
I remember our maid woke up me up and helped me get ready for school. I walked out into the hallway, decked in my private school uniform as I chased the wafts of the dark drink. Guayoyo, we called it. Watered down coffee that by virtue of its quality did not lose its taste. Translucent amber in color, it was how mi mami preferred it. In the kitchen I saw my parents embracing and looking at each other like it was the first time. I was old enough to guess at what had maybe transpired beforehand, and I made a face. My dork older brother had the same idea, because I spotted him in the corner mock gagging just before tucking into his arepa con queso.
"Are you sure you don't want to drive together?" mami asked papá. "It's not a big detour from the kids' schools."
Papá shook his head and gave her a quick peck, laughing as my brother and I made sure they knew how gross we found them.
"No, it's okay, Carolina. I have a meeting early and I don't want to rush you and the kids."
I got distracted by our maid as she placed a plate with a small arepa for me. It had more cheese in it than it should, just as I liked it. I asked for a cup of coffee, just like I always did, and she smiled and patted my head as she ignored my request, just like she always did. Coffee is bad for kids, she told me once. In her point of view, kids already have too much energy.
I recall my dad kissing my brother's head and mine before he left. Some half an hour later we climbed onto mami's Ford Explorer and set out the familiar route. We dropped my brother off at his school first and then continued on the road to my school, all girls. It was farther down, but I had demanded to be enrolled in it. I couldn't stand the one boy I was forced to have in my life. My brother was gross, dirty and mean. It was unreasonable to expect that I put up with more of his kind. My parents had no problem with this; to them, it was one less thing to worry about.
And we seemed to have been without a worry until then. Or I had been. I lived on the fringe of a society with cancer that didn't seem to spread too close to me. It was contained, for other people to suffer living in one of the most dangerous cities of Latin America. Caracas. They'd still called it a franchise of heaven too long after it had become the gateway to hell.
I remember the motorcycle swerving out of nowhere, hitting the driver's corner. Mami and I screamed. I didn't for a second think we were in danger, instead I was afraid we'd hurt someone else. My mom stopped the car and opened the door, commanding me to stay put and not see. I couldn't, anyway. At that second my hands were too shaky to try to unbuckle myself. But I heard her asking, clear as day, if the man was okay.
But all I heard as a reply was a gunshot.
I jumped in my seat and screamed for my mom, the pop of the gunshot still ringing in my head. No answer.
Then a man I'd never seen before squeezed his way into the driver's seat. I screamed for my mom again, but the man turned around and smiled a horrible sneer for a smile and said, "Tu mamá está muerta, sifrinita. Y si no te callas la vas a acompañar."
Then, my mom's voice. "No!"
He turned back to the door and leveled his gun down, pop, pop, pop, before he closed the door and slammed the pedal. I craned my neck around, looking for my mom as I struggled with the seatbelt and the lock of my door. The SUV moved too fast for me to see the details, but I will never forget the lump he'd left behind of what a few minutes before had been my mom. Alive. Colorful. With the scent of fresh coffee clinging to her.
The memory of those last three shots that sentenced her were precisely what woke me up. That was usually where my nightmares stopped. The events that transpired after my mother's death paled in comparison and were not worth rehashing, when the true horror had been losing her.
"Charlie?"
I groaned and blinked my eyes open repeatedly, trying to will the blurs of colors into shapes that made sense. Eventually I was able to find my bearings and pull myself up to sitting. My coach, Paco, hovered over me with an expression that was worry at the top of his face and annoyance at the bottom.
"What the fuck was that?" He threw his hands up in the air, his Mexican accent thickening. "You could've blocked that hit. Were you thinking of Justin Bieber again, or what?"
I lifted a gloved hand and I hoped he could tell I was giving him a middle finger. He liked to antagonize me by bringing up teenage heartthrobs, as though that painted me like an immature teenage girl. One way or another, it worked every time.
"First of all," I said after spitting out my mouthguard on my lap. "I hate Justin Bieber, and second of all, shouldn't you be checking if I have a concussion or something?"
Andy, the other girl I'd been sparring with, spoke up then. "You dropped your block. It wasn't my fault."
Paco kneeled in front of me and went through the motions to see if my brain had gone kaput. With a decisive nod he said, "Okay, good. You don't seem hurt. Which means you're in all your faculties to answer my original question."
I pulled one of my gloves out so that I could brush the strand of wet hair away that had clung to my face. He stood above me, crossing his arms and nose flaring like he was about to burst into a volcano of temper.
I rolled my eyes. "What was your first question?"
"What the fuck was that?" He exploded.
Right.
I stood up and was pleased to note my legs were steady. Activity around the boxing ring had resumed. Andy was in the corner doing some shadowboxing and the rest of the regulars were back to their drills. Across the gym, the 10:30am fitness boxing class was going strong. Paco handed me a towel and a bottle of water. He wouldn't let it go unless I gave him an answer, but the problem was that I didn't have one. One moment I'd been facing Andy, watching out for her jab, and the next second my mind drifted to that morning.
And then it clicked. Somebody had made a fresh pot of coffee in the break room and the smell had drifted to me. It was bad quality coffee, nowhere similar to the guayoyo mami favored, and yet...
I faced my coach again and gave him the kind of shit eating grin that pissed him off. "Don't worry about it, it won't happen again."
"Damn right, it won't. I won't let you on this ring until you screw your head on right."
I groaned. "That's not fair, Paco. You know I'll never find the screws I've lost."
He was 15 years older than me and by all accounts a super intimidating guy. Boxing was his life and it had altered his very DNA. It was clear, even from yards away, that the muscles in his body were not there for show, that his meaty hands were not made for flower arrangements and that his ears weren't busted because he'd put on too many earrings. When he was in a rage, like he was right now, his opponents in the ring cowered. He was 27-3 in his pro matches, and with the winning streak he had this season it didn't seem like he'd notch a fourth loss any time soon. But I couldn't help seeing him like the big softie he was, and I couldn't help exploiting his weakness — which was the fact that I reminded him a lot of his little sister Lupe, who was still in Mexico.
I pouted the certain way that did him over every time, and the poor man froze. I could see the struggle in his eyes between kindness and the desire to rip me a new one. My own brother would have just jumped straight to the second option.
"Don't give me that look. It's not going to work." He folded his arms. "You can't be reckless when you're on the ring, do you understand? You could be endangering your life."
I snorted.
The truth was, I didn't care about that. I took up boxing a couple of years ago because my psychologist told my dad it would be a good idea for me to do an activity where I felt like I was in control, where I felt strong. And I kept going at it because it was fun. It was fun to punch something or someone until I sweated the anger and the pain and the guilt. And even more fun was that boxing would be there for me the next day when the anger and the pain and the guilt inevitably came back. But past the sweat drenching my skin and the ache in my muscles, I didn't care much for anything else. Dad had moved us to Orlando five years ago and the company was still thriving, despite the fact that our home country collapsed. So really, I had nothing to worry about at present and nothing much to look forward to in future except more of the same. The hurricane in my head was because of the past.
Or so I thought.
"Charlie."
My dad's voice ripped me away from the argument with Paco. He stood in the middle of the gym in his Armani suit and Hermès leather case, but what shocked me was that, as always, I hadn't seen him in days. Something must have happened for him to come in person.
I pulled the ropes up and jumped out of the ring, my heart hammering in my ribcage.
"What's wrong?"
His face shifted, as though surprised that I'd make the connection so quickly. His skin was a lot more weathered than I remembered. But then again, when was the last time I'd seen him? A month ago?
Not caring that my hair was dirty, he put his hand on top of my head and in his thick Venezuelan accent said, "We need to talk."
The kiss my parents gave each other that morning flashed through my mind again. The sweet gesture stuck in my mind as the portent of what was to come. They'd embraced like it was the first time, when it had actually been the last. The warm hand on my head felt the same.
Somehow my life was about to take another turn, and I didn't think I was going to like it.
welcome to the chaos that is this story! you're in for a wild ride, lol.
if you've read my books before, you know that because i'm venezuelan it means at least one of my MCs will be as well. in this case, my female lead is a venezuelan girl because representation matters! this means:
- there will be spanish in my stories. no, i won't translate it (no one says the same thing twice in two langugages), and this is an extra layer of meaning for people like me that won't take away not even 1% of the story from everyone else. you should be able to tell the meanings by a) context, b) google, c) readers translating in in-line comments.
- why? because this is my space and these are my rules. :)
- don't steal my shit. that means my words, my graphs, my plots, etc.
- be nice and i'll be nice back!
- there will be plenty of cursing, some sexual themes and a lot of inappropriateness in this one. it's a satire so you're forewarned!
This body of work is available exclusively on Wattpad. If you're viewing it on a different website or under a different username, it has been illegally stolen and you may be at risk of malware. Please notify the original author.