The day they killed me, I woke up unsettled: a couple of roosters had come to harass the hens sleeping in the branches of the avocado tree behind the house. It was still early. The only sunlight in the room was that tiny golden thread trembling through the hole in the roof tiles.
My brain recognized the hangover from last night’s chaparro the moment I opened my eyes. I jumped out of bed looking for water; nothing. Just half a cup of cold, miserable coffee. I swallowed it in one go. In the kitchen, there were childlike footprints made of ash on the floor, but I paid them no mind.
I went to the outdoor sink: dry. Six days already without water or rain. With the three drops that remained, I washed my face and dressed as best as I could. I had all the time in the world that day, yet somehow I was in a hurry. I suppose, without knowing it, I couldn’t wait to die.
I was supposed to meet Paco in the plaza at eight, so I left at seven “to get there early,” or so I said. The road smelled of dust and dead leaves. Among the coca bushes I ran into old Narciso, driving a cart pulled by two skinny oxen—and in the cart, a chained angel.
“Another one, don Narciso?” I asked, walking alongside him.
“Yes, this one will do the miracle,” he said. “See the armor? He’s an archangel.”
“So I see. You’re going to leave heaven empty.”
“Even if I have to drag down God himself, as long as I can heal her. Want a feather for good luck?”
“No, don Narciso. You know divine things don’t take to me.”
“Well, suit yourself. See you around.”
“Good luck.”
He didn’t hear me. He disappeared down the hill, rushing home to cure his wife, who was dying of the Sumpul fever. There isn’t a doctor in this land who can heal her, so Narciso has taken heaven’s justice into his own hands: hunting angels, bleeding them, and giving the blood to his wife to drink. He’s gone through three, without improvement.
I searched my pockets for cigarettes, but found only a red handkerchief. Rushing out, I’d grabbed the wrong pants.
“Idiot, Elías, you idiot,” I muttered.
I thought about throwing it away, but as I walked on, I forgot about it.
The October wind kicked up more dust than usual. The plants along the roadside looked covered in ***** snow. Not a single truck passed—not a soul. No dogs, no voices. Only the stones clicking beneath my boots.
Turning by the cemetery, I saw them: four civil guards in the booth, two more by the cement barrels, and another lifting the gate. A man was under arrest, and two children were watching.
“The handkerchief,” I thought. “The ****** red handkerchief.”
I tried to turn back, but they had already seen me. The four guards left the booth, waiting for me to approach for inspection. I tried to walk calmly, like someone with nothing to hide. Sweat ran down my face; my hands trembled.
“Stop!” one yelled.
“He didn’t do anything!” a child cried. “Elías is my dad’s friend!”
“Shut up, brat, or I’ll take you too!”
“Hands on your head,” another ordered.
They shoved me against the wall.
“Spread your legs.”
They searched everything until they found the handkerchief.
“So you’re a red, you son of a *****
“A woman left that behind—it’s not mine.”
“Sure…” he said, and without warning, hit me with the **** of his rifle.
I fell sitting. The colonel approached, crushing his cigarette under his boot.
“You arrived just in time,” he said. “This one will do as our culprit for what happened in the village. Nobody saw the real man’s face, so this one will be it. Tie the handkerchief on him and get him on the truck.”
The other prisoner was released.
“It’s your lucky day,” the colonel told him. “This one came to save you.”
They handcuffed me, lifted me by an arm each. I felt my eyebrow split open, the warm blood running down to my lip. I barely saw the red of my own blood mixing with the dust.
“We’re going to take you for a little ride,” the colonel said, “so you can say goodbye to everyone. So you can see we’re not as ****** as they say.”
They put me on the truck. We crawled down the main street. People were carrying baskets, machetes, dreams. When they saw us pass, they stopped. Doña Eduviges recognized me:
“Where are you taking him?” she asked.
“To where you think, señora. This one’s an insurgent.”
“No! Elías isn’t into that. Don’t hurt him!”
“That’s what they all say,” the soldier answered.
“God bless you, Elías,” I managed to hear.
By then, I couldn’t see out of my right eye. I felt the dry blood, the shame. Not shame of dying, but of being paraded around like a trophy, like a carnival beast.
I thought of Narciso’s angel.
“Do angels feel shame?” I wondered.
“What time is it?” I asked a soldier.
“Time? Why do you want to know the time? You’ve got nowhere to go.”
The truck continued its funeral procession through town. They showed me through every street as if I were a defeated general. On Calvary Street, the shouting grew louder:
“Don’t **** him! He doesn’t bother anyone! He’s a good man!”
I heard voices pleading for me—people who barely knew me. I didn’t feel sorry for myself, but for them. They knew of me, not me. They loved Paco, not me.
We arrived. They dragged me off the truck and hauled me to the wall facing the plaza. The crowd gathered quickly, as if waiting for a show. There were food stands, drinks, fireworks. Everything was noise and silence at the same time.
I felt anger. I pitied the crows that had followed me, the candles that left their dead to trail me from the cemetery. And I felt even sorrier for not having been able to meet Paco.
Judging by the sun, it was nearly nine. Three soldiers stood before me, rifles in hand. The colonel beside them, calm. One soldier approached and blindfolded me with the very handkerchief that condemned me.
I smelled gunpowder. I heard women crying. I felt the shut eye, the dry blood, the still air. And just before losing the light, I saw Paco peeking out from behind the church. It was already too late.
By then, even my shadow had abandoned me. I heard the voices of the ghosts that lived in town.
I took one last breath, trying to carry something with me to the other side.
“Fire!”
Through the thunder of the shots, I heard Paco scream “NO!”—but I no longer saw him.
I didn’t see anything ever again, not even the red cloth over my eyes.
Then came the cold. The cold I’ve carried ever since.
I haven’t seen color or light since that day.
If I’d known the afterlife was so dark and frozen, I would’ve told them to cremate me.
But don’t worry, compadre.
One… gets used to it.
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 3:50 PM UTC
The day they killed me, I woke up unsettled: a couple of roosters had come to harass the hens sleeping in the branches of the avocado tree behind the house. It was still early. The only sunlight in the room was that tiny golden thread trembling through the hole in the roof tiles.
My brain recognized the hangover from last night’s chaparro the moment I opened my eyes. I jumped out of bed looking for water; nothing. Just half a cup of cold, miserable coffee. I swallowed it in one go. In the kitchen, there were childlike footprints made of ash on the floor, but I paid them no mind.
I went to the outdoor sink: dry. Six days already without water or rain. With the three drops that remained, I washed my face and dressed as best as I could. I had all the time in the world that day, yet somehow I was in a hurry. I suppose, without knowing it, I couldn’t wait to die.
I was supposed to meet Paco in the plaza at eight, so I left at seven “to get there early,” or so I said. The road smelled of dust and dead leaves. Among the coca bushes I ran into old Narciso, driving a cart pulled by two skinny oxen—and in the cart, a chained angel.
“Another one, don Narciso?” I asked, walking alongside him.
“Yes, this one will do the miracle,” he said. “See the armor? He’s an archangel.”
“So I see. You’re going to leave heaven empty.”
“Even if I have to drag down God himself, as long as I can heal her. Want a feather for good luck?”
“No, don Narciso. You know divine things don’t take to me.”
“Well, suit yourself. See you around.”
“Good luck.”
He didn’t hear me. He disappeared down the hill, rushing home to cure his wife, who was dying of the Sumpul fever. There isn’t a doctor in this land who can heal her, so Narciso has taken heaven’s justice into his own hands: hunting angels, bleeding them, and giving the blood to his wife to drink. He’s gone through three, without improvement.
I searched my pockets for cigarettes, but found only a red handkerchief. Rushing out, I’d grabbed the wrong pants.
“Idiot, Elías, you idiot,” I muttered.
I thought about throwing it away, but as I walked on, I forgot about it.
The October wind kicked up more dust than usual. The plants along the roadside looked covered in ***** snow. Not a single truck passed—not a soul. No dogs, no voices. Only the stones clicking beneath my boots.
Turning by the cemetery, I saw them: four civil guards in the booth, two more by the cement barrels, and another lifting the gate. A man was under arrest, and two children were watching.
“The handkerchief,” I thought. “The ****** red handkerchief.”
I tried to turn back, but they had already seen me. The four guards left the booth, waiting for me to approach for inspection. I tried to walk calmly, like someone with nothing to hide. Sweat ran down my face; my hands trembled.
“Stop!” one yelled.
“He didn’t do anything!” a child cried. “Elías is my dad’s friend!”
“Shut up, brat, or I’ll take you too!”
“Hands on your head,” another ordered.
They shoved me against the wall.
“Spread your legs.”
They searched everything until they found the handkerchief.
“So you’re a red, you son of a *****
“A woman left that behind—it’s not mine.”
“Sure…” he said, and without warning, hit me with the **** of his rifle.
I fell sitting. The colonel approached, crushing his cigarette under his boot.
“You arrived just in time,” he said. “This one will do as our culprit for what happened in the village. Nobody saw the real man’s face, so this one will be it. Tie the handkerchief on him and get him on the truck.”
The other prisoner was released.
“It’s your lucky day,” the colonel told him. “This one came to save you.”
They handcuffed me, lifted me by an arm each. I felt my eyebrow split open, the warm blood running down to my lip. I barely saw the red of my own blood mixing with the dust.
“We’re going to take you for a little ride,” the colonel said, “so you can say goodbye to everyone. So you can see we’re not as ****** as they say.”
They put me on the truck. We crawled down the main street. People were carrying baskets, machetes, dreams. When they saw us pass, they stopped. Doña Eduviges recognized me:
“Where are you taking him?” she asked.
“To where you think, señora. This one’s an insurgent.”
“No! Elías isn’t into that. Don’t hurt him!”
“That’s what they all say,” the soldier answered.
“God bless you, Elías,” I managed to hear.
By then, I couldn’t see out of my right eye. I felt the dry blood, the shame. Not shame of dying, but of being paraded around like a trophy, like a carnival beast.
I thought of Narciso’s angel.
“Do angels feel shame?” I wondered.
“What time is it?” I asked a soldier.
“Time? Why do you want to know the time? You’ve got nowhere to go.”
The truck continued its funeral procession through town. They showed me through every street as if I were a defeated general. On Calvary Street, the shouting grew louder:
“Don’t **** him! He doesn’t bother anyone! He’s a good man!”
I heard voices pleading for me—people who barely knew me. I didn’t feel sorry for myself, but for them. They knew of me, not me. They loved Paco, not me.
We arrived. They dragged me off the truck and hauled me to the wall facing the plaza. The crowd gathered quickly, as if waiting for a show. There were food stands, drinks, fireworks. Everything was noise and silence at the same time.
I felt anger. I pitied the crows that had followed me, the candles that left their dead to trail me from the cemetery. And I felt even sorrier for not having been able to meet Paco.
Judging by the sun, it was nearly nine. Three soldiers stood before me, rifles in hand. The colonel beside them, calm. One soldier approached and blindfolded me with the very handkerchief that condemned me.
I smelled gunpowder. I heard women crying. I felt the shut eye, the dry blood, the still air. And just before losing the light, I saw Paco peeking out from behind the church. It was already too late.
By then, even my shadow had abandoned me. I heard the voices of the ghosts that lived in town.
I took one last breath, trying to carry something with me to the other side.
“Fire!”
Through the thunder of the shots, I heard Paco scream “NO!”—but I no longer saw him.
I didn’t see anything ever again, not even the red cloth over my eyes.
Then came the cold. The cold I’ve carried ever since.
I haven’t seen color or light since that day.
If I’d known the afterlife was so dark and frozen, I would’ve told them to cremate me.
But don’t worry, compadre.
One… gets used to it.
