The Red Tides

Throbbing pain.

I blink. Dark Red.

Where am I?

The throbbing starts in my left cheek and expands to the top of my skull, where it throbs again, with more violence.

The floor is hard and cold. I half-sit, half-lean against a concrete wall, my eyes less than an inch from it. Was it the sound of dripping water what woke me up, or was it the pain? It smells of humidity and decay.

Who am I?

The whole left side of my face hurts. My palms go up, one after the other, against the wall, and I push myself away from it. I'm dizzy and wet.

The room is square; no, it's oddly shaped, as if somebody smashed it out of alignment, deformed it, or perhaps my blurry vision is playing a trick on me. The ceiling is caving-in, and there are leaks everywhere. The room is empty.

Alone.

I move my body gradually, feeling every cell; my muscles stretch to fit my new position. I rest my spine against the wall and look around. It's difficult to see in the penumbra. There are no windows. The dirty white door to my right is the only exit. I stand up with care, fearing a fall. My legs are weak, but I make it: I stand. As I limp to the door, I step on a puddle of stale water. The rotting floor boards are swamped, but there's no life to be found. Not even roaches.

I try to open the door, but the door-handle resists me. I try harder, but no luck. My arms burn with the effort.

"Hello? I'm locked in," I say as loud as I can manage. My voice is hoarse and I'm thirsty. I suck moisture out of my dripping hair. The water tastes untreated and stale... like a slow moving river.

Who am I? Why am I here? Why am I locked? My heart beats faster.

I punch the door, "Let me out! Help!"

Nothing happens. Nobody hears?

Perhaps.

I scream and thump at the door until my hands tingle. My body starts to wake up, to warm up. I turn away from the door.

Hanging from the opposite wall, there's a wooden-framed oval mirror. My face's left side is bruised and swollen. I stare at my likeness, not understanding what I see. I stare at the mirror, trying to find myself, trying to discover myself, trying to see the invisible: the baggage in everybody that makes a soul.

The mirror returns my tangled hair, my paleness, my pain and an emptiness in my eyes that reflect the absence of identity.

I look in my eyes again, pleading with myself to remember. Nothing returns. I insist, observing with more intensity, and as I watch, they change. Those, in the mirror, are not my eyes. Those, in the mirror, are somebody else's eyes. A fear rises from the centre of my chest to my throat, and as it does, the image in the mirror smiles at me.

I try to pull away, and reach for the safety of the other wall, but I can't. Trapped by the horrid smiling image, I fall in, somewhere, somehow.

I'm running. Not sure where, not sure why, not sure how. Where's the red-oxide room, with its leaks and putrefied water? The mirror?

Other people run too. I'm on a dirty cobbled street, in a dirty city and we're running. I stop, because my lungs are burning.

A hand grabs mine and pulls, hard. It's a man, tall and with tawny hair. He screams at me, "Run Patricia, run! Don't stop!"

He drags me but I resist. I hear fireworks go off and a police siren in the distance. The street fills up with smoke. More fireworks.

Someone runs past us, at incredible speed. My eyes are watering, the smoke covers everything. I see the silhouette of the runner, ahead of us, enveloped in grey mist. The silhouette goes down, almost as if it was a marionette that its puppeteer abandoned in the middle of the act. What I'm hearing is not fireworks, but firearms. Blood covers her destroyed head; the silhouette was a woman. Her brains lay scattered in the dirty pavement. The scarlet-red stands out against the grey street, the grey buildings, the grey smoke.

I stop resisting the urge that's coming from the hand that's holding mine. I match his pace. We run, escaping the smoke.

Tear gas, not smoke.

The single police siren has become many. We run past dead and injured people, laying on the street. There's so much pain. Blood abandons ruined bodies, and sluggish, drips down the gutters... such a waste.

Chaos reigns on this dirty city, and I run, holding the hand of a stranger that has called me "Patricia". Is that my name? I don't remember.

We keep running for a few more blocks, turning at random street corners, escaping. My companion slows down, but I want to keep running, even if I'm out of breath. He hugs me from the waist, and we walk. My heart is pounding in my ears and I've got a stabbing pain in my side.

"We're safe, we're fine, just keep walking. We'll catch the bus on the corner," he points to the end of the street.

"A bus where?"

"Anywhere. It doesn't matter, as long as it takes us away from this carnage. We'll find our way home later. Act normal, try to catch your breath. We're a couple in love taking a stroll in a winter afternoon."

We are almost at the intersection, just a few metres to the bus stop, but an olive-green Ford Falcon turns around the corner and climbs on the footpath. A gun comes out of the passenger window and points straight at us. "Don't move!"

The stranger lets go of my waist and puts his hands up in the air. I imitate him. Another olive-green Falcon parks besides us on the street. Men step out the cars and surround us. We're arrested. They show us no badges, just guns.

"What's your name?" a policeman asks me while he throws the tawny stranger against the Falcon parked on the footpath. He puts away his gun and searches my companion's body.

"I'm Daniel," the tall tawny stranger says, and pointing at me, "and she's Patricia, my girl. What's your name?" Daniel asks with a smirk.

"Oh, we've got a funny guy here," the copper says and punches Daniel in the middle of the stomach. As Daniel gasps for air, the cop says, "Courtesy of Chubi Lopez."

Lopez grabs me by the arm and throws me against the car. With my back towards him, he searches me, illegally, and finds nothing.

"Let's make sure you aren't packing something in your titties or your cunt," he squeezes my breasts until I scream in pain and revulsion. I writhe trying to get away from his hands.

He laughs, handcuffs me with my hands behind my back and throws me on the back seat of the olive car. The inside is filthy, misshapen brown stains – blood and vomit – cover most of the back sit. My stomach reacts to them with fury.

Daniel has been beaten while Lopez violated me. He's thrown next to me and his nose and mouth are bleeding, and his breathing is harsh and difficult, "Are you okay babe?"

He asks me? I don't know this guy and I'm not sure if I am who he says, but I can't help but to be moved by him. "I'm fine," I whisper, but I want to cry. Where am I? Who am I? What's happening to me?

We are driven away from the city, and we reach the open road. Daniel has closed his eyes, he's in pain. My voice trembles as I ask the coppers where they are taking us.

"Oh, nice-titties wants to know where we're taking her, huh? Well, nice-titties what are you going to do for Chubi if I tell'ya?" Lopez says.

I don't reply.

He laughs like a hyena. "We're going to La Perla. Now shut the fuck up." He turns on the radio. Country Mornings is playing.

Daniel opens his bloodshot eyes, and all colour is gone from his face.

I mouth to him, "What is it?"

"La Perla..."

"What is La Perla (1) ?"

"Are you joking? Are you sure you are okay?"

"Yes—no, I don't know... I… don't remember..."

He looks at me incredulous. A sad happiness transforms his features. "Perhaps that's for the best sweetheart." A tear runs down his cheek. "Listen. My favourite song!"

I couldn't care less about a song. I insist, forceful, "Tell me! What's that place? What did we do?"

"I told you to shut the fuck up bitch." Lopez screams as he turns around and punches me on the face.

I see red, then nothing. Darkness has come and I embrace it.

***

Throbbing pain.

I blink. Too bright.

Disoriented, lost.

Someone is screaming.

I open my eyes and I'm on a giant shed, full of people scattered around, bleeding, crying… barely surviving. What is happening? The screaming continues.

My face hurts.

The walls are half covered with a red-oxide paint. But this time it's not paint. It's blood. I know it. It is the blood of those laying on the floor. It is the blood of others that were here once, and now are no more. They've been murdered, disappeared, taken away, buried… but the blood remains. The blood remains.

"Are you alright sweetheart?" Daniel asks. My head rests in his lap. I sit up, and my hands are now handcuffed at the front.

"I'm fine. Tell me who I am, what am I doing here? Why am I here? What did I do?"

Daniel hesitates, "… We are in 'La Perla'. You're Patricia, Patricia Suarez. You study architecture at University of Cordoba, remember? That's where we met. Your parents are Suzy and Roque. We've been together for almost two years babe. We've done nothing, just went to a public demonstration, demanding answers for the missing, the desaparecidos. The guys that took us are most likely army. They are in charge now, remember? They are cleaning the streets of people like you and I… people who think, who care about human rights, who care for the poor." He smiles. Such a beautiful smile.

I hold his hands, "I remember nothing. Tell me about you, about us. Do you study architecture too?"

"No, I study Nuclear Physics. I'm Daniel Oscar Sonzini Whitton… long name, huh? You always tease me about it," his smile widens. "I love you… just remember that for now." He gives me a quick kiss.

"How are we going to get out?"

"I don't know babe, I don't know." He kisses me again. I know I love this guy, I sense it deep inside my being.

"Oh! Feeling frisky nice-titties?" Lopez asks coming out of nowhere. "Get up bitch! Get up!" He lifts me by the hair.

Daniel jumps up and pushes Lopez away from me.

Lopez falls. His eyes tell me we'll pay a high price for that push. He calls his cronies and we're taken away from the shed. The other victims throw furtive looks as we walk past.

We're dragged and pushed outside into a dirt courtyard, surrounded by other buildings. It seems I've been asleep all night. It's freezing, and I welcome the sunlight.

Naked people are laying, face up, on the courtyard's floor. Their arms and legs are stretched beyond belief and tied up to wooden poles. There's a young and heavily pregnant woman amongst them. Two guys dressed in green fatigues —army?— take turns to belt one of the "staked-men". Their victim screams, asking them to please stop. Hours later I'd hear his final scream from the brick room Daniel and I are now thrown into.

Daniel is handcuffed to a hook in the wall.

I'm thrown onto a metal bed frame, and tied down.

Lopez approaches with a knife and cuts off my clothes.

The springs of the bed frame pierce my skin. I'm chilled to the bone. One of Lopez cronies throws a bucket of frozen water at me.

"Oh, so you like being clean, huh nice-titties?"

I'm unable to answer. I'm still trying to catch my breath.

Lopez approaches with two wires in his hands. "Well, I can tell you'll love what's coming your way."

I wonder what those are. When he places them against my skin, I have to wonder no more. An electric shock runs through my body and I lose the ability to breathe, to think, to feel anything other than deep, profound pain.

"Leave her alone you bastard!" Daniel screams, trying to free himself.

He's beaten by the cronies.

Lopez shocks me again, and Daniel is beaten again.

And again, and again.

"I know you'll love it in the cunt," Lopez says and inserts the cables in my vagina, and discharges 220 volts.

I want to die.

"Look how she likes it," Lopez says laughing, "see how she wriggles and shakes."

I want to make a pact with the devil. I'd be happy to give up my soul if Lopez's taken straight to hell and burnt again, and again, and again. I never thought I was capable of real hate.

Daniel screams every imaginable insult and appeal to Lopez, trying to get him away from me.

Lopez tells the others to put Daniel in the 'dry submarine': his head is wrapped in a plastic bag until he has no more air and he inhales the plastic bag through his mouth. They loosen the bag and allow him a few breaths. And it start all over again, tightening the bag, tightening the bag…

Lopez rapes me; his cronies do too.

Daniel screams, and begs, and cries, and he's beaten, and beaten.

Lopez orders the 'wet submarine' for Daniel: his whole upper body is submerged in a barrel of frozen water for a few minutes. When he's brought out, as soon as he takes a breath, he's sent down again, under the frozen water, unable to breathe, unable to scream, unable to fight.

Lopez sodomises me. His cronies do too.

Daniel screams, "Fucking cowards, sons of a slut mother fucking bitch."

Lopez hits him hard in the head with a four by four as he screams "Home-run!"

There's a loud crack and Daniel falls.

Lopez kicks him while he's down, but Daniel doesn't respond.

Scared, they unchain us and leave.

We're alone, locked in the torture chamber with no food, no blankets, no clothes. The only water is in the barrel of torture.

Daniel sleeps.

I'm cold and bleeding. Daniel comes in and out of consciousness. I hold him tight against my nudity. He's my warmth, the only thing keeping me alive.

Twice during the next two days he opens his eyes, looks at me for a moment and recognises me; he sees me.

"I love you," I say, and I can read the same in his eyes. He spends his last days agonising in my arms. I mourn him while he's still alive. My tall tawny guy, who I don't know, but love just the same. Such a waste, such a crime, such a terrible crime to deprive the world of his presence.

At noon, on the third day, they come for us, guys in green fatigues with half their faces covered with olive-green bandanas. Daniel hasn't opened his eyes since the night before. His breathing is shallow and hoarse. They order me to stand up, but I don't. They shake Daniel with fury, trying to wake him up. He doesn't, so they drag him outside and throw a blanket at me. They dump Daniel in the back of a camouflaged truck, and I follow. There are more people in the truck; some are dead, others are alive, but only just. They drive us through empty roads towards the river dam. Electricity is made in that dam; the same electricity they've used to torture me.

We're dragged out of the truck, one by one, at an isolated spot. Those of us who can stand are ordered to step inside big metal buckets. Those who cannot are placed without care or compassion, feet thrown in the buckets, the rest in the ground, just like rubbish. They tie our hands behind our backs. They pour concrete in the buckets, trapping us.

Daniel is flat on the ground, a few leaves of grass nest his bruised right cheek and a tiny wild daisy touches, almost caresses, his right pinkie. He's all bloodied and bruised. His legs up to his knees are buried in cement. I think he's not breathing anymore. I'm not sure when he left his body, but I'm glad he has. I'm glad he's not here anymore, I'm glad he doesn't have to see this. I'm glad he won't have to live through this. I am glad.

A warmth breeze touches my face and I hear a few of the words of Daniel's favourite song: '… country mornings, scented with orange blossoms, a sparrow escapes from your voice, in the river both our faces, and time tells us the history of a place…'

I wonder if he knew we would end up here all along.

The concrete is dry and my time has come. Off I go into the dam, into the water, with fifty kilos of concrete weighing me down. Off I go, to meet my death in a watery grave.

Daniel follows. I see his silhouette; his hair floats wild and free in the water as he descends towards me. I know his family will forever wonder where he is, what has happened, why, when, how.

As I sink, the water grows murkier, and I look up again, trying to locate Daniel's figure or the sky, but all I see is the red tide coming in, bringing isolation, desolation and death; the red tide which kills everything, which everything destroys. And in the middle of the surge I see it: a sparkle of hope, a ray of silver… a mirror, a wooden-framed oval mirror, sinking towards me, coming to meet me.

The end.

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(1) La Perla, translated as The Pearl, was an illegal detention centre during the Process of National Reorganisation in Argentina 1976. This is also known as "the dirty war", but was a genocide of the future leadership. Most "desaparecidos" taken to La Perla were never seen again, and in most cases their remains haven't been found.