Rise, Do Not Be Afraid by Aaron Abeyta

Author:Aaron Abeyta [abeyta, aaron a.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: WordFire Press

Into the Lonely Places

He had seen their frozen bodies, and that is what stayed with him. He tried often to forget their hands. It was their hands that haunted him, the way they died last, always clutching and then stiffening in the positions he remembered and could not shake. Aresando was not afraid of dying. He was reckless and some said crazy, but this was his way of not being afraid of death. It wasn’t that he loved Malinche Santistevan-Matthews and could not live without her. He had done that his entire life. His parents loved him, and he knew that his mother prayed for him in the early mornings. It’s not that he wanted to die either. Aresando was in that place between living and dying and that is why the hands haunted him. What last thing were they reaching for? What could there be worth grabbing at on the frozen ground around that damn reservoir? Santa Rita was more beautiful, people even respected him in the way they respect things they fear. He was in between, and every dangerous thing he did would lead him away from the middle. He just wanted a place.

Aresando watched as the man entered the Rio Lounge. He wore white and had to duck to get through the door. There was a noise that followed the man as he walked toward the bar. Aresando had heard it before, the sound of a wagon on gravel, the crunching of wheels, the low rubbing sound of friction where the axle met the hub, a sound that if left unattended would lead to rust. He was sure he was the only one that heard the sound, and it did not stop, even when the man did. He could hear the wagon being dragged slowly across the dirt and gravel, recognized that the sound only came with a heavy load. He knew the sound and was sure that he alone heard it. The man in the white suit danced well, he noticed the man’s left hand, every finger had gold. He watched the man’s hand as it glided up and down Malinche’s back. His right hand never left her hip as they danced. He heard the wagon, slow and consistent, watched as the man’s gold hand fluttered between Malinche’s shoulders and the small of her back. The song was slow, and he hated Apollonio for playing it. He looked over toward the stage and saw that both of the guitar players were watching the man. He saw it in Apollonio’s eyes, recognized the stare. Apollonio heard it too, the wagon groaning over a dirt road. Apollonio had been to all the wars, of course he would know the sound; it comes differently to every group of people, but in Santa Rita it was a wagon that they heard. Most do not recognize it, but Aresando did. He had heard it there in the cold near the reservoir. Apollonio heard it too. The two men met with their eyes and the guitar player nodded at Aresando.

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