Somewhere in the background, he could hear the whirring of an engine. He couldn’t make out where he was; it was too dark. He tried to move, but he felt too tired. His joints ached and his right hand felt sticky. He lay in the darkness for some more time, listening to the engine revving up. Then the sound faded away, indicating that the vehicle had left. He tried once again to move, and ever so slowly, he moved his left hand. His fingers felt some cloth, coarse cloth. He tried to move toward his left, but the pain was unbearable. He grabbed at the cloth with his left hand and tried to move it away. The effort left a small opening and a beam of light shot in. The beam fell on his right hand, which was on his chest and now he could see that the sticky substance was drying blood. He moved the fingers of his left hand a bit more to make a better opening in the cloth covering him and more light shone in. The light blinded him and his efforts to close his eyes alerted him to his bruised face. The smallest grimace hurt when the facial muscles contracted to allow him close his eyes. He lay there panting for a few more minutes. He tried to ascertain where he was. The ground beneath him felt hard. His right hand slipped off his chest and he felt concrete as it hit the ground. He was on some sort of road. He panicked. The fear made adrenaline rush to the muscles of his body. He turned himself to his left with all the strength he could muster and clawed at the opening. It would open only to a certain extent. Soon he realised that he was in a sack, and it was tied at the top. He fidgeted around and tried to untie the knot. He heard some noises. Sounded like people. He hesitated; should he shout and attract attention so that someone could help him out of the sack? Or should he keep quiet, lest these people be more attackers? He listened attentively, straining to hear even the slightest sounds. Soon the sounds subsided. He tried again to untie himself. This time, someone, held the fingers.
“Quédate quieto! Estoy tratando de ayudar!” he heard a voice say. “Oh fuck! They’re going to kill me!” he thought. He tried to fight back with his fingers.
“Quédate quieto! José, que me ayude con este tipo ...” said the voice. More hands came to the opening. He panicked. He got his fingers back to himself and started shouting in the little Spanish that he knew, “Help! Help! Ayudar!”
“Cállate la boca! Estamos aquí para ayudarle!” exclaimed the voice. Suddenly the sack opened up and he was bathed in light. He tumbled out to find himself surrounded by three men and a woman. “Please don’t kill me!” he screamed. “Please! No matar!” he blurted in his faltering Spanish.
“Nadie te está matando, estamos aquí para ayudar!” said one man, the first voice which had come to the sack. “José, ¿sabes Inglés? ¿Alguien aquí sabe Inglés?” he continued. The man who was José looked towards the other man and then to him. “Un poco de ...”
“Pues bien hablar con él, tonto!” shouted the first man, sensing his rising fear and tension. “No es necesario maldición ...” said José. Then turning to him, he said, “We, help. No kill. Only help.”
He relaxed a bit, the adrenaline still keeping him standing. José continued, “From where?” Before he could reply, the woman screamed, “Oh, Dios mío! Él es el sangrado!” “What?” he asked as he was fainting. “Blood! You are blood...” José’s voice trailed in the back...
