Corner of the Dead

Chapter 12

[ 62 ] C H A P T E R 12 I A M FA L L I N G , but, cannot land. I’m not desperate for aspirin but I am dreaming of water, of many glasses of cold water with perfectly formed ice cubes. I reach for one and begin drinking. Bringing the sweating glass to my forehead, I lean into it, allowing it to cool my burning skin. I need more and more water. I extend my hand because someone is offering another glass. But the hand darts away. I wait for it to return. Then there is no one handing me anything. There is a glass off to the side. Even though I can’t be sure the water is clean, that it has been boiled for fifteen minutes, I start drinking, then guzzling, so fast the liquid runs down my chin and pools in a semi-circle on top of my collar-bone. I am colder than I ever was, even at the top of the mountain that time we were caught in the snowstorm, when I thought we might not make our way back. As I near the bottom of the glass I see a snake coiled. It shoots its tongue forward. It is my screaming that wakes me, but not enough. The body, I once read, has a way of protecting itself from pain by shutting down in one way or another when there is no other way to escape. I am still asleep now running [ 63 ] past cement block houses because I am not safe. On the wall are names scrawled in red. I see my name and Blanca’s. It is the same red the guerrillas use. This is their color because it mimics the color of blood. Or maybe it is blood. Blood is cheaper than red paint. Through the partially opened door I see a man’s foot. I want to know why the military man is not wearing combat boots. But they don’t always have supplies. There is a rifle, resting at his side. In his hand is a pencil and he is writing on pages clipped to a wooden board. The date is January 1, 1983, and his entry says, Indian women who do not turn over their children are whores. He is on his feet walking toward me. There is no Blanca. He catches me by my hair, a whole clump of it, enough for my mother to gather in a ribbon and tie in a bow, but there is no mother and my grandmother never would have bothered. He pulls me backwards and orders me to stand alongside the chair. My fingers tighten around the frame as he bends me at the waist, my stomach pressed against this very hard thing. I pretend I am a table. Tables do not feel pain. If you must I will allow you to eat off my back. But I have no control to authorize any one thing. Place your cold metal utensils and tin bowl on the curve of me. I will try not to jerk. Rather, I will let my ribs rise and fall gradually even though I know you are reaching for your knife. I will breathe steadily as you follow the outline of the tangled rope that runs up my spine. Cut gently, I do not want to feel pain. I can see, if I crane my neck to the left, that it is a hunting knife with a carved handle, no, nothing at all like a butter knife. What color is the blanket? He twists my head and makes me [ 64 ] look. See how red—I will not stop, not until your skin, your body, burn that color. That way you will know you are alive. That way you will feel how much it hurts to be alive. I’m having trouble catching my breath. Water, I beg, please. He turns away from me. For this moment I hope I can escape . I need him to lose his focus. He is facing the door I came through. I’ll give you water he says as he turns back to look at me, then pulls me by my wrist and drags me to the shower. I am very cold. I think it is the end because he is allowing me to shower. The water’s too hot, then freezing. I cannot get clean...