How to Be Cliche (A Novel)

(33) Nacho Business

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I was in my old neighborhood, where the houses were small, but the community and sense of comfort was big. Dad was cooking on the grill, Mom was laughing at his side, shucking corn and peeling potatoes for her famous potato salad. This was where I wanted to be most. When things felt normal. When my parents were around.  I was lounged back in a blue and white stripped plastic lounge chair with a book in my hand and a pair of rainbow aviators, tanning in my only black bikini, relaxing. Slowly, the book in my hands was slipping through my fingers, falling onto my stomach, and my head tipped further back in the chair. I fell into a deep sleep...

                  "Wake up."

                  I opened my eyes and frowned, shifting my eyes along the backyard. Where was that voice coming from?

                  "What are you doing, kid? I said it's time to eat." Dad stepped momentarily away from the grill to lift up a nearby gardening hose. "Don't make me spray you..." he teased.

                  When I didn't move, he spray me with freezing cold water.

                  "WAKE UP."

                   I jolted awake as a bucketful of ice water hit me in the face. I was stunned by the temperature, wanting to move out of the way as it continued to pour down on me but I couldn't move. My arms were strapped behind me to a chair. My legs were tied down. My feet were at an awkward angle, one of them had fallen asleep. I opened my eyes and saw black. There was a blindfold over them.

                  I waited.

                  And waited.

                  Then screamed.

                  "Silence."

                  My jaw immediately slammed shut. It wasn't a manipulated voice, but it was different from any voice I had ever heard in my life. It was empty. Cold. It was like a tantalizing kiss from a rattlesnakes tail before it struck with its fangs and poisoned you. It was an "or else" without any implication. It was the voice of a killer.

                  "Who are you?" I demanded.

                  "Who are you?" he parried calmly. The man knew my name, I could tell, therefore his deflection hit me harder than anything I had ever encountered. It got me thinking. A lot. Now the man was closer, leaning into me as if I interested him. Too close for my liking. I could feel him staring at me. If I didn't know any better, I would have said he was smiling

                  "Why am I here?" I asked a bit breathlessly. I wanted to ask him so much more. I wanted to know where Sin Trinidad was, if he was alive.

                  "Why are you here?" There it was again. The deflection. Those endless thoughts and conclusions of mine silently following it. What was I in Orange Gate County? What purpose did I have here?

                  This is worst than therapy with that Chinese woman that you made cry, Concience said. You really shouldn't have said that her dead dog looked like an overstuffed burrito.

                  A chair scrapped on the floor in front of me. Footsteps walked away from me. There was a jingle when the man walked that sounded like metal tapping against metal, and soft click to his shoes. I counted how much time he took between each stride. He walked fast, but controlled. Each step had the same amount of weight.