Corrupt - Elena M. Reyes Page 0,2

stone flooring and my pajama bottoms, but I don’t stop to inspect.

Ignoring the sting, I hiss with each step I take, leaving bloody footprints behind. My eyes shift from side to side the closer to the landing I get, noises becoming more defined, and I grip the handrail hard as a barrage of bullets sound as though they’re being fired close by. Too close.

The voices are louder now, and male. The gunfire is clearer, and it’s heavy artillery.

One of the few things you learn while helping your father out in the fields is how to protect yourself from various dangers. Shooting a gun is something I do well, my aim better than my old man’s, and it’s because he took the time to teach us to respect the weapon and not fear it.

There are thieves, wild animals—drug smugglers—and sometimes tough decisions have to be made.

Diosito, please don’t let that be here. Please protect us.

I search for my family and come up empty. No one is around, and after turning the corner that leads toward the kitchen and back entrance, I come to a dead stop. Heart clenching. Stomach churning.

My mother is on the floor and on her knees, clinging to my five-year-old sister in her arms. Her eyes are on mine, though, and yet she looks a hundred miles away.

Her face is a pallid color. Her fear is palpable.

Choking me.

And it’s the motherfucking pain in her expression that makes me fall to my knees and crawl across to where she sits completely still. I want to hug her, shake her, but instead take a moment to slow my breathing and erratic heartbeat. Freaking out could lead from a bad decision to a stupid mistake.

“Mamita?” I call out after a minute or two but get no response. Nothing. Just blankness. If it weren’t for the rise and fall of her chest, I’d think she was dead. “Ma, what’s going on? Where’s Dad?” Nada, and as I take her in fully, I notice the blood on her right arm and the rapidly forming bruise on her cheek. “Who did this? What the hell happened?”

My sister, Lourdes, cries, unable to focus on me or help, and her wails are so loud they hurt. However, she’s okay from what I can see, but my mother isn’t. Blood seeps from her arm, the rivulets pooling on the floor beneath us as the trickles become a puddle.

I check her, lifting the short sleeve of her top, and find only one bullet wound and it’s a graze. Deep, but not with an actual entry, and everywhere else she seems physically okay. She’s in shock.

“Mamita, quien?” I try again, softer, my eyes darting past us where the firing of bullets has ceased. “Please, at the very least get up and hide. I’ll find the others.”

Her lips part but no sound comes out. Instead, she whimpers, and it’s the most agony-filled sound I’ve ever heard. It’s also at that moment that multiple heavy footsteps enter our home.

I don’t know how many. I don’t know why these people are here or where my father and older brother are.

We’re not criminals. We’re law-abiding citizens. Our family is successful: the owners of one of the largest coffee plantations in the country.

Then, there are my father’s political ambitions and ideals, something that isn’t a secret. He’s a respected member of the community, and with the backing of the middle and lower class of the country, a front runner as a presidential candidate in this year’s elections.

However, from the look of the men inside our home, none of that matters...

Colombia’s military is inside our house and armed to the teeth; their faces are expressionless as they surround us between the living room and the corridor that leads to our kitchen. Their rifles are pointed at us, their fingers on the trigger.

For a few minutes, no one speaks. They don’t so much as blink.

It’s a waiting game.

To see if we do anything that will justify the shooting.

Something that becomes apparent a few seconds later as the general walks in with my father and brother behind him. Both of them are being dragged, their bruised bodies nearly passed out.

My reaction is instant. Not even my mother’s sudden yell to stop makes me pause.

The bastard closest to me and to the right doesn’t have time to react as I ram his legs with my shoulder, knocking him off balance. And as he stumbles, the gun slips from his hold and I grab it while dodging a lazy