I can see the moon and the stars through the windshield. It’s a dark night, as dark as it gets in Las Delicias avenue. The city’s terrible electric system keeps the street lamps in a constant intermittence, and, at one hour before twelve, there was a certain urge of not being there. I drive fast through the empty avenue, and reaching its end I stop and McDonalds’ traffic light. I don't see any vehicles coming, but even so I do not dare to cross on red. I wait patiently until I hear it: the sound of terror. Two motorcycles approach me from behind and they stop just in front of my car, waiting for the green light. Or so I make myself believe. “Since when do motorcycles wait for the light?” I ask myself as the delinquents suddenly get down. I feel panic seizing me. They point their guns at me and make signals for me to open the door and leave my vehicle. I do as they tell me, I babble some words, begging for mercy and raise my hand so they don’t hurt me. One of the men shouts “Shut up and get your head down!” at the same time he hits my forehead with the butt of his gun and hides my face in a dark plastic bag. They take me by the arm and carry me some steps back into another car. I didn’t even notice when it stopped there. They kick me inside what could only be the backseats, and sit me beside two subjects. I hear how they drive away my Ford Fiesta and, after a few seconds, we start driving too.
I try hard to concentrate my imagination in the route, in the hopes that I can guess where they plan to take me, but these two guys beside me don’t seem to stop talking and are checking the stuff I carry. “Aureliano Aracataca. What kind of stupid name is that?” Says the guy from my left. “Your mom chose it” I answer, though I immediately regret doing so. A sonorous punch in the face reminds me of the danger in which I find myself, and from then on I decide to play it quiet. The men keep talking, trying to disturb me with their wicked words. They explain how they plan to kill me and drop my dead body,piece by piece, in black plastic bags, but not before they violate and destroy me in a hard beating. They make me random pervert question about my experiences with black men and if I ever had oral intercourse with them. They hit me, push me and yell “Speak dicksucker” at me when I don’t answer their atrocities. My whole body is shaking, I see nothing and I feel my sweat running down my cheek. Is it blood? I don’t get time to find out because my captors have stopped the car and are pulling me out by force. They throw me on the floor and the next thing I feel is a kick in the stomach that leave me breathless and compels me to cry. It wasn’t the last one. Immediately, a rain of pain fell over me. They strike me with their fists and kick me and, a few moments later, hit me with a baseball bat they had around. I am no longer able to think or to feel anything but agony. I scream in despair and beg to God that they finish me soon because I don’t want to suffer anymore. It appears that he has listened to me, and a blow from the bat put me unconscious.
I wake up in the mids of trash cans and putrefaction, a dead rat smell that dominated my nightmares. I try to get up, but I’m so sore that I barely get on my knees. I feel my feet wet, some kind of green and slimy fluid from the black bags sneaks in between my exposed toes; I’ve been robbed of my shoes. I don’t know where I am, but it’s not a pretty place. I search for my watch but I don’t find it. My phone; gone, too. Wallet, house keys, engagement ring: all gone. Nobody in the street is paying any attention to me, I must be looking like a beggar, that’s how dirty I am. I walk, painfully, to reach and old lady and ask her where we are. “El limón” she answers, and walks away. Those bastards threw me in this horrible neighborhood.
It takes three tries until a taxi finally pities me and agrees to take me home under the condition of keeping the windows down. All my body palpitates with pain, and the simple sitting becomes a tedious task. We arrive at my home and I must knock the door. My wife starts weeping as soon as she see my condition. She asks me a thousand things and then a thousand more. I make her understand that I’m fine, and urge her to pay the cab. I check the hour; is Sunday at eight in the morning. I take a hot shower and I watch as the floor bathes in red with my blood. I cost a lot of energy to keep myself on feet for too long, and soon I must get out, drying my body carefully, and explain to my wife what happened. Fatima can barely speak, crying, she only thanks God for my health. I don’t share the thought. My daughter comes out of the her bedroom, still sleepy, and hugs me with a “daddy”. I give her a stronger hug and a kiss. She wonders what happened to my face and I explain her that I fell playing football. Fatima’s face still mirrors sadness.
Two week of rest. I’ve contacted Gerald, my cop friend, to search out for my car but he hadn’t had much success, until now. One of his colleagues recognized the vehicle in a shopping mall’s parking. As soon as they tell me, I take the replacement keys and take a cab to the place. I find my friend and the guy who found my car, and they guy me to it. I press the security switch button and my body fills itself with relief when I hear the “tick tick” from my Fiesta. I smile to my friend, and we take a few minutes to check out that everything’s in order before we all part our ways. I feel very good on the way home. Happy, at last, to find my car. My work depends heavily on my mobility, and I was starting to get really anguished by not know what’d I do without it. When I get home, I serve myself a scotch on the rocks to celebrate my small fortune. When I’m about to call Fatima to give her the news, the phone rings. I pick it up and the unfriendly voice on the other side speaks “We know where you live. We’re gonna come for you. We’re gonna kill you and cut you in little pieces and throw you to our dogs… and your wife and daughter too”
The threatening calls continue for days. In the nights, nightmares of my suffering family torment me with visions of them perishing in the hands of faceless rapers and murderers. My hause burns, and I find myself in an infinity pit of hopelessness. Even when I’m awake, during the day and in the job, I can’t stop thinking on the evil that might befall on my wife and kid, who constantly receive sick and twisted calls from these insane people. I can’t cope with this. I can’t even work. I can’t tolerate it. No more. “I must do something” I call Gerald, I explain him the situation, we exchange some information, ask a price, and then we both agree.
Two days later, in the night, we’re in the “El Limón” neighborhood with some ten police agents, armed and ready to assault the white house in the Jurín street. We’ve been waiting for some hours and it seems everything is in place. The old woman finally gets out for a moment, with bags of thrash in her hands, and we take the chance to jump onto her and get into the house. Once inside I take a handsaw and a big black plastic bag. We shortly explain the situation to the old woman who’s probably peeing herself. We introduce her inside the bag and take a picture of a bloody handsaw to her neck and a signboard that says “No more calls”. Her eyes full of terror give the snapshot the perfect effect. We send it to Jordanis Martinez, responsible for the calls, my kidnapping and the street assaults made with my car and plate. By this time, he must’ve got home and noticed the terrible stench left by his favorite friend, Thor, a big beige Pitbull, cut in pieces inside a slimy dark red bag. Gerald calls the criminal and when the latter picks up the phone he asks “You got the message?” to which Jordanis, after some seconds, answers with a voice full of undeniable impotence: “I got it”.
We left the old lady in peace, and left. Some of the cops apologized for the inconvenience, but not me. Had she raised her son better, none of this would’ve happened. I give Gerald a strong handshake, a “Thank you”, and we say our goodbyes. When I get home, I release a sigh, deep and long. I check on Mary’s room, give her a kiss and cover her feet. Famita sleeps in our bed, seemingly careless. I undress and lay down by her side, whisper “I love you”, and drop a gentle kiss on her cheek. Her little moan is pure satisfaction. I cover myself, close my eyes and think about all that has happened these last few days, leaving it behind piece by piece, surrendering myself to a luxury I had lost. Yes, it is a luxury, after a long time, tonight I can sleep peacefully.