The Mexican Omen

Carefully pinning the final piece of wet, dark-crimson clothing to the thin, withering rope, held in place by only a single nail and rusted wire, I felt a sharp cold wind blow through me. The sun seemed to set earlier that day on the terraza, ushering in an ominous chill. Recoiling at the awful sensation, I tripped head-first over the basket of laundry, landing my badly bruised arm directly on the cold, unforgiving concrete floor.

I opened my eyes, only to meet the shrewd gaze of a menacing black cat with crafty, piercing green eyes, leering at me from the lavadero. An omen, perhaps, from a darker time and place; a demon even, in physical form.

“Cabrón! Vete A Diablo!” I screamed. With one enormous leap, he was gone, just as soon as he arrived.

The Spanish style terraza was my favorite escape in the narrow, three-tiered concrete house I once called home, but which felt more like a prison over time. The only window in the house was covered with a thick, heavy curtain, meant to keep the earth inside cold, much like a grave. I can’t remember how long, maybe three years now. I haven’t had a phone for some time and I’m not allowed to watch the television.

On the roof, he leaves me alone for almost an hour to hang the wet laundry, which is pure heaven. I live for this time, the afternoon sun wrapping me in a warm radiant blanket, filling my senses with what I can only describe as pure love, as the soft wind caresses my face. It’s here I remember who I am and, for a moment, I dream of what life might have been like, if only…

I was the neighborhood ratón, the fastest runner in my class and the BEST business negotiator of any kid in the entire barrio! My trick? Smiling at adults and looking them directly in the eyes, which most kids my age were still afraid to do. I gained a reputation for having the freshest cueritos for miles: fresh pig skin soaked in lemon, chopped up with onion, tomato, and cucumber, served on a crispy tostada. I was so good at my negocio, the other kids were jealous. One girl tried to bully me out of my stand once and we got into a fist fight. My bloody nose and a black eye were proof she won the fight, but I won the war by telling my mamá. My mamá walked straight over to her house and pulled her mamá out-the-kitchen by the hair and beat her senseless! Right there in front of God and everybody.

Sometimes she beat me too, but said it’s because I just don’t listen good. Other times she said she was trying to get the demons out of me so I could get baptized like all the other good Catholic girls. I said, “I’m as good as I’m going to get. If God doesn’t like me, He’ll just have to deal with it because He made me this way. Technically, it’s HIS fault.” I always got beat for that.

My real Mom went to prison for killing a guy who’s not my papá when I was a baby. Papá went to prison for something called crystal. Mamá says to forget about my real Mom because she’s sick and doesn’t want to see me. I think she’d want to see me if she knew how fast I ran and how many pesos I make at the cuerito stand. I am really good at making deals and making people smile.

“It’s a blessing and a curse”, Mamá would always say. I had a jar of pesos I saved every week so that, one day, I could get my real Mom out of jail and we could live somewhere nice together. I didn’t tell Mamá though, because she’d get mad and take the pesos for bad behavior. I told myself, “Someday, I’m going to buy my real Mom’s freedom”.

Our attraction was like oil and fire. He, the rebel who sold crystal on the corner for his Jefe, and me, the street-savvy darling of the barrio. He wanted me for my reputation with the men, I needed his money to escape. The cold concrete house a couple miles down the road was abandoned but he had a friend who could get us in. The fights were passionate at first but soon turned ugly. He was no match for my intellect; I could talk circles around him. But I soon realized my words were no match for his fist.

That day, he started drinking early and I knew it would take all my energy to survive the night. Before he started banging the pots and pans to summon me downstairs into the darkness, I made a pocket knife out of broken glass and rusted wire from the clothes line, slipping it discretely into my jean pocket. This time, he wasn’t going to win.

Sirens blaring in the sticky haze of the Mexican afternoon heat, they blockaded the street in every direction of the accident. Ironically, only a half mile south from the concrete house of horrors. Fifteen police cars, ten military convoys, two ambulances, and three fire engines. Bystanders flocked to the scene to gawk at the fate of the unluckily passengers. The motorist was dead on the scene, his head crushed by blunt-force impact to the driver’s side windshield. The driver, thrown from the car, lay moaning in a crimson pool of his own blood on the side of the ditch. Medics rushed to stabilize him to no avail, his internal organs mangled with the scorching concrete pavement; he eventually bled out in agony. With two mortalities, police turned their attention to the vehicle. Two female officers approached the trunk and it was there, they discovered the thick, dark trash bags holding parts of my dismembered body. One officer collapsed, overpowered by the stench of human carnage, while the other broke down in tears remembering her own daughter. I never felt so loved.

You see, in the end, I won the war. No one shed a tear for him that day. In the end, my life was mourned and I had the final word. I dance with the angels now, in the warm sun that never sets. I, Maria Annabelle Espinosa Rodriguez, am finally free.