Enrique Morales drifted. He couldn’t feel his body, couldn’t feel anything.
Tell me straight, doc.
The dull roar of the plane’s engines must have been drowning out his senses, only it was a funny thing: instead of being inside the plane, he seemed to be somewhere outside – floating in the canopy of clouds that separated the earth from the sky. Soft, weightless, and white.
Am I ever going to walk again?
Back down there, in a land called Oz, his body was lying useless in a hospital bed. The doctor’s face had been expressionless as she answered.
It’s possible, but it will take a long time. You’ll have to do a lot of physical therapy, and there’s no guarantee.
When he got back to Em City, it’d be in a wheelchair. Hill’s wheelchair, maybe – wouldn’t that be a laugh.
Morales?
The voice was barely audible, as if cutting through heavy static. Only that wasn’t right – not quite – more like the volume had been turned down far too low on a TV stuck in between channels.
Morales?
Leave me the fuck alone, he thought. He squeezed his eyes shut – surprised, vaguely, to find he still had them. Disappointed.
If he had eyes, then he had a body.
If he had a body, then he wasn’t really here.
He had been starting to think he might be dead, that this might be heaven – that if he kept drifting, he’d get to Annette, get the fuck away from Oz.
Enrique, you ever feel like you've lost your appetite for all of the bullshit?
The chunky gold bracelet sliding halfway down his sister’s forearm as she waves goodbye from the airport gate. The smoking hunk of twisted metal and rubber on the news report playing silently on the shitty little bubble TV they had in the quad.
You were talking peace and patience back then. What happened?
Three hacks forcing him face-down onto a mattress that reeks of bodily fluids and despair. The slice of a blade across his Achilles, his own screams echoing off the concrete walls.
Oz is what happened. Fucking Oz.
“Morales?”
Enrique opened his eyes with great effort to see the nurse peering down at him. Her name escaped him – Joy, Hope, something like that. Ill-fitting.
“I’m sorry to disturb you.”
She seemed so far away, like he was at the bottom of a well – or a bug under a microscope, trapped between slides. He tried to lift his hands to push up the glass, but his leaden limbs refused to obey.
Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “That sedative I gave you was pretty strong, huh?”
Right – the pills. That’s what had him so fucked up. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice like a creaking door.
Never liked taking drugs, drinking alcohol, whatever. Needed to stay sharp, for a million different reasons. Reasons, like –
“It was a precaution,” she continued. “You’re a big fella. I didn’t want a struggle.”
“Struggle?” he asked stupidly, as the name CAROL GRACE flashed into his mind, red like a warning.
What do you know about Nurse Grace?
“Martinez was so weak, he couldn’t fight me.”
Did you kill Martinez? Did anybody in El Norte kill Martinez?
“But you...”
She reached her hands around to take the pillow from under his head, and he started to panic, once again trying to force his body to move, once again unsuccessfully. So tired. So heavy.
¡Muévete!
“Say your prayers, Enrique.”
Concentrating all of his effort, he managed to bring his hand up to feebly bat at her wrist, but she easily brushed it away. “No – don’t – ”
“You’re just like Martinez.”
She stroked the side of his face.
“A nasty man who deserves to die.”
Darkness filled his vision as she pushed the pillow down onto his face.
She was right, there was no struggle. No matter how much he strained, he remained frozen –
– trapped under the slide as it pressed down further and further – flattening him beneath the glass, no air, no light –
– pressure building to unbearable levels and yet still climbing – his lungs filling with
(was it water? not the roar of an engine, not the static of a dead channel, but the crashing of waves?)
A beach.
Sun warming his face, a cloudless sky. A gentle breeze. The cry of seagulls and shrieking of children’s laughter in the distance.
Welcome back to the land of the living.
Enrique turned to face the man beside him, lying propped up on his elbow atop a blue and gold Versace towel, watching him from behind oil-slick sunglasses.
I thought I told you not to come here.
The man smirks.
Nice to see you too, sugar.
He leans in for a kiss, and his lips press against an invisible wall –
I love you. I always will.
The glass shatters.
Loud, muffled droning replaced with a sudden eerie silence.
Enrique reached to pull the pillow off his face, and found nothing. He sat up easily and looked around.
A dream.
Just a fucked up dream.
He pictured the warden’s face, looking down at him with a mix of amusement and contempt.
Must be the medication you’re on.
“Damn.”
Enrique turned to face the man beside him, lying propped up on his elbow atop a hospital bed, naked as the day he was born, watching him.
“Didn’t figure you’d be one to stick around, with your sister and all.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Enrique demanded. He recognised the guy, vaguely, but his name escaped him – something like –
The man smirked.
“What, you don’t get it?”
“Get what?” Enrique asked stupidly, as the name –
JAIME VELEZ
– flashed into his mind, red like –
(blood under Chico’s fingernails)
What's happening is you're on a delayed reaction.
“You’re dead, bro.”
Jaime tilted his head, revealing a caved-in skull – brain matter visible through the viscera permanently matted into his dark hair.
“Sucks to be you.”