el sol es un asesino

Head pounds, heart aches, my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth. I need water. I sit up and the world zooms around me. Vast nothing. Sand. More sand. One tiny little bush sits thirty yards from me. Can i make it there? My legs have given up on me - why do my knees feel like ballons about to explode? Sand pours into my shirt as i army crawl to the plant. Probably more of an ordeal than just walking. There is nothing here. There is nothing here! Why did i expect this plant to have something for me? And now i left my comfy spot in the sand over there for this patch of sand... that is almost identical. i guess it doesn’t really matter.

nothing is making sense. my last clear memory, she was laughing in front of me, bold lips crying for me to kiss her. did i? my heart would’ve remembered. my eyes close and shuts my brain down. i wake up when the sun is pink and purple, telling the world goodbye for the night. my skin burns, searing red on the pieces that are not covered by my clothing, which is stuck to my body with sweat. i put the collar of my shirt in my mouth and suck, the salty moistness burning my throat. the sweat on my clothes is the only liquid i’ve found. i’m going to die soon. my hands dig into the sand. exfoliating. people pay spas good money for this, and it sits here for free.

a soft pitter patter of feet approach me. i can’t tell from which direction. the sun has long been gone and the moon is covered with clouds. not that there is anything for me to see other than this boring old bush. i try to make a sound. “heeeeeeee-”. too dry. if it’s an animal, at least it could make my death quick. or, quicker. more quick? why am i worried about my grammar when i’m about to die?

“Hay alguien?”

i know enough spanish to know that it’s not an animal. i don’t know enough spanish to know what is being said to me. no sounds can escape me. moon, please, shine on me; clouds don’t cover me.

“english?”

no, no language, buddy, im more dead than alive. the clouds crack and a diamond ray of moonlight shatters over my figure. a huge, shadow extends past my crumpled one, distorted by the sand.

“are you okay? estas bien?” the voice is concerned. the voice belongs to a man. the voice sounds like it’s been here before.

my head shakes. water touches my lips. i did kiss her. it stings. i need more. my tongue and throat are liberated from their dry chains. “where...”

“hush, hush” he cuts me off. softly, sweetly, “you are in the Copper Canyons of Mexico. About fifty miles from the nearest town. How did you get here?” soft red lips; rose petals. “Okay, im sorry, you aren’t ready for this. quite lucky for you, that i needed to be in town today. drink this water. slowly, don’t hurt yourself.” he refills the bottle from a pack on his back. im still unable to pick myself from the ground.

he sits next to my clump of body, in the stillness of predawn. silently contemplating my decisions, and how i ended up in a desert in Mexico. i can imagine the conclusions he arrives at, from my tight clothing to my hair and makeup that promise ‘i looked good before i spent a day in the desert’. he lights up his watch and shows me a time of 4:48 in the morning. “I’ve been here for almost a full day,” i say outloud as quickly as i think it. his brown eyes find mine, and he pours more water from the tube connected to his backpack into the bottle in my hands. his face is thin. wrinkled, but not from age. he wears nothing but a pair of shorts, some beat up running shoes, and an uneven tan that tells me he occaisionally has a shirt on.

“well, you are officially tougher than most ultra runners,” his eyes flickered. his mouth was dry and cracked, harsh mountains creating a quiet river of blood where his smile stretches too far. “the sun will rise soon, i will set you up in the shade while i run into town and get a vehicle for you. can you walk two miles?”

two miles. to the nearest patch of shade. the only thing that would keep my body cool enough not to implode while i wait for this stranger to come back for me. who even was he? would he return? he said it was fifty miles to the nearest town, how long will this take?

he left the backpack with me under some tall brush and took only his meager bottle of water. “i do this all the time,” he reassured, and those wrinkles found their home in his smile.

the sun rose, then set, and rose again when i realize the backpack of water is as dry as the sand it sits on. he isn’t coming. now, i get to die.

an engine heads my direction. i won’t die. not today. the sun, new in the sky, having just shaken its pink welcome. it sat confidently just above the horizon. shouting.

“hey, there is somebody over here! that must be him!” my head turns. three people are hurling themselves toward me from a white jeep, a makeshift stretcher in their hands. the world spins. questions in spanish and english are hurled at me, but i don’t have anything coherent to offer them. they leave me at a hospital.

“you are very lucky, gringo. few people can say your story with the same ending,” the R’s roll seductively from the foreign tongue. “Very rarely are gringos alive after a night in the Canyons. An angel was watching you.” the nurse visits me consistently while i drift in and out of reality. Am i in a hospital now? Fifty miles from where i was found? Where was the stranger who gave me the water?

Two black shirts with clicking shoes enter my room. “How did you end up in Mexico?”

Not cops, border patrol. Immigration. I had no idea how, and they understood. “It was a bar in Texas, I was celebrating a friend’s engagement,” i explained to them everything i could remember. The bar closed down and the after party was with some men in leather. Leather jackets and cowboy boots, one of them had a horse. Cowboy boots that were dancing, kicking up the sand in a cloud. My last memory was the fringe from one of their jackets tickling my thigh as they took us for joy rides on the back of the horse. I told them of the girl I kissed. The younger officer flushed when he thought of two girls kissing. The older one looked down solemenly. He knew something.

“You’re pretty lucky, Eva. We don’t have many stories where white people escape the Sinaloa cartel. You’re lucky you’re a woman,” I had never heard that sentence before, and felt rather tossed.

“If i were a man, wouldn’t I not have been picked up by the Cartel?”

“If you were a man, and kissed one of their woman, we would be looking for you in limbs.” It took several severe moments of introspection for me to understand what was being said. Of the full danger of that night. Where was the rest of the party?

“A man helped,” i stated, even though i was more concerned for the friends who I last saw in America. I felt more lost in the hospital bed surrounded by cops than I did in the desert surrounded by death.

“He was at the bachelorette party with you?”

“No, in the desert. He gave me water. He was the one who got me rescued. I need to thank him.” The words were honest, and i felt a new drive within me. Find the man. Thank the man. If he’ll allow it, befriend the man. What was his story, anyway?

The suits exhanged unsettled faces. Eyebrows furrowed. Spanish poured out of them as they bickered over something. Only two words i heard: “caballo blanco”.

Because I’m smart, I interrupt to ask “what does a white horse have to do with this?”

Their faces fall hard. The younger one grabs a remote and turns the television on. I cannot understand what the News Lady is saying, her beautiful smile and lovely chest a distraction from the tiny English words on the bottom of the screen.

″... renowned for being one of the world’s greatest ultra runners, and is notorious for disapearing for weeks with no notice. His body was found this morning miles from the nearest trail, in a canyon.” The screen changes to a photo of the man who gave me his water. His brown eyes beam life. His cheeks are cracked in a smile, the reason for his wrinkles.

I find myself holding a woman who wails loudly and shakes uncontrollably. Her face pressed against the window of a white jeep; a white jeep acting as a hearse for the man she loved. Still loves. Deeply.

The body inside of it looks tiny. Not like the shadow that loomed over me three mornings before. That face - the face that folded so effortlessly into a beautiful smile - looks weird with flaccid lips. His cheeks waited for a smile. His eyes closed, he looks calm - despite being covered in a deep stain of blood. An arm bends unnaturally over his chest.

I never knew him. I don’t know her. No one even understands what happened; Micah was one with this land, and knew every sand dune and rock better than his own body. How did he get so far off course?

He ran off his usual trail to a nearby canyon to refill his water. A canyon he’d never seen in daylight: A canyon he only saw for fleeting seconds while he lost his footing; A canyon he would’ve loved as much as he loved every other change in topography; A canyon he loved despite his body crushing itself against the rocks. A canyon for him to explore for eternity.

His wife begged with the Gods to take him back in time, to before he left, and remind him to bring his backpack. “He always thought he was invicible, the fool! Why didn’t he have his backpack?” She pleaded with the fates. When did God become so cruel? Fists hurling at the sky. Desperate tears, a chest crippled with memories.

I couldnt bring myself to tell her that I had the backpack. That he gave me his supply of water. That I, the arms attempting to comfort her, was the reason her love would never say her name again.

(in loving memory of Caballo Blanco - https://www.nytimes.com/2012/05/21/sports/caballo-blancos-last-run-the-micah-true-story.html )