Washed in Rain

This was another one that I wrote up for faithwriters.com. The topic was "The Sense of Touch". Sorry if it's a little overly brutal.

Dawn glimmers over the edge of city of Caracas and shines into my eyes. I squint into it, then look away as it grows too bright. A light rain is falling and I’m sopping wet. I run my fingers through my black hair and shake my head, sending drops spinning in every direction. I sit up and shiver in the slight wind. Bianca is sleeping beside me, under the skimpy protection of a stone archway. I pull the blanket up around her shoulders. The streets were empty and quiet. Too quiet. I stand and walk the length of the block, looking for the cause of the silence. My heart beats faster and I run back to where Bianca is. It begins to rain harder and she stirs. “Tiago?” She calls.

“I’m here.” I answer.

She rubs her eyes and opens them. Beautiful black eyes framed with long lashes – beautiful, but sightless. She lifts her head and listens. “Rain.” She sniffs and smiles, “It’s so pretty, Tiago, so clean smelling.” Poor child, she doesn’t really know what pretty is. “Rain is God’s way of washing away all the bad in the city.”

“Yeah.” I mumble, glancing up the street again.

Bianca pushes her hair away from her face, then stops and cocks her head to listen. I think she’s hearing the rain, but now her face grows puzzled. “There’s shouting.”

I look out, but see nothing. Listen, but hear nothing above the drumming rain. Suddenly a jeep roars onto the street and squeals to a stop. Soldiers pile out, unslinging their guns as they hit the ground. From up the street, rapid gunfire rips the quiet to shreds. The communist revolution has come to Caracas. I look down in concern as Bianca jerks sharply, but it is only in surprise at the sudden blast of noise. “What’s that?”

“Fighting.” I answer, trying to move farther back n the archway. “The communists have reached the city.” With all her seven years, Bianca knows nothing of the danger behind the explosions. The sound means no more than hammering to her.

She lifts her head and sniffs the air. “It’s bitter.” It takes me a moment to realize that she is speaking of the smell of the gunpowder.

As I grow more nervous, she slowly relaxes. Suddenly a bullet tears through my shoulder and I barely manage to keep from screaming. I clench my fists and grit my teeth, I gasp with the pain. Don’t scare her. Don’t scare her. Blood quickly soaks into my shirt and runs down my arm. Bianca looks up at the sound of my labored breathing. “Tiago? Are you ok?”

“I’ll be ok.”

She nods, oblivious to my pain, and reaches out to feel the rain running off roof. The battle rages around us, but she sees none of it, it’s nothing but noise and strange smells. Shouting? She hears it all the time on the street. Her hand follows the line of drips from the roof a slight smile lighting her face. Her hand comes under my elbow and my blood flows onto her hand. She starts and pulls back in surprise at the sudden warmth. She puts her stained hand to her face and sniffs it curiously. “Blood?” She guesses.

“I’m – shot.” My voice holds pain and Bianca picks the tone out immediately.

“You hurt your arm on something?” She asks. “Don’t worry. Just hold it under the rain. The rain will wash it all clean.”

Ah, child, if only rain could scrub out the stain of battle. The battle continues around us, but Bianca smiles and puts her hand back under the rain drops, feeling the splashing water with delight.

Into America: Final Part 13

Roberto was sitting in the shade of a store building, leaned against the wall. His face was turned down and his fingers were wrapped tightly around his necklace. He had been waiting here in the tiny town of La Mesa for José for nearly two weeks. At first he had eagerly scanned the street, expecting José to come any minute, but now hope was fading. How long should he wait? What if José was still in an American jail somewhere? Maybe the police had killed him. What had happened to José after Roberto walked away?

Roberto heard feet walking towards him. They stopped right in front of him and he looked up, startled. A Border Patrol Guard stood over him. Roberto jumped to his feet and backed away.

“Roberto?” The guard asked.

Roberto licked his lips nervously. “Why do you want to know?”

“Do you have a brother named José?”

Roberto’s lip trembled. They had gotten José to talk. He had told them where to find them and now they would put him in jail too. He turned and ran. The Border Patrol guard caught hold of his arm. “Hey, wait kid. Listen to me.” Roberto screamed, jerked free, and ran away as fast as he could. He hid behind another store building.

A moment later, he heard a voice calling, “Roberto! Roberto! Where are you?”

He knew that voice. It was José calling him. Slowly he crept out of hiding and looked up the street. José was standing there, weakly leaning against the wall of the store. His shoulder was bandaged and his arm was in a sling. “JOSÉ!” Roberto yelled, running to him.

José put his good arm around him and pulled him close. “I told you I’d make it, Roberto.”

Then Roberto saw the Border Patrol Guard behind José, watching them. He pulled away from José and stared at him uncertainly. “Did you bring him?” He asked José.

José grinned and ran a hand through his little brothers hair, “It’s alright. He’s not going to arrest you. Everything is fine now.”

Into America: Part 12

José stayed in the hospital for a week recovering from the wound in his shoulder. His story was all over the newspapers. Mexican boys dying trying to cross the desert was everyday, but a Mexican boy being shot by Minutemen was only once or twice a year, so José had his name in the newspapers. Not that José cared whether he had his name in the papers, what he wanted to know was if he had to go back to Mexico. The answer was “Yes.”

The guard who rescued him was the one who tried to explain. He shrugged, “Sorry José. Shot or no you’re still unlawful. You still belong in Mexico.”

“But – but – I have to try again?” José asked, disappointed.

The guard laughed, “You’re SUPPOSED to stay in Mexico, José. That is the point of sending you back at all, remember? You’re not supposed to tell me that you’re going to try again.”

“Is there any way to keep from getting sent back?” José asked.

“Well, if some family offered to adopt you – that would work.” He said thoughtfully, “I guess I could ask around to see if anyone wants a rowdy, fourteen-year-old Mexican.”

José looked hurt, “Not THAT rowdy.”

The guard only laughed, “Ah, well, a little bit rowdy then.”

“And if a family takes me, they have to take Roberto, my younger brother. He’s in America too.”

The guard looked surprised, “Oh, really? Well, I’ll be sure to add that on. I’ll see what I can do.”

José waited in hope. Two days later, the guard came back. This time he had his young wife with him. “Hey, José! I have good news for you! In my family, it seems that both my wife and I have been missing something. Two rowdy Mexican boys would fill the gap perfectly. What do you think?”

José stared at him in amazement. “You’re going to adopt us?”

The guard bowed, “Of course.”

Into America: Part 11

José lay at the bottom of the gulley crying in pain. He heard shouts and shots above him. Were they still shooting at him? Suddenly a border guard lowered himself over the edge of the gulley and dropped to the bottom of it. “Hey kid, are you hurt?”

“Please don’t kill me. I’ll go back to Mexico. I’ll do whatever you want. Please don’t shoot me again.” José begged.

The border guard knelt next to him. “Calm down, kid. I’m here to help you. Are you hurt?”

José rolled over and tried to get up, but couldn’t. “Don’t hurt me, please, I beg you!”

The guard pulled him back gently and laid him back down. “Hey, hey, stop. I’m here to help you. I’m not going to hurt you. I promise. ”

José stared at him. “The Border Patrol wants to help me? Be real.”

“Right now, the Border Patrol is here to help. Show me where you are hurt.” The guard answered.

José pointed to his shoulder. “Here. They shot me. Please, do you have water?”

The guard held his canteen to José’s mouth to let him drink. José thought that water had never tasted so good to him. The guard took his radio from his belt. “This is Agent Ortega in the gulley. The kid is down here and he has a bullet in his shoulder from those Minutemen. Get the helicopter up here to get him to the hospital. He’s bleeding badly. Over.”

The radio crackled, “We’re bringing the helicopter around. Be there in a minute. Over.”

The guard took José’s hand and held it. “Hold on, kid. The helicopter will be here in just a minute.”

“Were those Minutemen part of the Border Patrol?” José asked.

The guard shook his head, “No. They’ve been arrested and they’re on their way to jail right now for what they did. They are just some stupid guys who think they can shoot anyone they want in the name of Patriotism.”

Two more Border Patrol guards jumped into the gulley carrying a stretcher with them. “Alright, kid, you’re on your way to the hospital. Don’t worry about a thing. You’re safe.”

Into America: Part 10

The sun was setting again when he woke up and climbed out from the shade of the rock where he had slept. José drank the last of his water and ate the last of his food. He now had nothing. He would have to reach a town with three of four hours or he would die. He made himself keep taking just another step and another and another. As he was walking, a helicopter flew over him. He ran to the bushes next to the road and rolled underneath them. The helicopter hovered over him for a long moment, and then flew away. He crawled back out from under the bushes and kept on walking. Then suddenly, up ahead he saw a white pick-up truck parked on the side of the dirt road – people! They would help him, surely. He hurried towards it. “Help! Help me!” He shouted.

Two men in front of the truck turned at the shouts. Both of them were holding guns. One of them pointed his gun at José and yelled something in English. José didn’t understand. “Help!” He yelled again.

The other man asked in Spanish, “Are you American or Mexican?

José paused, and then answered truthfully, “Mexican.”

The men waited until José was close then stepped out to meet him – and put a gun to his head. “If you’re Mexican, what are you doing in America?”

José raised his hands, trembling with fear. “I came to find work.”

“You came to take jobs away from the Americans. I ought to shoot you right here.”

“Don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me.” José begged, falling to his knees.

The man laughed and kicked José in the stomach. “We are the Minutemen. We defend our country from dogs like you.”

José felt sick with pain and thirst. “Water. Please give me water.”

The Minutemen just laughed again and hit him blow after blow. José knew he had to get out of there or they would kill him. He rolled over, got to his feet, and ran away from the road. “Stop or I’ll shoot!” One of them yelled after him.

José kept running, gasping for air through his cracked and dry lips. Bang! Bang! He dodged the shots and topped the hill. They were coming after him, their feet sliding on the gravel. José was too thirsty to run far, he was about to faint. In his panic, he saw two border patrol guards coming up the hill in front of him. Between José and the guards was a gulley. He hesitated, not sure which direction to run. Bang! The Minutemen fired again and José felt a hard blow to his shoulder. He yelled in pain and tumbled into the gulley.

Into America: Part 9

The front door into America was closed, but there was always the back door – the desert. Two days passed with José trying to gather enough food to take on the desert. He ran errands for pay, stole the rest, and finally had what he thought was enough. He packed it carefully into his backpack, found a gallon jug of water, and caught a bus west along the border. He got out at Las Polamas and started walking out of town. He needed an empty area, where no one would think of looking for a boy crossing the desert. It was late afternoon and the sun shone down with cruel heat. The desert had no shade and it was not long before he had to start drinking the water he was carrying. “It’ll be better after the sun sets.” José told himself. Finally, as the sun was reaching the edge of the horizon, he began to turn north, going straight across the desert. As long as the light was glowing in the western sky, he knew which direction north was. Then the stars were out and he followed the North Star. But, the desert quickly starts getting cold at night. By midnight, his water jug was half empty and he was dead tired and freezing cold. The ground was covered with sharp rocks, thorns, and cacti and he kept tripping on them in the dark. His shoes were torn and soon his feet were cut and bleeding. “Where am I going?” He wondered, looking around. “Is there a town ahead?”

He stopped to rest, throwing himself on the ice cold sand. “I can’t go any farther.” He whispered, “I can’t.”

But, Roberto was somewhere ahead, waiting in La Mesa. He would wait forever for his brother who died in the desert. No, he couldn’t do that to Roberto. José pulled himself up again and struggled on, limping on his bleeding feet.

In front of him, he saw a line across the desert that shone in the moonlight. It was a dirt road. He hurried towards it, thankful to see this one sign of life. He reached it and walked along it, grateful to have a clear path to walk in. He was tired, so tired. His eyes drifted closed as he walked. It was so quiet and lonely. “Roberto, I’m coming.” José said out loud, just to hear a voice. “Wait for me. I’m coming.”

The sun rose and the heat returned, ten times worse now because he was running out of water. His head ached and his mouth was dry. He began to see pools of water on the horizon that were not really there. They were just mirages. “If only those border patrol guards had let me go! I wouldn’t be out here now in the desert!” He took a rock and threw it down in anger. “I hate you, guards! You only try to kill people!” He looked around, but there was only silence and the empty desert.

Into America: Part 8

The officer entered the room with the Border Guard and touched José’s shoulder. José jumped and looked up, afraid. The officer said something in English, but José couldn’t understand. He shook his head. The Border Guard translated, “How old are you?”

“Fourteen.” José answered.

“Where are you from?”

José hesitated, and then lied. “Juárez.”

“Your parents live there?” The Border Guard asked.

“My parents are dead.” José answered.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“One brother. He is in El Paso.”

The officer took José’s arm and stood him up. “We’re going to get these drugs off of you now.” The Border Guard translated.

They pulled the tape off too quickly and made him bleed. José tried not to yell, but it hurt. “Where did you get these?” They asked.

“In Juárez.” José answered.

They pulled him along through the main room with everyone staring at his handcuffs and spots of blood on his shirt. Behind the building, they put him into a police car and drove him to the jail. There were more questions and more searching. Weighing the drugs, making sure that he didn’t have any more. José had not eaten all day and he felt like he would faint. Finally, the guards noticed that he looked sick and gave him some crackers to eat. All day he sat in a cell in the jail waiting for something to happen. Finally, late that evening, a guard took him out, handcuffed him and put him back in the car. “We’re bringing you back to Juárez. We aren’t going to press charges because you are still a child. You’re papers are canceled, and you will not be allowed into America for two years.” He turned and looked José in the eye. “We do NOT want to see your face at that border crossing station again. Do you understand?”

José nodded silently. The guard pulled into the parking lot of a large store. “Welcome to Juárez.” He unlocked José’s handcuffs. “Get out.”

José got out, and the car pulled away. He was back in Juárez and Roberto was somewhere in El Paso. Now what?