Boiling Point

The heat robs you of your very will to do anything about it.

Last night, I heard vans and jackboots outside my window. I woke up to the sound of tire treads over gravel, and a van door sliding open. I flinched when I heard glass break. I bit down on my pillow when I heard someone beg. I heard voices muffled by masks speak in authoritative downbeats. No questions; only commands.

I held my breath, not daring to sit up, not daring to look out my window. When blue and red lights flashed strobed across my walls from outside I buried my head under my pillow like an ostrich. I didn't want to see any it.

Seeing makes you complicit. If you don't look, if you just pretend to sleep through it, you can't be blamed for whatever happens.

*

Today, I hear my neighbors crying. I can't stand it. Instead of eating breakfast this morning, I started drinking, drowning out their sorrow in alcohol.

It's not even noon and I'm too drunk to stand. An oscillating fan drones; I feeling passing relief every few seconds as the room spins.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. The economy was supposed to improve. That's what we voted for. Everything was going to be more affordable. Eggs, milk, healthcare, a house. Selena and I thought we'd be able to afford to get married, finally. Reception, venue, everything. We even set dates, started making plans.

When I think about this—when I realize that today would have been the first day of our honeymoon—I reach for the bottle again and guzzle the amber liquid.

She's gone. Selena is gone. Her family's been trying to find her. No idea where she is. At first, she was in an over-crowded cell downtown. By the time her family scrounged enough money to hire a lawyer she'd been moved to another state and they couldn't find her. It's as though she just vanished. She could be anywhere.

Maybe she's in a swampy detention center surrounded by alligators. Maybe she's on a plane crossing the ocean to a prison in another country. Maybe rough hands are holding her down as a prison guard shaves her head.

I scream and drink and scream. I weep through the screams until it feels like my throat will bleed, then I numb the pain with more alcohol.

I can't think about it. I can't. I can't. I can't.

It's not my fault. I told her not to post those things on social media. I told her not to go to those protests. I told her to stop, to stay quiet, to stay small. Why wouldn't she listen?

She wasn't a criminal. We did all the right things. She came here the right way. We voted red. She could have gotten citizenship after we'd been married for three years.

They still took her away.

I gag. I try to get up, try to make it to the sink, but the room lurches to one side and I stumble.

I vomit all over the floor, then fall face-first into it. Puke saturates my shirt. The smell makes me gag again. My throat burns.

*

It's my own stench that wakes me up. That, and a skull-crushing headache.

I look at the half-empty bottle of booze on the floor next to me. I can't live like this anymore.

I make a decision. This bottle would serve a better use elsewhere.

*

Fourth of July.

Pop, pop, pop. Boom!

The sky flashes red and white. Sounds like gunfire. Like a warzone.

Might as well be.

Pop, pop, boom!

In a way, I can't believe it's come to this, but I don't know what else to do. On the other hand, it almost feels inevitable. Nothing else works.

Pop, pop, pop. Ka-pow!

And in this moment, I think I finally understand why Selena wouldn't stop speaking out—at her own risk. She was always so brave. Far braver than me.

Pop, pop, pop.

I'm wearing a mask and tactical gear I bought online. I look for all the world like an ICE agent. The irony is not lost on me.

There's a bottle in my hand, a dirty rag stuffed in the top. In my other hand, a lighter. I've already made up my mind. The weird thing is that I've never felt more patriotic.

Pop, pop.

Selena, I hope you can forgive me. If I ever see you again, I'll tell you that you were right. I waited far too long to wake up. I pretended too long to be asleep. I hid my eyes from it all.

I light the wet rag, feel the heat through my glove.

This one's or you, babe.

Pop, pop. Boom!