After queuing for a hellish eternity at the American Airlines check-in desk at the Simón Bolívar International Airport, Ofelia had finally left behind the myriad of dejected passengers from delayed and canceled flights, four gruesome security checkpoints, and Carlos Cruz Diez's infamous multi-colored walkway.
She'd already left all that behind her, but in reality, she was leaving so much more.
Once her dad had tracked her down and found her at the Cardozos' house—where Luz and Jeremías (former classmates of hers) had kept her hidden for three days—Abraham had tried to convince her to come back home one last time. The problem was that she didn't have a home to go back to anymore. Her parents lived at the same address; in her bedroom, there were the same bookshelves that smelled of old paper and knowledge; the grandfather clock in the dining-room still ticked with the same hypnotic cadence that lulled her into sleep every night; and yet, that place was alien to her now.
"You can't put your mother through this over and over again," Abe had told her a week ago. "This is the last time you try to run away. If you want to leave, then you'll do it on my terms. You will stay with your cousin up north. Don't look at me like that. It's not up for debate. I rather break your mom's heart once, instead of having you chipping away at it every day. You won't punish your mother for what you think I did to him. Not her. It is not fair."
Ofelia didn't care about any of that, because she was sure there was no such thing as fairness. Bad things happen to good people, and monsters disguised in human flesh got away with whatever they wanted. They stole money, stole lives, stole hope... And they get away with it. So, for her, the only way left was out. Obey her father one last time and go live with her cousin Gabriela in Doral, Florida. The whore, a voice in her head whispered. Good old Abe thinks she's righteousness incarnated, but if he could see her Snapchat, I doubt he would want me anywhere near her zip code.
No matter what Ofelia had found out online about Gaby, to Abraham, this was the best solution: Get Marta's beloved little angel away from the mess that Marcelo left behind. Away from—
"Citizen!"
Here we go again, Ofelia thought, turning around to lock eyes with the Bolivarian National Guard officer approaching her. She was quickly learning to hate the sight of those baggy, green uniforms.
"What are your travel plans?" he asked her.
"I already answer that."
"Not to me, you didn't."
"You all look alike."
"I don't care if you must answer the same questions until you get on the damn plane. What's your destination? How many people are traveling with you?"
"Fine," Ofelia said before spouting the harmless answers Abraham had urged her to memorize on their way to Maiquetía.
"Give me your backpack," the National Guard officer ordered her.
A surge of angry heat that had nothing to do with the lack of air conditioning or the humid Caribbean weather went through Ofelia's chest. This is absurd. She handed her bag over and he unzipped it expertly. The National Guard officer fumbled through the contents like a blind man, his hands all over her belongings, raping her privacy. He flicked through her paperback version of The Count of Monte Cristo twice, inspected her phone's charger cable (which had been useless, since most of the airport had no power) before putting it back in, and then confiscated her roll of toilet paper (which had been a lifesaver since the few open restrooms had no supplies or running water).
Leaving her unzipped backpack on the floor, and apparently bored with her, the man moved on to interrogate another woman waiting in line to board the plane. She was holding a child's hand (her son, perhaps?), although she looked too young to be a mom. Not much older than Ofelia, at least. Her kid, who was using a battery-operated portable fan to combat the unbearable heat, stared at the National Guard officer as if he was a monster emerging from his bedroom closet at three o'clock in the morning.
"What's the boy's name?"
"Yeison," the young mom replied.
"Is he traveling with you?"
No, idiot. She's abandoning him by the boarding gate, Ofelia thought. Past that last security point, anyone who was there was a passenger—no two ways about it. He knew the question was unnecessary. Was there some other intent behind it?
"Yes," the woman said, "he is my son."
"Mommy?"
"It's okay, baby."
"Papers, please," the National Guard officer demanded.
"Here you go."
"No, not your passport." He sounded frustrated. "Where's the Child Travel Consent form?"
Sweat was running from the young mother's cheeks, and it was easy to tell she'd been fighting off tears for some time now. This came as no surprise to Ofelia, since all passengers waiting to board the 3:30 p.m. flight to Miami had been at the airport since before 4:00 a.m., and most of them had cried at one point or another after saying their goodbyes to their loved ones.
"I have it here somewhere," the young mother fidgeted and rummaged through her big purse for several agonizing seconds until she found the document. "Here!"
The National Guard officer reached for the form and, after skimming it, stared down at the woman.
"You can go if you want to, but the boy isn't going anywhere."
Ofelia saw the deepest fear at work on the young woman's face.
"What? No. Why?"
"Both parents need to sign the form. I only see one signature here."
"That's not what the website said. And, and I filled it out good. They've checked it several times. No one said anything."
"I do not care what they said or didn't say. Without his father's signature, he can't travel."
The boy dropped the portable fan and hugged her mother's leg for dear life.
"Mom, don't leave me."
"He doesn't even know his dad. I haven't seen that man in years. How am I supposed to get his signature?"
"The law is the law." The National Guard officer put Ofelia's roll of toilet paper under his armpit and crossed his arms over his sunken chest. "Unless..."
"What?"
"I can process a new, express form for you, but it's not cheap."
The young mother opened her purse again and pulled out every crumpled bill she had in it and offered them to the man in the green uniform.
"What am I supposed to do with this? Can't even buy a cup of coffee with this! You are going to Gringolandia. You ought to have some lettuce with you."
"I don't."
"What about valuables? Any jewelry?"
"He can have my toys, mom," said the little kid, trying to help.
Ofelia and the rest of the passengers waiting in line turned their attention to the boarding gate as an unseen loudspeaker crackled to life and informed them they were ready to let them on the plane. This announcement may as well have been a death sentence to the young mother. Unable to mask her desperation any longer, she begged for help from anyone who would listen, but nobody did anything. Their sole concern was to get on the plane.
"My son is everything. Please don't do this."
"I'm not the bad guy here," said the National Guard officer to no one in particular. "If maybe some other passengers lend you some cash, then we'll be okay."
"Military mafia," mumbled an old man in a wheelchair.
"Citizen, do you want to get on this flight or not?" the National Guard officer asked the old man, who, in the space of a single heartbeat, grew as pale as wax. "Then shut up!"
"Sir, please," the young mother begged a man wearing a burgundy cap with the Venezuela national football team logo stamped on it. "Can you spare any money?"
"Sorry," the guy in the cap replied, avoiding eye contact. "I already wrapped my bag twice. I can't open it again."
"Please," the woman moved to the next person in line, an older lady with a pair of reading glasses hanging low on her neck. "I'll pay you when we get there. I have—"
"Here," said Ofelia, offering her four crisp twenty-dollar bills. All the money she had on her.
"This should do it," said the National Guard officer grabbing the cash out Ofelia's hand before the young mother could even touch it. "Now move along," he waved his hand and headed back the way he came from without giving them a second look.
"Oh, dear God. Thank you. Thank you so much," the young mother sobbed, holding the child in her arms. "Thank her, Yeison. Thank the kind woman!"
With his face buried in his mother's neck, the little boy couldn't have thanked Ofelia even if he wanted. It seemed like he wouldn't be able to stop crying for a while. And the truth was Ofelia didn't want their gratitude. What she wanted was to hurt the National Guard officer. She wanted to graduate again.
I'm barely eighteen. He could have asked for my papers.
She'd survived twelve straight hours of chaos at the airport. Officials had patted her down with no explanation (one of them had even touched her between her legs). She had seen National Guard officers ask countless people to open their luggage after they'd just gone through a security checkpoint for no other reason than to behave like the scavenging birds they were, but none of that had bothered her as much as what had just happened.
That last National Guard officer had stirred something foul inside of her that made Ofelia's eyes water and forced her to take deep breaths as she tried not to vomit.
Her father and most of the people who met her thought Ofelia couldn't relate to others, that empathy was a foreign concept to her, when nothing could have been further from the truth. The world overwhelmed her.
I can feel them, all of them. Trapped in their own lives, shackled to decisions made for them by those with power. This is how it's been for as long as I can remember. I saw my reflection in their eyes, and I was them, and they were me. Their uncertainties crawled on my skin; the sour taste of their fears closed my throat shut. It is too much to bear.
It was because she felt so powerless day in and day out that she had loved hunting with her dad as a child. Only when pulling the trigger had she felt in control. My outlet to let the pain out, she heard a voice say in her head. I need to go back to him. I must go back to Marcelo.
"Hey, you're holding up the line," said someone behind her. "Are you gonna move or what?"