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My body is numb.
My mind is numb.
Everything is numb.
It’s been a month, I think. Maybe. I’m not totally sure, to be honest. The days and nights have melted together in one big nightmare.
I ended up stuck at that gas station for close to a week.
When I woke up hours later, the liquor spewed out of me violently. I couldn’t keep an ounce of fluids inside of me. I knew I wouldn’t have made it if I kept walking again, so I had to scour the area. I found a tiny town a couple hours away. Once it was nighttime, I was able to rifle through garbage cans and found a little water and even some leftover food to eat.
I’m not fucking proud of it.
But I’m alive. I have a strategy now. I buckle down during the day, find some place to hideout and rest. Whether it be an abandoned building, in an unused alleyway in town. Wherever it may be, I find it. I fucking hate it, to be honest, but it’s not safe to be out during the day. The closer I got to the border, the more worried I was that people were looking for me. Santiago’s men.
At night, I walk.
I’ve made it to the border. My feet hurt, my head pounds, and my chest feels like it has ten bricks sitting on top of it with a sharp pain every time I inhale.
I stare at the tall bars in front of me, all connected to make a massive wall that separates one country from the next. Scaling the wall seems impossible, but it’s my only hope. If my estimation is right, Tijuana is about forty miles west. If I hop the border and go straight north, I’ll hit Pine Valley, California. Eventually.
And I’ll be home.
With as big of breath as I can handle without curling over in pain, I toss the purse over the gate. It makes it high enough, but I didn’t arch it enough to make it over, and it falls back down, nearly cracking me in the head.
It falls to the ground with athump. Picking it up again, I throw it even harder. This time it makes it over, falling to the ground on the other side of the fence.
One down, one to go.
I flex my grip, feeling like there’s no way in hell I’ll make it over.
I grip onto the bars of the barrier and start climbing. The moment the soles of my feet hit the bars, I slide back down to the ground.
With a sigh, I fall to the ground. I don’t have enough effort to bend down to take my shoes off.
On the ground, I roll over in the graveled, rocky terrain and grab my laces. I pull at them quickly, which much more realistically was probably slow and sluggish. I peel my shoes off and my socks that have already worn holes in them.
The sight of my feet make me gag.
Bloody and purple. My feet have developed blisters that have developed blisters. Those blisters have popped and worn down until sores grew in its place. The bottom and sides of my feet are littered with bruises, whether it’s from walking or the terrible fucking shoes, my feet are in rough shape.
I contemplate throwing them over so I can slide them back on for the rest of the way home but decide against it. I’d rather walk barefoot and develop more sores than stick my feet back into those pieces of shit.
After sitting for nearly thirty minutes, I roll over and push myself to a stand. Grabbing onto the bars yet again, I start climbing up. I wince in pain as my feet press against the bars, but there is much more grip this time. I’m slow, but I’m able to make it to the top without any more slips. Once it’s time to slide down the other side, I lose my grip and fall. My ankle twists unnaturally and I instantly know I fucked up.
My back slams against the ground, the wind knocked out of me. My head slams against a rock that makes stars flash in front of my eyes.
TheoomphI let out is silent, because the pain is too much to even make noise.
At least I’m on US territory.
I would sleep here if I could, but border patrol is ruthless.
Once I gain my breath, I pick up the purse and make a run for it. One step in and I fall on my face.
My ankle is definitely broken.
Fuckkkkkkkkkkk!
