A television had been brought into the room. It was a small tube TV with wheezing speakers and a screen lacking magenta hues, which made all pictures look either bluish or greenish.
To escape his stare, I eyed the TV. I could see the screen from my bed. I captured the cold colors of its images, yet my mind saw the drug soldier at the corner of the room clenching his teeth, shaking his legs. He was an excited devil lurking in plain sight.
The aide left the clinic, carrying with her a bucket full of bloody water. Fátima, after dressing Renato’s wounds, went after her. Neither of them spared me a glance on their way out. Probably worried about how our exchanging of looks might be interpreted by the man on the stool.
They left the door open. I swallowed hard. Renato stirred in his bed, entangled by delusions caused either from the fever or drugs.
I was left alone with the drug soldier.
My eyes anchored to the door, I focused my attention on the corners of my vision. Every move, every shake, every twist from the man on the stool was analyzed by my hyper-aware nerves.
The guard pointed at the TV, said something, and pointed back at me, I noticed his moves, but was unable to see why he smirked. On the screen, a show that resembled the news droned on, a man in a black suit spoke, and a picture of a woman displayed.
It was my face.
One of my best selfies. Blue gown, heart pendant on my collar—I looked gorgeous. I had taken that photo before gulping down a truckload of margaritas, free of charge, made available at the Johnson & Brothers Co.’s holiday party last year. I looked joyful, tender, and still unaware of Marlon cheating on me.
What had my life been reduced to? Getting to know that someone was, at last, looking for me, was reassuring. But having my face exposed on TV is much different than actually having the police form squads and rummage the city in search of me.
My face was plastered on the news. I watched the man on the stool walk past the TV and push the door bolt to lock it.
Startled, my muscles tightened and my breathing came in short bursts. After locking the door, he walked toward me, that filthy smirk still on his face. He knelt by my side, a waft of stench made me nauseas. Rifle in one hand, he ran the other over my belly. I tried to squirm away.
He chuckled, as only an experienced rapist would. He propped his rifle against the bed to his right. Then he took off his belt, unbuttoned his jeans, and dropped his pistol on the ground.
I looked to the ceiling, trying to shelter myself behind a barricade of memories. He bent over me, pushed my shirt up, and squeezed my breasts. I wanted to cry and shout and bellow. But shut my eyes and remained silent. He was a beast that wasn’t worth even a glimpse. He could enter my body, but he would never roam inside the beauty of my mind.
When his rough hand cupped my pussy, underneath my pants, I heard those sounds again. Gunshots. First one, then a burst, then another, all coming from Gloria Santa’s inner walls.
Fireworks were set off seconds later. He pushed himself up, muttering, and zipped up his pants. He fumbled with his belt over the belt loops, missing every time. When another round of fireworks exploded over the slum, shouts came from outside. He threw his belt at the ground, picked up his rifle, set off for the door in a hustle, and disappeared.
He forgot to take his pistol. A glock G17, the exact same model I had tested on a stand in Berlin two years ago: black tint glistening, safety lock disengaged, and magazine for seventeen bullets fully loaded.
I raised up, panting. As if I’d held my breath for the whole time that he’d hunched over me. The nape of my neck ached, but the pain had lessened, my body stronger. Whatever Fátima gave me had helped my recovery.
Right after he scurried out of the clinic, Fátima entered. I shoved my bedsheets to hide the pistol. After noticing I was up, she ran toward Renato and shook him awake.
When Renato opened his eyes, Fátima unleashed a giant chain of words, shook her hands, waved her arms and pointed at me. Renato nodded, but then, shook his head.
“What is she saying? What is happening?” I said.
“Another gunfight...” Renato said, struggling to utter his words out. I looked right into his reddish eyes. “Flávio’s faction is invading the slum. Or maybe it’s the police again. They might come for us.”
“So we must go now, Renato. We must go.” I said.
Fátima spoke to me. She took hold of my arms with both of her hands, strong fingers of a laboring woman. She pointed at Renato, shook her hands, then she pointed toward the ground.
“I don’t know what you mean. I didn’t get it,” I said.
The gunfire outside got louder and closer. I didn’t hear fireworks anymore. In the intervals of gunshots and bursts, people bellowed, kids cried, and footsteps tapped in all directions, on the narrow streets or rooftops.
Renato didn’t move. Laid out on the bed, struggling to come back to reality. He said, “she´s telling you not to leave, Emily. We must stay together. She´ll protect us.”
Fátima said something to him and then darted out of the clinic. I tried to understand what was happening, but before I could move toward the door, Renato grabbed at
