Hope is Dead

BANG! 

My eyes fly open at the sound of a gunshot ringing out in the night. My body is filmed with cold sweat, my heart races, and the memories that haunt my nights send tears burning to the surface. The past is forever tightening a noose around my neck, choking me until I can’t breathe again and again. No matter how fast I sprint, I can never outrun it. No matter where I go, it finds me. 

You’d think it would get better with time, yet every night I have to relive it. My body rocks back and forth in a futile search for comfort. “Protecting you was my one job. I failed.” I whisper to the emptiness. 

I squeeze my eyes shut as my heart flails wildly in desperation. The walls close in, there is no escape from this pain. My breath catches, my ribs crush me tighter and tighter with each failed attempt at taking a deep breath. I see his big brown eyes looking up at me, and my heart skips a beat. I feel his warm body in my arms and every muscle relaxes. I can breathe again. My eyes open and he’s gone. The picture in my mind and the warmth in my arms is only the ghost of his memory. Despair cuts me deep.“You were the last of my hope. Now you and hope are gone.” Eerie silence replies. 

It is the one-year anniversary. One year ago, they took him away. In the first few months, my family and friends would stop by, bringing me food and comfort. Seeing them only made my days worse. They would remind me that the world outside these melancholy walls was still turning, that life goes on. The last time I saw my mother, she had begged me to leave with her. The government was building the wall and you could still get to the other side. I often wonder if she made it. 

“Mija, there is nothing left here. Can’t you see he’s gone. All you have left is sadness.” 

She had pleaded with me. Those were the last words she ever said to me. She didn’t understand. Sad doesn’t begin to cover it. My heartbreak is as deep, dark, and never ending as the vast expanse of the night sky. I couldn’t leave then and I can’t leave now. 

My soul paces these halls, desperate to find glimpses of him. His memory is imprinted in every corner and crevice. Every waking moment is spent here with his memory. My only wish is to join him—in death. Every day, I wake up, I eat, I drink, but I do not live. I swallow the lump in my throat. This house is as quiet and lonely as the grave. I’m alone now as I will be tomorrow and the day after that. Alone, always.

It’s early morning, still dark, still dangerous. I peer out into the dusk. Jagged pieces of what’s left of this town are all that remain. My body moves on autopilot, slowly getting dressed. Floor-length skirt, long sleeve shirt, veil over my head, and a thick cloak to block the chill. It is my traditional mourning outfit—all black like the night, like my soul. Tradition is to wear the mourning outfit for a week after a loved one passes away. This is the only outfit I’ve worn for the last year. I fill my days washing it, ironing it, and trying not to think of that day.

My fingers dust the top of my dresser until they find his memorial, a simple wooden box for his ashes. All that is left of him is here in this box. Such a big spirit, such a tiny body. My fingers trace the inscription. Could I have saved him? The question plagues me day in and day out. I still have no answers. All I know is that it should have been me. My fingers leave the box before it drags me into its abyss of sorrow. My body moves robotically through the day. I sit, I stand, I do nothing at all. A knock on the door makes my nerves jump. I approach with trepidation. 

Have they finally come back for me? No, they wouldn’t have knocked. Swinging the door wide, I see Alejandro; un viejo amigo, an old friend. He is one of the few other last holdouts in this neighborhood. I did not expect to see him today, standing on my doorstep.

 “Mija, you look terrible,” he laughs, but it falls flat and his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.“Came by to say adiós. Me and Roberto are going to try to cross the wall.”

“What? No, you can’t. You’ll both be killed!” I cry out, panic rising with bile in my throat.

“We will be killed here just the same. Roberto was almost killed last night. He was simply getting food, enough for us to stay alive, but dusk fell fast and without warning. He was leaving the A-Mart. It was the Baratas.” 

He shrugs, but I recognize the pain in his cinnamon-colored eyes, the worry taking its toll in the grey of his hair and the torment etched in every wrinkle. “This used to be a good neighborhood with good people, but there is nothing left for anyone here except crime and death.” His eyes meet mine with an intense urgency. “Come with us.” The words tumble out and sit between us for a moment. 

My mind screams yes. What he is saying is true. The Barata gang infests more of this place every day. They’ll be at my house before long. 

I curse the so-called government. One minute, people were fighting over wages and simple human rights, then the next, we were fighting for our lives. They have strict rules and will kill Alejandro for who he loves. It’s a death sentence either way.

“I wish I could,” I say when I finally find my voice. “I want to be able to leave this city and never look back.” Our eyes meet again, this time with gentle understanding—us both waiting for the but. “But this is my home.” There it is. “This is where I belong.”

“What other choice do we have? We cannot fight the Barata on our own. They will come for you—for us all—eventually.” He pleads with me as he gently grasps my hand in his.“We are leaving when the moon is full enough for its light to show us the way. There is no hope for this town or us any more.” His words fade away with him as he walks out of view, looking over his shoulder, always on edge. He shouldn’t have to live like this. None of us should. 

I go inside and sit in my favorite chair. I miss when I’d sit here with him. He would curl up with me in the blankets and take all this pain away. Alejandro's words bury themselves in my mind and spout into an idea. Now I know where to find the men that took my love away; they can take me too.

Leaving was never an option. This place holds the memories of my heart. Without those, I have nothing. I would rather die here, like he did. Hope is dead, my soul is dead, my body will follow.

The evening gloom slowly drowns out the sunlight. It’s time. I’m done hiding. It’s a little ironic to look forward to this day after dreading it so long. I want the scum that took him to find me now, to end my suffering like they should have so long ago. I’m too weak to do it myself, I tried. My body is unreliable, my hands conspirators against my heart. This time I rely on my feet. One foot after another, I walk out of my house. 

The howling wind whips past, sending goosebumps rippling up my spine and giving me a moment’s pause. I search the crumbling and cracked streets for a path. The dim moonlight illuminates the way. There are no lights in homes, street lamps, or busy buildings to block out the stars — pollution from the other side of the wall does that. 

I walk until the lackluster light from the store leaks into the night. I see a car come to a screeching stop and a woman rush out with a bundle in her arms. She must either be a brave or desperate soul to risk going out at this time of night. A heap of clothes and rubbish near the store doors pops up and becomes two scraggly looking forms, grabbing at the woman. Barata.

“No! We need food!” she wails. I look away, a habit I’ve formed in the years since the wall.

“My baby!” her cries fall on deaf ears. The sound of a shrill cry fills the air. My hands go to my ears to block out the sound. Melancholy wails trudge up memories of that night so long ago, I shake them away. One man grabs her purse and baby, and the other drags the woman behind the store into the inky shadows. 

Without a thought, my feet are moving on their own again. My cloak flaps in the wind behind me, thumping along with my nerves as I approach the thieves.

“Give that back,” I say in a commanding voice I wasn’t aware I possessed. 

“Who are you?” the man with the purse screeches. I am the shell of the person left when filth like him ripped my heart out of my chest. I am the one who cares for that woman and for her baby. I never want that woman to know the torture that I have endured. He tosses the baby to the ground as his fingers ball into a fist. My hands clench, endowed with an unseen confidence and I motion for him to come at me. 

He’s a hefty villain who should have me running for the hills, but as he charges me, I recognize how slow his size makes him. Each step is thunderous and deliberate, shifting his whole body as he moves. I stand defiantly still until his hot breath descends upon me. My left foot swings forward, left hand grabs his right. Left elbow slams into the crook of his arm while my right hand catches his wrist. Twist and snap. The satisfying sound rips through the air. The man collapses in agony but it only lasts a moment before I see a cruel smile replace his grimace. A broad fist catches me in the stomach and sends me stumbling back into a dumpster, knocking the air from my lungs. For a moment I worry I’ve made a mistake by coming here. I gasp for air as my mind screams at me to stay alive.

My feet backpedal, my hands desperately searching for something, anything I can use as a weapon. The odor of stale refuse stings my nostrils as my fingers race along rancid debris. Finally, my frantic fingertips close around something substantial. I pull the object out of the debris and see a piece of metal sharped into a machete like blade.

My fingers fit into the groves of the smoothed bottom like it was made for me. Across from me, another piece of silver is highlighted in the moonlight—a gun. He holds the weapon in one hand as his other arm flops limply at his side. 

Similar cold steel killed mi alma, my soul. Inside that gun is a bullet with another soul’s name on it—maybe my name. Only an hour ago, I would have gladly put my forehead to the cold steel and waited for the trigger to be pulled. To live without love is no life at all. But now, the sounds of innocent crying fill the air and the glint of silver threatening to silence it ignites something deep inside. 

The ember of rage grows into an inferno. How many lives has that gun ended? How many will it end? No mas, No more.

Whoosh. I jump up onto the dumpster with a flourish of my new blade.The sharp edge of my weapon slices through the air with a satisfying sound. 

The man takes aim. In the darkness — in clothes of all black—I am a shadow hidden amongst shadows. Before his eyes can adjust to see that I’ve moved. I jump down and cut at his taut tricep. The iron tang of blood fills the air, but I do not back away. 

The man curses in two languages. He lunges at me and misses, thudding like another sack of trash on the street. I slice the back of his leg again and again. It’s a gruesome pattern, like three claw marks of a beast.

“Let that remind you to never steal in this town again!” I yell as he limps away. A scream pierces the night. The woman is being dragged into the depths of depravity, never to be seen again. In a sprint, I catch up to them.

“Unhand her!” I command. The man holds a knife in my direction. I encourage the fiend forward. He barrels towards me and at the last moment, I step out of the way. His knife swipes at me and I move my body swiftly, sending the blade through my skirt instead. He’s ruined my mourners’ outfit. 

The light from within me burns like a million suns, igniting a frenzy of anger and hate. A swift kick to his knee cap sends him doubling forward. I grab his long, tattered shreds of clothes and spin them into a makeshift rope. His weight already leans forward towards me. I use the rotten rope to help swing him into the brick wall behind me. He lands with an oof and a gurgling thud. 

“My baby, my baby,” the woman cries between sobs. The infants’ sobs pour around us. I remove it from the debris it was so carelessly tossed. The woman clutches the infant and sprints into the light. She falls to her knees, frantically searching its soft skin for any injuries.

“I remember when we could walk these streets any time of the day or night,” I comment aloud.

She looks up at me, her face twists—perhaps a bit perplexed and confused. The woman wipes her nose on her sleeve and squints into the night. I stay hidden in the shadows. “This town was our home. It should be… it could be again,” my words float on the icy breeze.

“You saved my baby, my life. I can never repay you.” She stares at me—through me. “Who are you?” The baby stops crying and stares at me with big brown eyes, the glimmer of fearful tears still welling at the edges. They are like his were — until the light slowly dimmed away.

That night comes rushing back to me. I remember looking into his eyes. For the first time in a year, I see it clearly. He didn’t die, so I could live half a life. My grief for him has been an empty void. Now it is fills with a love for what he stood for. He was everything this town used to be. When he died, this town went with him. I can’t bring him back, but I can bring back my town, mi casa. 

These foul Barata can not be reasoned with. They must be dealt with swiftly, with finality and blood. A new feeling emerges from the depths of my broken soul. A voracious thirst for vengeance and justice. This is sólo el comienzo, only the beginning.

I walk away, unable to answer the woman’s question. My body moves while my head is flooded with more questions than answers until I am home.

   In the morning I take stock of my mourners outfit; the skirt has a jagged tear down half of it. I get out a needle and thread and start to mend it one stitch at a time. With each stitch, my hatred towards the foul Barata grows. I work until the rays of the sun slowly bleed into darkness. The skirt now has a sharp split up the side—I think I might prefer it this way.

‘Who are you?’ I slip back on my mourners outfit and fasten my new found weapon to my belt. The weapon is black, like the hearts of the criminals that infest this city, dark like their blood spilling into the evening. Those dirty insects all deserve death and I am the one that will serve it to them. My cloak settles behind me. For the first time in a year, I find an odd grin tugging at my face. It feels a bit crooked, a jagged puzzle piece shifting to find its place. I get out my scissors and cut my veil just below my eyes, so my enemies might see my newly found smile. 

I plant a kiss on two fingers, then on the engraving on the wooden resting place of my heart. I’ll make him proud if nothing else. 

With renewed determination and purpose, I head out into the streets again.

‘Who are you?’ 

Today a new love blossoms, a new fire, and a new rage. Today a passion emerges for the people left in this place fighting to find some small sliver of happiness. These people are mi familia now. 

Who am I? 

I am the spark that will spread like wildfire through this town. For my love, I will rebuild this place on the bones of the Barata. I will dig this town out of the ashes with my blade. I am the thing the warmongers and dictators fear the most. I am the thing that will save the people of this town from the fate of the wall. I am what everyone thinks is dead. 

Hope. 

Hope never dies. 

“Esperanza. La esperanza nunca muere.”