Sleep Peacefully

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 streets' lamps in a constant intermittence and, at one hour before twelve, you feel the urge of not being there. I drive fast through the empty avenue and, reaching its end, I stop at the McDonalds' traffic light. I don't see any vehicles comming, 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 the pilot's window and make signals for me to open the door and leave the vehicle. I do as they tell me, babble some words for mercy and raise my hands hoping they don't hurt me. One of the men shouts "Shut 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 inot 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 moving too. 

I try hard to concetrate my imagination in the route, in the hopes of guessing where they're taking, but the two guys beside me don't seem to stop talking and checking the stuff I carry. "Aureliano Aracataca. What kind of stupid name is that?" Says the guy from the 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 sick words. They explain how they intent 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 beating. They make random pervert questions to me, asking about my experiences with black men and if I ever had oral intercourse with them. They hit me, push me and yell "Speak dicksucker" all the while I remain silent at their atrocities. My whole body is shaking, I see can't see anything and the only thing I can clearly feel is the sweat running down my cheeck. Or 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. Next thing I feel is a merciless kick in the stomach that leave me breathless and kneels me to cry. It wasn't the last one. As soon as I catch some air, a rain of pain falls over me. They strike me with their fists, kick me in the face and I they laugh a their friend when he comes with the idea of practicing some baseball. The bat hit me on the ankle and I fall, no longer able to think or to feel anything but agony. I scream in despair and beg God that they finish me soon because I wish to suffer no more. It appears that he has listened to me, and a blow sends me unconscious to the ground.

I wake up in the mids of trash cans and putrefaction. A dead rat smell 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 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 in vain. My phone, wallet, house keys, engagement ring: all gone. Nobody in the street is paying any attention to me, I must be looking like a beggar, based on how dirty I am. I walk, painfully, to cheach an 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 attempts 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 task of sitting becomes tedious. I arrive at my home and I must knock the door. My wife starts weeping as soon as she see my condition. She asks e 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 eith in the morning. I take a hot shower and watch the floor bathe in red with my blood. It costs a lot of energy to keep myself on feet. I get out soon, drying my body carefully. I explain what happened to my wife. Famita can barely speak. Crying, she thanks God for my health, a thought I do not share. My daughter comes out of her bedroom, still sleepy, and hugs me with a "daddy". I give her a strong hug and kiss her cheek. She wonders what happened to my face and I explain that I fell playing football. Fatima's face reflects only sadness. 

Two weeks of rest. I've contacted police officer Gerald, my friend, to search out for my car but he hadn't had much success. Until this morning. 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 a cab to the place. I find my friend and the guy who found my car  smoking a cigarette by some trees. I salute Gerald, he introduces me his partner, and then guide me to my car. When close enough, I press the security switch button and my body fills itself with relief when a "Tick Tick" is heard comming from my Fiesta. I smile t 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 knowing what I'd 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, 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 to trhow 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 house 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 recieve sick and twisted calls from insade people. I can't cope with this, I can't tolerate it... I can't even work. "I must do something" I call Gerald, explain him the situation, we exchange information, I ask him the price, and then we both agree. 

Two days later, during the night, we're in "Los Tanques" neighborhood with some five police agents, armed and ready to assault the white house of the Jurín street. We've been waiting for some hours and everything is in place now. The old woman gets out for a moment, with bags full of trash in her hands, and we take the chance to jump onto her and into the house. Once inside, I take a handsaw and a big black plastic bag. We shortly explain the situation to the old lady who's probably peeing herself. We introduce her inside the bag and take a picture of a bloody handsaw to her neck with a signboard that says "No more calls". Her eyes full of terror give the snapshot a 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 beighe Pitbull, cut in pieces inside a slimy dark red bag. Gerald calls the criminal and, when the latter decides to pick up his phone, he asks "Got the message?" to which Jordanis, after some seconds, answers with a voice full of undeniable impotence: "I got it".

We left Mrs. Martinez in peace, and left her place. Some of the cops apologized for the incovenience, 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 goodnight kiss and cover her feet. Fatima sleeps in our bed, seemingly careless. I undress to lay down beside her, and to her ear whisper "I love you" with a kiss on her lips. Her little moan is pure satisfaction for me. I cover myself, close my eyes and thinkg 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.