as I stare into their blank faces, it feels wrong. It’s only her face I want to see, so I walk away until the noise lessens, finding myself in a quieter part of the city.
The buildings look more worn down, dilapidated even. The crowd appears different now—rougher. They are no longer friendly and are eyeing me with caution, almost on guard like I’m some sort of threat.
I see a neon light flashing and enter the bar—the tequila is running low in my bottle.
Inside, the music is more somber, the bar not too full, just a bunch of drunks drinking away their worries. I pull up a seat and ask for a shot. The man beside me pats me on the back like he’s my long-lost friend. I motion to the bartender that all drinks are on me, throwing a wad of cash onto the bar surface. Fear is no longer apparent as the crowd cheers, saluting me, then going about their own business. The drinks keep coming, and my vision becomes more blurred. The man, my new best friend, speaks to me in Portuguese telling me about all the pussy he has fucked this week. His story is somewhat entertaining, and provides me with the welcome distraction I desperately need.
But then he goes quiet.
And my mind allows itself to think.
I want to beat the living shit out of him for touching her, for implanting his baby inside her.
I don’t want him near her.
I wanted him dead.
I fumble for my phone, the screen jumbled. I think there’s a text, I’m not sure. Where is Bryce’s number? I need him to finish Julian off. Get rid of him once and for all.
My friend slides over another bottle of tequila. That worm, shit, I never thought I could drink a worm, but I fucking do.
What was I doing again?
The bottle is empty.
I realize I’ve run out of cash, or the cash no longer sits in my pocket. I fumble for more, only to notice it’s all gone. I was robbed. Panicking, I place my hand over the secret pocket in my jacket, and relief washes over me as the plastic card still remains. Thank God for my Amex.
It’s time to leave, so I stumble out of the bar with my friend in tow. As the door opens, I squint, the light is so bright. I check my watch, but it’s missing from my wrist. Fuck!
It has to be the early hours of the morning or past midnight, I don’t know. As my eyes adjust to the light, I immediately recognize the ‘Christ the Redeemer’ statue overlooking Rio de Janeiro, but the light that comes off it is so bright it hurts, almost stinging my eyes. I ask my friend why it’s so bright, but he laughs and tells me it always lights up at night and rambles on about Jesus being his savior, but this isn’t a little light—it’s shining directly at me. I ask him again, he laughs once more telling me the tequila is making me see things, that the worm inside the bottle has a way of poisoning the mind. Yeah, so I am beyond intoxicated and has to be why my imagination is playing tricks on me.
The warm air greets us as I try to ignore the light until this little girl catches my attention. Her father is holding her hand. Odd, I think, to be on the streets at three in the morning. She looks small, her clothes are tattered, and her hair a wild mess of brown curls. She complains like a little brat to her father until I realize what she’s saying. She’s complaining about the light, the way it shines so brightly it hurts her eyes.
I turn around and run to her side. Kneeling to her level, I ask her if she sees it too, and she nods. Almost instantly, her father pulls her away, cursing at me and scolding her for talking to a stranger. She cries as he pulls her away, his voice speaking fast in their native language until I hear the name Carla. Isn’t that Charlotte in Spanish?
She runs back to me, her father yelling her name. The little girl asks me one more time if I see that light too. I nod, giving her a small smile before she runs back to her father.
I stand there—this light, this girl named Carla, this sign.
Fuck, my head hurts.
That’s the last thing I remember before I pass out, slumped in the alleyway against