Chapter 14
Solana Damita Ledesma
I’d been in a fetal position on the bed for most of the day, but now, I was on the floor. My gums were numb, and not because of the white powdery substance I liked to smear across them. No. They were without feeling because my teeth had been chattering since I’d awakened.
Five days. That’s how long I’d been here.
I knew because Italian had reminded me what day it was every morning when he brought my breakfast. I still didn’t know what he looked like, but he’d been feeding me three times a day and conversing with me, and I had cherished that up until today.
Today, I had no words for him. I had no words for anyone.
He’d been by twice so far, and each time he slid more food through the slot, the food I hadn’t touched remained waiting.
When I first arrived at this home, I appreciated the memory-foam mattress.
Now it hurts. It hurts my skin. It hurts my bones.
It hurts my head. The cooling pillows? They were now too cold.
I’d tried repositioning myself many ways on the queen-sized bed, but ultimately, the floor proved the most comfortable.
So, here I was, on the ground, shuddering. I wasn’t cold; my body was actually burning up. Burning with regret. Burning with shame. Burning with the need to get high one last time.
Grrrrrr!
The pains in my stomach were ones I didn’t wish on my worst enemy.
It felt like sharp needles were stabbing me from the inside.
I knew I needed to eat, but that would mean I’d have to leave this position, and it was the most comfortable right now.
For the first three days, I was fine. I wasn’t, but I didn’t feel like this.
I missed Shio. I missed the way cocaína (cocaine) made me feel.
But there were not many pains. By day three, I felt mind-cramping.
On day four, I slept most of the day, only waking up to eat and chat with Italian.
But today, I was over being in this room.
I needed out. I needed cocaína (cocaine).
I could take the stabbing no longer. With one knee to my chest, I stretched the opposite leg out and kicked around until I felt the plastic bag.
Spreading my toes, I hooked the bag between them and pulled it toward me.
I didn’t know whether it was breakfast or lunch, since I was reaching for it blindly, but either would do.
I just needed to eat so the pain could ease.
I knew it wouldn’t completely diminish. The only way it would go away was if I hit a line.
Reaching down, I snatched the bag from my toes and brought it to the side of my face.
My left arm was still wrapped around my stomach, hoping I could squeeze the aching away.
My head remained on the hard, carpeted floor as my eyes blinked away the pain from simply moving.
I used one hand to open the bag and pull out the black plastic carryout container.
It was the breakfast bag.
There was no steam rising from the food, and rightfully so.
It had been hours since it was delivered and sat untouched in this pretend celda (jail).
Three homemade pancakes, two sausage links, and cheese eggs were in the tray.
Next to the eggs was a condiment cup filled with syrup.
Not bothering with the syrup, I picked up the pancake and shoved it into my mouth.
It was cold and soggy from the butter. The steam had settled into the bread, making it hard to swallow.
I still scarfed it down, hoping it would help the pain.
Once the first pancake was gone, I moved on to the next item.
Scooping the eggs up with my fingers, I swallowed them in one bite, and then the sausages.
The three-food-item combo was one of the best breakfasts I’d had, and it was ice cold.
Left in the bag were the utensils I hadn’t bothered to open and a bottle of orange juice.
Twisting the bottle cap off, I tilted my head so I wouldn’t make a mess since I was still lying down.
Gulping half the bottle, I put the top back on and tossed it into the bag, along with the last pancake that I’d probably eat later on.
With my eyes wide open, I was able to see underneath the bed since I was facing it.
Hugging my knees, I stared into the darkness.
I felt empty, and in a way, under the bed was mimicking how I felt inside.
Shio placing me in this room in hopes that I would get clean would be all for nothing.
I’d go back to cocaína (cocaine). It was all I had.
It was all I could have. It was the one thing that didn’t let me down.
The one thing that was always accessible to me. I needed it more than I needed air.
“Aye! Aye, aye! Mexi-Mami! You good in there?”
My stomach clenched as Italian’s voice startled me. The pain hadn’t left. The food had helped, but as I expected, the body aches were still all over my body.
“I’m… I’m f-fine,” I replied through chattering teeth. I was speaking as loudly as I could without increasing the state of pain I was trapped in.
“No, you not. You ain’t talking to me today.”
Closing my eyes, because his words made me feel bad inside, I tried to think of something to distract myself. If I could minimize my mental pain, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so bad physically.
“I-I’m s-sorry. How w-was your d-day?” I didn’t know what else to ask.
“My day? Shit… Breaking niggas pockets. Same shit, different day. Aye, matta fact, how I say that in Spanish?”
“What?”
“Breaking niggas pockets.”
This is how our days had been—him asking me what a word meant in Spanish, and me translating it as best I could.
It was tricky because what something meant in Spanish didn’t hold the same meaning once converted into English sometimes.
Still, I always provided him with an answer.
It pained me to think sometimes, but I would search my brain for the right combination of words and hope the translation held up if he ever used them.
“Rompiendo los bolsillos de los negros.”
“Ruumpiendoe las bolseeoos dey las kneegross,” he sounded out.
If I weren’t hurting, I’d laugh. “Sí. Sí. Buen trabajo. (Yes. Good job.)”
“Yeah, I’ma get that shit on a shirt. I be coming up so hard off them dice games. You’d think niggas would get tired of challenging me. But… Nope. They want they money took.”
It sounded like he was counting money, the rustle of paper passing over each other.
It took me back to when Shio taught me how to count.
My eyes watered, but I blinked the tears back.
I’d refrained from texting him today. Shio and I were done.
We didn’t belong. The best I could do was stay put until I was let out, and then I’d figure out life from here.
Maybe I could find my mom’s family. She was from the States and had to have living relatives.
I wondered if they had cocaína (cocaine)?
Fuck no, Solana. That’s what has you locked away now.
“You don’t sound so good, Mexi-Mami. Describe to me how you feeling… But in English. I ain’t that advance yet.”
If he kept asking me what his slogans and insults meant without repeatedly hearing or saying them, he’d never be fluent in Espanol. But, then again, Shio could keep me down here forever, and Italian could become a better Spanish speaker than his older cousin.
“I… I don’t mean to be a… Uhhh, a perra… No, no… It’s puta in America. I don’t mean to be a puta—”
“A bitch! I know that one.”
“Yes, sí…” I cleared my throat as best as I could, but it was so dry. “It hurts to talk, Italian. Stabbing in my stomach… I am shaking, but I’m not cold. My teeth hurt. My arms and legs are sore. I feel pain everywhere… But you don’t need to worry about me. I-I justtt need r-rest.”
White-hot pain flowed through my body as I sputtered the last few words. It almost felt as if something inside of me was broken, like a blade had penetrated my skin and been wedged in between my organs.
“Man, you slept all day yesterday, Solana.”
“I know…”
I could hear more shuffling and then the sliding of the door slot. Italian sounded clearer when he yelled through the slot. “Hold the…Man! Fuck you on the floor for? Shit! I need to call—”
“No… D-don’t call anyone.”
Especially him.
I missed him. I missed him so much. I missed our routine.
I missed the subtle glances he’d toss my way.
I missed his authoritative nature. I missed his intense workout sessions.
I missed existing in his space, even on the days I was high and locked in the bedroom.
That night in the tub—even through his foggy eyes—he looked at me in a way that said he’d do whatever it took to win me.
He was ready to do whatever to protect me.
He looked at me as if I were the most precious thing in the world.
I couldn’t face him. I wanted to see him, but not like this.
Not while I was sick, hunched over, and in agony.
The sliding of the metal door sounded again, this time screeching louder than the door slot.
I knew that it was opening, but the door opened in many ways.
It could be opened into two halves, as a full door, or by the slot handles on the top and on the bottom half.
Italian had only been using the bottom slot to get me food.
I was in too much pain to lift and see which way he’d opened the door today.
“Fuuuuck, Mexi-Mami. Want me to come in? I can help you get on the bed?”
“No… No… I-I’m okay. I’ll be o-okay.”
I closed my eyes and counted as the shooting torture raced through me again as I sat up.
I was shaking harder than I had when I first got on the bed.
I felt liquid drip down my nose, and I sniffed, but more fluid rushed into my nostrils.
I swiped my face with the back of my wrist, but my skin was so dry that my hand felt like sandpaper.
I felt like my nose was running, yet nothing was there.
“Yo’ nose runnin’?”