Dying Wish

Well, I'm dead. I know that's the wrong way to look at things, but it's true. I am literally dead. I guess the real way to say it is "undead", but I still feel dead. I haven't eaten in days. It isn't like I couldn't eat. There are literally brains everywhere. But I've been a vegetarian since I was little, so the craving of flesh isn't all that intense. Especially not after seeing how some of these other guys eat. I mean, they are like animals, but I've been stranded in this field ever since the government corrupted me. I mean, it could be worse. I could have been seen my by family but my president decided I wasn't good enough because I'm not what he wanted. Which is probably why we're in this predicament.

I mean, one minute I was a happy kid, and the next I was shuffling towards the nearest civilization behind a bunch of murderous flesh-eaters. I mean, some stuff happened in between that, but I guess we should go back to the beginning. I'm bi in most aspects in my life. Biracial (Mexican mother, Italian father). Bisexual (had a girlfriend for a really long time, but I'm not really attracted to them. You'll understand why later.) Bipolar (do I really have to explain that one?) It wasn't like things weren't going well. I had been accepted into the University of Texas at Austin. I was going to be a special ed teacher like I had wanted to ever since my sister was kicked out of school for being disabled. But, then, everything happened.

They created the camps first. They called them The Sick. My best friend was taken there, and now when I look at her, I see no life. She's completely numb. She got married last year, but there's more love in the scars they left on her than in that marriage. Her family sent her even though they "accepted" her. I don't know what happened to them, and quite frankly, I'd tear them apart myself for what they did to her. They'd said they didn't know. They'd said they'd thought it'd be good for her. The slogan was "Make Your Kids Great Again". Bullshit just like their lies. I hate liars.

The wall was constructed in late June and destroyed by thousands of angry Americans in early July. Despite all the facts, it was blamed on terrorism. The news desperately tried to portray the facts. There were emails sent out. Flyers posted. Warnings tweeted. STAY AWAY FROM THE WALL! MANTENERSE ALEJADO DE LA PARED! was spray painted on abandoned buildings. They tried to be safe. They tried to protect everyone. Promises to rebuild damages homes. Sign ups to help with the clean up. Donation boxes passed around to provide for people who would be homeless until it was over. It went up in smoke after about 1.5 million people were evacuated from Chihuahua all the way up to San Antonio. The evacuation took five weeks. My mother took in her sister and her children, her parents, her brother and his pregnant girlfriend, three homeless people, and her friend from Laredo. The explosions lasted a minute and a half. There was large coverage. Like in any demolition, there were barricades, strategies. They double and triple checked every building. It was planned. Everything went well. America cheered.

He charged Mexico and sent everyone back. My Salvadorian neighbor. My Honduran teacher. The Colombians who owned the taqueria. My mother. My sisters. All hoarded onto moving vans and transported into No Man's Land. If you looked Mexican, you were taken to Mexico. I was too light to go. I ran behind the truck, screaming their names. Mom. Renee. Briana. Vanessa. It was too late. I ran ten miles, desperately trying to catch them, when a man wearing a Confederate Flag T-shirt tackled me, wrestled me to the ground, and told me to calm down. Told me I would find a new girlfriend. Told me they could be replaced with something made in America. Anger welled deep within my core. I threw him off of me and blindsided him with a punch to the face. He was barely on his knees when I rammed my foot in to his sternum, knocking the wind from his lungs. A kick to the cheek transformed his mouth into a geyser of blood. I spat at him, grabbed a 2x4 that had been torn off a house by a recent thunderstorm, and started hitting him with it. The solid sounds still ring in my mind. The cuss words still echo in my head.

My father was the one to pull me away. I hadn't noticed him or the crowd that stared at me with concern as I'd pulverized the man. I looked back at him. His face had been reduced to a bloody pulp. The board, which had a nail in it, dripped with his blood from my limp hand. "Son? Son!"

I just laid in his arms motionless while he hugged me. The police arrived about twenty minutes later. I sat, limp as a noodle, as they showered me with questions. What happened? Why'd you do it? What did he do to you? Each was answered with a half-hearted shrug as tears ran down my face. Hot angry tears. I wanted to beat them all to death, but no one would think twice about pumping lead in a murderer. They threw me on the police car, twisted my arms into handcuffs, and tossed me into the car. I was sixteen. My trial was short and sweet. They brought out the teacher who I'd terrorized in second grade. They brought out my girlfriend who told them the heart wrenching story of me asking her to get an abortion. She adamantly said she wouldn't (although she later did) and that I was a monster. That was it. I was in prison.

I wasn't in the prison for more than five weeks before the injections started. Congress pushed for testing on people instead of animals, and of course, they started in the prisons. He first came on a Wednesday... or maybe it was Thursday, with a tray of needles. He had a wrinkled brow and fading blonde hair. he made no small talk. The biggest, baddest dudes were hauled into his room while we all watched. The syringes went in and pumped into the multicolored liquid into their veins. Seconds passed with nothing. Then, one had a seizure. Another began to thrash so violently that his neck began to dislodge. A third began to throw up vibrant colors uncontrollably. We watched as the fifty men began to convulse, vomit, and slowly die. The man watched unfazed. Of the fifty men, three of them survived. One was badly crippled. One was blind. The last can't uncurl his body without screaming with such furiosity that the entire prison shook.

Every Wednesday, he returned. Every time, we fought. Guards were murdered savagely for the thought of even looking at him. For weeks, we did everything to avoid the man. Inadvertently, his visits had turned us into the guard's slaves. We ironed clothes, shaved heads, gave tattoos, the list continues. But every Wednesday, fifty hapless prisoners were captured and dragged into his clutches and injected with his vile poison. And on my seventeenth birthday, I was among the men goaded into the cold metal office with the evil man. Guards strapped us in, being bitten and clawed at, and spat at. I was no better. A guard I had befriended had been kicked and scratched as he vainly tried to strap me in. "You said you'd save me," I hissed at him. "You said you'd make sure everything was okay!" His apologies were burred out by the screams of the other forty-nine men. I forgave him right then. He was just a pawn in the scheme of a corrupt king.

The evil doctor checked out eyes. Threats were growled at him. He was spat at, mocked, bit, and angrily glared at but never reacted. All of them, he plunged the needle in and twisted. When I was little, I had a friend who told me that if he ever became a doctor and saw someone he hated come to him, he's be sure to make sure they live. That doctor made me understand what that meant. He came to me and smiled. His teeth were all rotted out and his breath smelled like raw meat. Bloody. He pulled my eyelids back and peered at my irises. It felt like he was staring at my soul. His eyes were silver, and his tongue was black. I'll never forget the words he said before he plunged the needle in my skin. "Fucking Mexicans."

I awoke with crumbs in my eyes and a faint awful taste in my mouth. The prison was gone. The doctor was gone. The prisoners were gone. The office was gone. I was in a field of green alone. I didn't know where my dad was. I didn't know where my mom was. All I knew was that I had been fucked over. I had been played by someone who only knew what a bunch of numbers had told him. Now, I was just one of the pack, slowly starving because I don't eat meat. Even though I'm mostly brain dead, wasting away, and beginning to rot, I still have my memories. At least I'll die with the only thing that makes me happy.