“This was your favorite,” he says. “Do you remember?”
He begins, and the words are so familiar. The lyrics burrow inside me. I’ve heard this song sung before, but not by Ato—by someone who loves me. The memory is struggling to come forth, but it fills me with strength. It will thrust me forward through that open door.
Ato’s face is still intangible. I lift the mango to my mouth like I’m about to eat it, and his voice becomes even more melodic. It is as if the house has been filled with millions of Atos singing from every corner. Multiple angels of death serenade me into joining them.
I won’t.
As the song reaches its climax, I smile at Ato. This smile will be his undoing. Instead of taking a bite from the mango, I lift the tray with force, spilling its contents everywhere. Before the fruit hits the ground, I’m running out the door. Despite the commotion, Ato is right on my heels.
Outside, the winds blow out of control, pushing and pulling me every direction. The clouds are so dense, I can barely see.
“Eury, don’t!” He grabs my arm, attempting to drag me back inside. But the llorosas descend upon Ato in a giant swarm. He releases me, swinging at the birds violently.
I fight my way toward the storm. I am drenched, but I keep running into the void.
I remember who sang the song. His name is Pheus. He sang the song in Spanish, and when he did, it reminded me of home.
Pheus. He was the one who could move mountains with his voice, not Ato.
The wind picks me up and thrashes me to the ground. My knees are bleeding, but I stand. I keep running. I will journey into the center of this furor.
CHAPTER 31
Pheus
Steps lead up to what was once the drill floor of the armory. The area is under construction, soon to be turned into an ice-skating rink. I try my best to keep up with Charon’s elongated strides. His machete stays hidden underneath his grungy layer of clothes.
In the corner, young Black and brown men appear in military uniforms. They are jovial and loud as they unload boxes from a van. A soldier opens one and pulls out a rifle, gleefully examining it as if he just received a Christmas gift. As we walk past them, I get a good view of the soldier. He looks like Tío Luis, my uncle who fell to drugs after too many deployments. He has the exact jawline, the bushy eyebrows similar to mine.
The last time Uncle Luis spoke to me, he was really drunk. It was New Year’s Eve. Everyone was huddled around the television, waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square. When it did, fireworks went off in the neighborhood, and Tío Luis suddenly grabbed my arm so tight I winced from the pain.
“Them devils want to kill us,” he said, balling his other hand into a fist, ready to use it. “I’m not going down like that.”
Pops gently pried my uncle’s hand off me. He led Luis to another room to calm him down. A couple of years later, he was gone.
The soldier who looks like Tío Luis aims the gun and practices shooting.
This is horrible.
Charon chuckles.
“You don’t like that, huh? There’s so much to love in this building,” he says. “So much history.”
We pass more apparitions of soldiers in formation. They each have clean-shaven, innocent faces. Practically my age. The soldiers salute a flag, then they turn their heads in unison to stare at us.
“This way,” Charon says.
More stairs. They spiral up and up. Charon taps at the Estigio sign with his cane and motions for me to continue. We are heading to the roof, back to the pool where this nightmare began.
The pool is completely drained of water. Police tape still marks the bloodstains on the floor. Lights flick on, and the atrium opens. The waning moon shines brightly.
It’s strange how I expect to see Eury smiling by the bar, with her palms out for me to hold. Ready to leave this all behind.
“You. There.” Charon points his cane to the center of the empty pool. I do as he says and climb in.
“Remember when I told you that I only cross those who have died?” he asks. “It’s true. In so many lifetimes, I’ve never made a mistake. Until Ato. He plays by his own rules, but no one is exempt. Eventually he will get what he deserves, and I will be eagerly waiting. It’s the only reason why I’m letting you go.”
Charon crouches down by the edge, holding the cane for support.
“Young love doesn’t interest me. My domain is pain,” he says. “But I’m not here for a spirit trying to get a cut of my fun.”
“I’ll take care of it,” I say as if I’m being commissioned to take Ato out like John Wick or something. I’m talking out of my ass, and Charon’s big grin only proves how out of my league I am.
“Right,” he says in between laughs. “You and your guitar.”
“Eury doesn’t belong in el Inframundo, and neither do I. I’m going to find her, and we are going to bounce on out of there real quick.” I say this more to myself than to Charon. “Life isn’t only about anguish and grief. There’s hope too.”
“You consider yourself a poet. Don’t you? I have a little poem for you.” Charon clears his throat and places his hand over his heart. “Through the straight pass of suffering the martyrs even trod. Emily Dickinson. She knew about suffering. So does your friend Eury. So will you.”
“I’m no martyr,” I say.
“Sure. Now shhhhh.” He places his finger to his mouth. “I hope you can swim.”
He hits his cane three times on the floor, and with that, the pool begins to fill with water. I turn to run, but my feet are stuck to the tiled bottom.
The water seeps in quickly. It reaches my knees. My waist. Charon stares at me with a wide grin.
“Yo! I can’t move my legs,” I scream. “I can’t swim if I can’t move my legs.”
It reaches my arms. My shoulders. It takes only seconds for the water to cover my neck.
“Not my problem,” Charon says. “Have fun.”
I inhale the largest gulp of air before my whole body is submerged. My heart is about to burst out from my chest. When I’m completely immersed in the water, I’m finally able to move. I propel myself to the surface, but a barrier stops me. An invisible wall of some sort. Charon waves from above. Shit. I can’t hold my breath for much longer. There has to be a way out.
Something bumps into me. No, it’s not something. Someone. Bodies upon bodies float beside me. Bloated faces of people in uniform. Then more. They crash against me, surrounding me. I thrash and kick. They try to drag me down.
So many. I’m going to die here.
I push them away, but they keep coming. My lungs burn. I’m going to drown with these forgotten souls.
I can’t. I won’t.
I try one more time. I push them away and swim up to the surface, toward the brilliant moon. My fists pound against the invisible barrier.
Please. Let me live.
Hands pull on my ankles and my guitar from below. I keep hitting the barrier, but I feel myself slipping. Getting weak.
I think of family. Of my father and mother. Of Grandma Lynn and Uncle Luis. Give me strength.
I pound on the unseen wall with all my rage and fear. I’m swallowing water. I can’t hold on for much longer. Let me live. One more punch is all I’ve got left. I throw it with everything inside of me.
The barrier disappears, and I grab the ledge of the pool and thrust myself over. I try to catch my breath. Spitting out water. Coughing my guts out. It feels like hours, but eventually I am able to sit up.
Charon is nowhere to be found. Everything is dark and empty. As for my clothes, they are completely dry. Not one drop on the guitar. As if my near-drowning was only a dream.
But I can’t forget what I’ve seen—terrible things I never wanted to see. Reminders of people taken much too soon. The truth is ugly and violent. I’ve read history books, devoured them like they were candy. I can spit dates and statistics like no other. They were my weapons against anyone who thought they could revise what has happened. Now I a
m to bear witness to these historical consequences in real time. There’s no hiding behind the pages of a book. The horrors are right in front of me in this realm where only the dead are allowed.
If I’m being shown this, then what horrors is Eury facing? She only needs to eat to be trapped here forever. What if I never see her again? What if my voice is not enough? I clutch the prayer beads and concentrate on reaching her.
If you’re out there, Eury, hold on.
CHAPTER 32
Eury
Each step I take, I am pushed back toward the house by these violent winds. A heavy object slams into me. I fall on my back, but I grit my teeth through the pain. I can’t stop.
“Eury, please! I made this for you,” Ato yells. “Everything as you like it.”
Ato has lied to me since I first saw him. A memory of us trickles in, the moment when I first met Ato, and I tried to destroy Papi’s gift.
He won’t come back because of what you did.
Ato’s words cut as sharp as a knife, a wound that never healed. For so long, I believed Papi must have left because of something evil within me. But I was wrong. I was only a child. Ato wedged himself like a cancer, clinging to my grace. He fed me this lie, and I carried it with me everywhere.
I don’t know exactly why Papi left. I may never really know. But I know now it was never my fault.
I turn and watch as the tumultuous wind tears the roof off the house. My god. I can’t stop the memory from overtaking me, of cowering in the bathtub while my home, my real home in Puerto Rico, was destroyed around me. But this time, it’s Ato who watches in anguish as his dollhouse is swept away by the storm.
Before I succumb to the nightmare of the past, I remember Pheus and his beautiful face. How he closed his eyes when he sang. His dimples. I remember his smile and how he turned so serious when he spoke of the histories of places and buildings. I remember the way his hands caressed my cheek when we kissed. Pheus.
These memories will launch me away from this hell.
I turn away and push forward with all my strength. I must reach the center of this hurricane.
Something yanks my shoulders back—Ato. We tussle to the ground.
“Don’t leave me, Eury.” Ato has the face of an angelic young boy. This evil tormentor. He will not have me.
I shove him with all I can muster and run. I only manage a few steps before the wind takes hold of my body, pulling me off the ground and tossing me toward the eye of the storm. Branches and parts of the house come hurling toward me. I’m spinning and thrashing through the air. I watch as the roof careens forward. It will crash into me, and I will be torn apart. I can’t stop the momentum.
The roof is upon me. I think of Pheus, when he sang “Adore” in Spanish.
Then, there is only black.
I don’t open my eyes. Not yet. Will I find myself right back in my jail with Ato ready to feed me a deadly feast?
There is no noise. No wind howling. No voices. A void. Am I dead? Again?
I wiggle the toes on one foot first. Then the other.
I’m scared to wake up. I don’t want to relive this nightmare. I wait. My breathing is certain. If I’m breathing, then surely I am still alive. Or is breathing nothing but a dream?
I open my eyes. It takes a moment for shapes to come into focus. But then I recognize where I am and start to cry.
El Yunque is as lush and green as I remember it. Verdant. My beautiful rainforest. How can a real place feel so otherworldly? When I first entered El Yunque, the sadness from Papi leaving was lifted in a way I can’t really explain. It was different than my interactions with Ato. Perhaps this was so because El Yunque was my oasis. It wasn’t Ato’s or Mami’s or anyone else’s. It was mine.
Until Ato killed a little llorosa right in front of me. But Ato is gone now.
I banish the violent image from my thoughts and follow the familiar narrow path down to La Mina. Above me, giant tree ferns fan in the gentle wind. Moss blankets the trunks of the trees. I spot the brilliant white and green orchids and inhale their sweet fragrance. A small lagartijo runs out in front of my path but quickly disappears into a dense shrub. It is a winding path with so much to see, like these clusters of soft pink flowers. Impatiens. There they are like a tiny miracle. It’s all here. El Bosque.
When I bend down to touch a dangling red hibiscus, the flower shrivels before my eyes, similar to how a moriviví, a plant native to Puerto Rico, closes its leaves when touched. But a hibiscus is not a moriviví.
I whirl around to see the rainforest destroying itself behind me. It is as if I am a virus contaminating everything with each step I take. In an instant, my joy dissolves into anger. This is yet another setting. Just like the house in the mountains and the river Ato re-created, so is this Yunque. It is a vision plucked from my mind only to be twisted and poisoned. He’s gone too far this time.
I continue to walk toward the falls, each step fueled by hate. Behind me, I know that my precious Yunque keeps deteriorating, but I also know that it’s not my fault. The water roars louder and louder until I reach the falls, where I notice a child sitting along the edge of a pool of water. She is crouched down, clutching her knees to her chest.
“What’s wrong?” I ask the girl with thick, long hair.
She points to the sky, where a small patch of the sun’s rays slipped through the foliage. I don’t understand what she is afraid of. She begins to cry. Her tears fall into the pool of water. I bend down beside her and press my knees to my chest. In the distance, I can hear the sound of thunder. She begins to tremble. I, too, begin to tremble.
“They are coming back,” she says in between cries. Her face is a river of tears.
“Who?” I ask the question, but I know the answer. I still need confirmation.
“The hurricanes. Don’t you hear it?”
The thunder becomes louder. In the rainforest, there is no place to hide. We are vulnerable out here. Surely the winds will throw us into the pool of water, smash us against the falls. We will drown.
El Yunque dies around us in slow motion, and yet I can’t move away from her. The mist turns into a heavy rain. It’s hard to tell where our tears end and raindrops start.
“We have to go,” I say. She is inconsolable. The young girl covers her ears with her hands.
“There’s nowhere to run,” she says.
I know this girl. She looks like me.
The waterfall stops churning as if someone turned a faucet off.
“Let’s go,” I tell her. Her wailing increases to match the thunder.
“You won’t get far,” the little girl says. “The island is meant to be destroyed.”
I gasp. Her words are like punches. Puerto Rico is not a cursed island meant to be repeatedly ravished, be it from hurricanes or corrupt men or demented spirits. If I let her thought nestle into my bones, I will stay complacent. I will accept evil as something warranted. I know I don’t deserve this, and neither does my home.
“No,” I say. “This island is meant to just be. It flourishes despite everything natural and unnatural that tries to destroy it. I won’t stay here and wait for the storm.”
I try to grab her, but she refuses to come with me. El Yunque is being swallowed up, and she wants to stay. I won’t.
Now that the falls have dried up, I can see an opening in the stone wall ahead of me. I head toward it, leaving the child behind. Around her, the rainforest continues to be wiped out.
I enter the opening in the mouth of the falls to find a set of stone steps. They lead down into a majestic Spanish courtyard. I can no longer hear the storm or the girl’s cries. A woman stands at the bottom of the steps, offering me her hand. She is both beautiful and intimidating, and her hand feels like marble.
“You’ve arrived just in time,” she says. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
CHAPTER 33
Pheus
I’m not sure where to go. There’s no map or sign. If my almost-drowning in the pool meant I crossed the
bridge to el Inframundo, then Eury must be nearby. I hoist the guitar to my back and make my way off the cursed roof. It’s completely dark, so pitch-black that I use my cell phone to illuminate the stairs. I take a deep breath and go.
A landing appears, one I’m sure wasn’t there before. I pause and listen.
“Hello?” My voice echoes off the walls. Damn, do I keep going down, or do I cross the hallway? I wait. There is something out there, a slight sound of static like when a television stops working. I can barely hear it, but it’s there. I walk toward the noise.
I sense I’m being watched, but I can’t focus on who or what lurks in these shadows. I hold tight to Eury’s rosary and continue until I reach the end of the hallway where the static noise is louder. I stop in front of wooden double doors. Above the doors is a sign that reads Lecture Hall. Graffiti tags cover the brick walls. I push open the doors to find myself looking down at a large Spanish courtyard similar to the ones found on most Caribbean islands. Behind the courtyard is a two-tiered building with long white pillars and a surrounding balcony.
I locate where the static noise is coming from. On the far end of a wall, there are rows upon rows of computer screens. In front of the screens are men with long hair in spirals that plug into the sockets below the screens. Black men, Latinos, white men. Their fingers are also connected, and their eyes are white. They are causing the unearthly buzzing sound. It’s as if these men are powering the computers with their energy.
It is only a short jump to the courtyard. When I land, the men don’t move. I walk closer to see what’s on the screens and immediately recognize the images and videos of Puerto Rico after the hurricane. The island in complete darkness. Those severest hit trying to find clean water to drink. Another cut, and I see the long lines for gasoline and the food rotting in containers instead of reaching the ones who need it the most. Hundreds of families left without their homes. Houses missing roofs. Elderly people trying to survive without their medication. Cut, and there is the racist president taking selfies with politicians, throwing things at residents who scramble to catch a roll of paper towels.
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