I run. Run like I never have before. The acrid tears on my cheeks dry in the howling wind. I decide—I can’t allow myself time to think of what I have been through. It is no time to feel sorry for myself, and I know it.
My mouth tastes like a battery, alkaline and parched. The sun is blistering; there is nowhere to escape from it, to escape from them.
Every step and movement has to be intentional, I tell myself. My mind is in hysteria; I have to make sure I’m breathing, in and out, make sure I’m looking around me, make sure I’m processing everything I see.
Dry dust is kicked up everywhere in this town. No cars out on the roads, no people anywhere. Who can help me? What I want to do is fall down—fall on the chalky earth, sink through the ground to where it’s cooler, give up.
I recognize that this is that one time, the test of my life. The time I need to find something inside of me that keeps me going. I know I have it. I know I simply have to keep going.
All I can see is yucca, and some other kind of brush that dots the hills. Mountains are on one side of me, but far away, past the rolling hills where I am. If I’m in plain sight on this one road out of the town for much longer, they will find me. I change my direction, head toward the mountains.
* * * *
As I came out of sleep, in my parents’ house that morning, I heard men yelling. Thank God no one was home—otherwise, my family would have tried to stop them, and they most likely would have been killed. There were heavy steps on the floor above me. I had no idea what they were after. Terrified, I managed to grab my cell phone from my nightstand and start dialing for help. Then the door downstairs was opened, and I had no time to think. Thudding on the stairs. I hid the phone in the pocket of my pink pajama pants.
We drove and drove. They blindfolded me for some of the trip, but not the whole time. The van’s seats had holes and were very stiff. Everything smelled like dust and sweat and oil. It grew more repugnant the longer it wafted around my nose. I could tell we were headed south. For hours.
I didn’t cry. I tried not to look afraid; they probably got off on that sort of thing. For a long time, I didn’t talk to them or ask them anything; I figured they probably wanted that too. I had clearly seen all their faces at this point—their sweaty, dirty faces. They smiled at me when they got eye contact. A few of them wore bandanas or caps on their heads. A couple of them some showed me their guns every once in a while to remind me not to act up. I don’t remember any distinct characteristics too well; I tried not to look at them for very long. If I did, I told myself, they’d have some small victory.
As we kept heading south, the surrounding areas became more desolate. These were dangerous places to find oneself in the treacherous heat: no people, no water, no houses or phones. Off to the side of one road, except for a single tree, there was nothing but a desolate plain. There would be a random, run-down building here or there, a glimmer of hope, but then nothing else to see—almost some kind of sick joke. Now the sights left a sinking feeling inside me. I realized how many miles separated me from home, and for a moment, I let myself think I’d never get away.
The place they took me to was this little town. Cuchara. I remember some of the houses on the street, adobe-style and overrun with vines and shrubs, needing new paint. Windows were misshapen, single-pane, poorly-made. Still, these homes were in cheery colors, bright pastels like orange and yellow. At the front of each house, the dark wooden doors looked ancient and warped from extreme weather. Some of the streets looked like slums and others were not altogether unkempt. A thin, grainy veil abided in the air, beaten from the all the dirt roads. It stays in the mouth: musty and sour, earthen.
All over, the roads were dotted with trees and yellow grass. Everything seemed to be without life; I don’t recall people walking along the streets or being busy outside their places of residency, or even in town. In front of a couple houses, an ancient Chevy with heavily chipped paint slept in the tall dead grass.
For some reason I’m inclined to say that we were in the outskirts and that the actual town was west of us. I did see it: a few yellow buildings offering services, one room stacked upon another. There were a few shoddy wooden buildings, older than the others, that had no signs. They were just waiting to collapse.
They brought me to a house, much bigger than any of those I’d seen around. Perhaps the only one in the whole place. It smelled new. There were hundreds of windows, high vaulted ceilings, large rooms, a chandelier, and walls laden with a polished, light wood. At least this new scent was more calming than the warm sweat and dirt.
Numerous armed men wandered about, all of them Mexican, I think, except for one black man. And there was one woman with them. Other girls around my age were here. Some with hands tied behind their backs, some crying, some gagged, some looking like they had accepted their fate. Most looked like they needed a shower. Some pleaded with me with their eyes, many didn’t seem to notice me.
I wondered if they had had the same experiences so far. Had they been mistreated? Had they been raped, threatened, starved? Maybe the plan was to threaten our parents for ransoms. But why had they just taken girls? I can’t say exactly what they wanted us for, but it couldn’t have been respectable. There were only girls here. Young girls.
I didn’t want to consider this for much longer.
These guys frequently patrolled every room, checking on all of us. Most of them could speak English quite well, and if not, I knew enough Spanish, mostly vocabulary, to get me by. They put me in the living room area, where a single, beaten brown couch served as the furniture for the entire space. A couple girls were already sitting there, but moved over for me. The kitchen was next to this room, and a few of them sat in there, at the table or the counter. They were just eating, smoking, reading newspapers—like there was nothing to worry about. Periodically, one of them came and searched the couch, maybe looking for cell phones. This is when one of them found mine and put it in his pocket. His jawline was very sharp. He wagged his finger at me with a devious smile and made that clicking noise with his tongue. He got too close to me and smelled like cheap cologne, like Aspen. He needed to shave. I wanted to spit on him.
One of the men told me that even if the police knew where to find us and made an attempt, they had technology that would dispel and confuse all kinds of transmissions so that they wouldn’t know where we were. Then I thought of the single tree I had seen, all by itself on that flat plain, nothing else for miles.
To my recollection, they didn’t feed us at any time. I’m hypoglycemic, and I have no idea how I got through the hours I was there. At times I shook, and then I couldn’t stop thinking about food, any kind of food. Even things I didn’t like. Even oranges and beets.
We were allowed to walk around and talk sometimes, since there wasn’t anything else to do, and we had been checked and were being watched. Quickly, most of us chose to fabricate some friendships, perhaps to familiarize with someone or to gain information. We were also permitted to take or change certain items of clothing in one of the upper rooms; I took some cheap tennis shoes that were close to my size: dingy white with silver stripes on the sides.
Downstairs, a few of us came upon a girl who had done something to displease our captors. She was naked, face-down on a couch. When we lifted her up, she was nothing but a skeleton with skin, her eyes sunken into her face, her hair greasy and strewn about. Her skin was ashen and her expression no longer begged anyone to help her, but only to let her die. We tried to talk to her, but nothing. She was still alive, but not really there. She had given up. I won’t forget her expression—utter apathy—and the dark gray on her lips, under her eyes, above her brow. None of us knew of anything we could do to help her. No one even knew her name. I decided that, should I survive this, the sight of this girl would be one of the things that would chill my blood for the rest of my life.
We talked a little, me and a couple other girls. This girl Renata gave me some of a granola bar or something. It helped somewhat. It seemed like she was brought here very recently as well. Her face was still clean; I could see the freckles on her nose. She was tall with long kinky hair, and her skinny legs poked out of her denim shorts. She smiled at me to let me know that we were friends. There was limited communication between us, though, as she spoke only a little English and I spoke merely a bit of Spanish.
I don’t know how long it was before the disagreement broke out. One man, after he got off the phone, was the center of the conflict: he obviously had not come through in some way and was trying to defend himself and explain. He was yelling and making wild gestures. Groups of the men started spilling out the back door near the kitchen, yelling, pointing at each other. Then gunshots, then one man fell. More shots, a couple coming through a window in the kitchen.
No one was watching us in the living room. I saw a number of cell phones there on the counter. Confusion erupted and I realized we had a chance. I grabbed two cell phones and headed for the front door. Renata and I got outside and onto the dirt road. We ran like hell, weaving onto sidestreets, turning here and there.
We kept running, the dust beating up from the road, frantically trying to lose a couple men who were chasing us in the distance. One in particular was after me, in his dark sunglasses and white shirt, black jeans and shoes. We split up for a minute; she went to the houses on the right. I dashed up on the porch of a house with trees in the yard. I pounded on the door in panic, but a lock on the front sent me running again. I can still hear the hollow sound of the thick, chamber-like door and the way the lock hit it as I ran away. No answer. I was alone. My hair clung to the sides of my face.
I scrambled back out on the street. I still believed that I was strong enough to get away, strong enough to not give up like that girl in the house. I would be strong enough to get back to those that loved me. If they caught me again, they’d have to bring me back, kicking and screaming, fighting. I tried to monitor my breath as my feet perpetually struck the ground below, almost absent of me.
I finally thought I saw a house that might do, not bright like some of the other ones, maybe deserted. Renata was behind me. Together we ran up the stairs and broke through the door, and I gave her one of the cell phones I had taken. We crouched down under the window, and I instructed her to dial, anyone she knew. I didn’t know who I could get a hold of.
I prayed. I dialed home. It started ringing and my brother answered. I was entirely shocked that it worked. I must have grabbed a phone that was used in the U.S. I could tell I was on roaming. So I told my brother, what had happened as quickly as I could, told him to call people. Stuttered through the whole conversation. Told him that I loved him.
Someone clasped my shoulders, turned me around. It wasn’t the man in the sunglasses; it was a younger guy. I swung, kicked, screamed at the top of my voice. I nearly escaped his grip, but then there were two sets of hands holding me down, trying to control me. I was surprised that no violence was used. Neither of them hit me or yelled. Once I was contained, one of them went after Renata.
The one who brought me back didn’t hurt me—I think he might have been attracted to me, or at least he felt sorry for me. He was relatively good-looking, Mexican, maybe 23 or so. He had lighter, smooth skin, dark hair, a nice mouth. The maroon shirt he wore was too big for him, and when he raised his arms, there were stains of sweat in his armpits. It made him less intimidating. He was gentle in his dealings with me.
I was placed in the living room where I was first brought, and nothing was done for a while. Many of the men were having a discussion in low voices. They didn’t seem to be that upset with me or any of the other girls who were brought back. The sun glinted from the window, right in my eyes, golden and fierce. I just glared at them, with hate.
Someone from the group pointed at me.
One of them made his way over, a gun strapped to his arm. He was going to do something—probably kill me. He stood before me, but all I could bring myself to look at were his black leather boots. My heart kicked and echoed in my ears. I didn’t cry.
The next thing I knew, the house was attacked: in the chaos it seemed to be another Mexican group, but I didn’t know their intentions. I didn’t think it was to rescue us—that would be too soon. I was over by a counter with the younger one that liked me, and bullets flew in from the window. He pushed me behind him as he shot at someone, and I asked him many times, “Where can I go? Where do I hide?” He took me by the arm and led me to the door to the garage. We hid there for a minute and then he ran with me out onto the street. He put the phone back in my hand and told me to go. Then I ran.
* * * *
Here, higher up, there are many trees and it’s cooler. The wind isn’t as harsh; it’s actually quite peaceful as it sifts in and out of tree branches and cracks in the rocks.
I don’t think anyone has followed me, and I’ve been told that I should stay where I am. I’ve been able to talk to everyone on the phone, to let them know I’m alright, that a helicopter is coming in a matter of minutes.
I’m thirsty.
I breathe in the soothing scent of the pines. I sit in the shade on a large rock, and breathe in my freedom. I touch some of the leaves and soil beside me. Thank you, I say. I glance up at the sky and observe a solitary bird soaring in the wide, clear expanse before him. Clumsily, I wipe the few stray tears from my eyes, and remind myself to breathe, to take it in, to remember always, to live.
To read some of Kendra’s poetry, go to http://kendrarielle.wordpress.com.
