AS PROMISED, A NEW PIECE OF WRITING. I WROTE THIS IN 9TH GRADE:
There she stood: hyperventilating and placing her freshly bought items inside her grand room. Her lips curved into a fake smile. Her eyes scrutinized the drugs and the alcohol on the bureau. In that distinct moment she remembered. The bitter emotions seeped through her body; they fought to release themselves and did so through languid tears. Soon, her face was saturated with tears and she opened the bottle. She wanted to drown the pain; she wanted to attain peace. While she clenched the bottle, the clear-cut memory arose; there was no denying it.
The car. The body. The shock.
She fervently took a sip and sniffed the grainy powder in her fist up her nose. With this, her thoughts twirled and twirled until blood slowly loomed out from the wall, which was reminiscent of the accident. Then, the effect of the drugs slowly subsided. She kept drinking until the bottle was at the verge of being hollow. “Just a few more drops,” she told herself. Her head spun; she barely remembered the incident. Her sneaky facade of inebriated state would only last temporarily. She lost her coordination and stumbled onto the icy, creamy-white floor. The pain passed unnoticed while tips of her fingers brushed the lines of cement that separated each block that made the floor whole.
Hours glided by, and soon her consciousness came back, she could think straight now. The silver keys on the rug affirmed that she could not escape the fact that she had killed. The recent memory was ever so palpable and acute like film. Midnight was the time that she had gone driving through a neighborhood when her prune-like cigarette escaped her clumsy hands. “My headlights are on and no one’s out this time of night. I’ll just take a sec.” The voice inside her head told her otherwise, but she did not listen. While stretching her hand to grab the wrinkled cigarette, she heard a scream and she instantly hit the brake. She had undoubtedly hit someone. Her heart thumped wildly and blood flooded all over her body making her head throb. Next to her car a lady was crying and hitting the pavement with her clenched fists. Realization made her brain snap back to life and perspiration oozed down her forehead. That lady was not the victim; that lady was completely unscathed. She rapidly exited her car and a puddle of blood was the first thing she saw. “The son; a boy; oh God!” she exclaimed in the privacy of her thoughts. She couldn’t stay; she couldn’t bear it. Not then, not ever.
There she lay, remembering the atrocious tragedy; recalling how she had fled the scene. She recollected escaping. The shops and buildings smudged by because of her rapid speed. Before hitting the accelerator, she saw the mother crying over the body of her son in her periphery vision. The boys’ mother’s piercing glance played over and over in her head. “I didn’t mean to!” she shouted into the emptiness of her room. She threw the bottle at the wall in haste and fragments of glass burst to pieces. She cried and cried, trying to erase the memory. Not even drugs and booze could do that. She wanted to forget; to erase it completely from her mind, but her attempts were futile. The shuddersome memory would haunt her forever.
Flies swarm around the coconuts’ open cocoons, hoping for a taste of juice. But he doesn’t let them. Pedro shoos them away, he doesn’t let them have a taste of the freshness. People gather. They cluster around his whitewashed plastic table. “Cocos frescos” he bellows, puncturing straws into the opening green layers that rim the inside of the white fruit. Pedro’s scruffy beard heightens his playful smiles as he beams at his buyers. His humid tank top sticks to his cinnamon brown skin like glue. He smells of salt and sweat. Chopping coconuts brings pleasure, offers freshness from a hot day at the beach to his rambling customers.
Coconuts are hard—can break one’s head. Coconuts quench thirst. Coconuts help the marooned and the shipwrecked survive in desert islands. Coconuts, help Pedro provide. During breaks Pedro pushes through the rumbling waves, immerses himself into salty splashes. Las olas, his favorite place to be. Walking near the shore, as the sun starts to hide behind the horizon, foam is heard bubbling as the waves unwind and retreat, the sand soaking up the salty residue. The sun dips under. Foam bubbles away in between his toes. His body claps against the wind, and he closes his eyes.
Night brings forth las estrellas—silver thorns decorating the black atmosphere. They give him comfort. Underline his dreams. Pedro walks on the cobblestone road in his raunchy town of Lo de Marcos. Bungalows, trailer parks, bilingual menus provided in restaurants. Daily, the beach is filled with passersby, who get excited with cheap beach tattoos and braids with colorful beads. For Pedro it means more coconuts are sold.
As Pedro trudges through the dunes, leaving the shops and taco stands behind; he hears breaths of pleasure by the moonlight. Standing behind a palm tree he sees lovers coiling in the sand, wrapped in a turquoise blanket. The stranger grabs the woman’s long black hair, and curls it up in between his fingers. Pedro leaves. It’s not his place to be. But pain simmers inside of him as he remembers. Passionate kisses under the moonlight. Late night dippings into the ocean. Shared coconuts on slippery black rocks. Whispers and secrets with Her beneath the stars. Running back to his stand, he gathers up a few coconuts, brings them to the beach. Tears hang on his lower lids, as he throws a coconut into a sharp-pointed rock. Juice spilling. Tears spilling. In the middle of the night when the breeze blows palm tree leaves to the sand, and when the stars shine brightest, you can hear Pedro and his coconuts—cracking.