Page 21 of No Greater Oblivion

Something hot trickles down the side of my face. Am I bleeding? Where am I injured? Is that why I’m losing sensation all over my body?

I manage to pull her out from under the bottom half of the shelf but she hasn’t opened her eyes. I can’t even detect a heartbeat.

“Dahlia,” I rest her head against my chest, keeping the wet towel against her nose and mouth. “Please…please wake up.”

She doesn’t move. I can’t feel her breathing. Her skin is hot to the touch and I’m starting to lose consciousness.

We have to get out of here.

I drag us as far as I can to the main door, pushing aside flaming objects and debris as I go. For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, I find myself reaching for a God I had long ago abandoned.

I’ll do anything, I pray. I’ll be better, I’ll be different, I’ll be good, if you let her live.

More debris falls from the ceiling and my grip around her tightens.

Dios…Dios Mio.

Ten piedad de mí.

I relieved myself of any religious conviction when Dad died. What good had faith done anyone in the wake of my father’s death? All those women praying with rosaries, all the men lighting candles, and children kneeling before altars to recite prayers they were too young to fully understand. None of their religious ceremony had brought my father back and I didn’t take comfort in the idea of his soul reaching Heaven. Everyone called it “a better place” but what better place was there than at home with his wife and children who still needed him? And what kind of Heaven awaited my father? Because the life he lived wasn’t free of sin no matter how often he prayed and confessed.

I’m not sure if or what I believe in anymore. Prayer is supposed to be about offering up oneself to God but I have very little. A soul like mine isn’t worth much. My hands are no good; they’ve ruined, maimed, taken life. My mind is poisonous; all it does is plot and conspire. All the promises I’ve made run on a loop in my mind until I start bargaining instead—God take my wealth, my power, God, please, just take me instead—and I remember what it felt like when Dad died. How the anger festered inside me when I realized no amount of praying or bargaining or pleas for mercy was going to bring him back.

The firefighters eventually force their way into the room. Consciousness slips away from me but I keep my fingers pressed to Dahlia’s neck, searching for a pulse.

Smoke clouds my vision and my lungs tighten. The air is suffocating me—us—and I can’t help but wonder if this is the end. Will our souls end up in the same place or is there really nothing after death? Where did my father end up? Where will Dahlia?

It’s the last thought I have before Dad’s place is swallowed whole by fire.

Dahlia

Different voices float around me as I drift in and out of consciousness.

“It’s a miracle she made it out of there alive. Another few minutes and⁠—”

“Maybe don’t talk about how my brother’s girlfriend almost died right in front of him.”

“It’s fine, Leticia. What else did the doctor say?”

“Aside from a few scratches and bruises, she’s fine. Falling under that shelf is probably what saved her from the impact of the explosion. She can breathe on her own, which is great, but there’s a little bit of inflammation in her lungs so they’re going to keep her on the nebulizer. As for⁠—”

Sensation returns to my limbs and when I shift in bed, a blinding, white-hot pain shoots up my leg. A strangled cry of surprise leaves my lips but is suffocated by the mask around my face. I lift my hand to yank it off but I can’t move my arm far enough. Thin tubes attached to needles dig deep into my veins and restrict my movement.

From the peripheral, I sense movement. Alejandro appears and gently guides my hand away from my face. “Everyone out,” he says, his voice coarse and quiet. “Now.”

“But—” I think it’s Diego.

“I said out,” he snaps, his voice never rising above the whir of the machines around us but there’s enough force behind it to move a mountain.

“Take…” My throat and lungs burn. “Take this off.”

Oh my God…this is a hospital.

I’m wearing a scratchy gown, in a sterile bed, surrounded by pulsing and flickering screens. Bright white lights blind me from above and the scent of antiseptic coupled with my inability to move brings me back to the hospital room my mother lived in, in the weeks leading up to her passing. All those doctors with notepads, so many vials of blood, needles, medications, seizures, and wailing machines keeping track of my mother’s last breaths and heartbeats.

Panic builds inside me. Pressure behind my eyes triggers a splitting migraine and if I couldn’t see before, the tears certainly don’t help.

“Alex…Alex, please.” My voice trembles as I reach for the tubing, mask, anything. “Take it off…I’m going to rip it off…”