Blown to bits

 

"I think my leg is broken..." he says, forcing the words out between wheezes as the buttons on his shirt pop off one by one. That desperate hunger for air makes me think a rib must have slammed into the hard frame of the steering wheel, the lungs grazed by claws. "Look, look! Tell me what you see!"

But I don’t want to move. Without leaning over, I can already make out a mound of flesh pushing up against the denim, right where it shouldn’t be. A closer look reveals my partner’s pants soaked in blood and piss. The smell reaches my nose along with that unbearable stench of hot iron, gasoline, and burnt plastic. The windshield, reduced to a spiderweb, frames a sky of endless blue, while engine oil drips into the void below: plop... plop... plop.

I can only imagine a jagged rock wedging itself between the rear wheel and the fender, the only thing postponing our appointment with death. I remember gripping tight as the van skidded down the slope of grass and wildflowers, knowing nothing could stop its descent toward the cliff. But then, just as the fragments of my life were flashing through my mind at breakneck speed, the ton of metal and rubber came to a sudden halt. I remember my partner, as always, refusing to wear his seatbelt. "They choke me, make me feel like my junk’s crammed into tight underwear, you know? Like I’m a crash test dummy or something," he’d say. That’s when his leg and ribs gave out.

"Listen, buddy, you’re in bad shape, but what does it matter? We’re hanging on to something that won’t last, something that’ll play us for a fool before letting us drop."

A tear from the pain slides down his face until it mixes with the blood pouring from his nose. His labored breathing sucks it back in before pushing it out again, a volcanic mess of clots, bubbles, and eruptions that splatter the buttonless shirt. All I can do is hope he’s got one good nostril left and pass him the cocaine I’ve got in my pocket. It’s wrapped in foil, meant to dull the impact, to douse the fire burning inside. Alongside a couple shots of whiskey, it would’ve numbed our souls.

"No, I don’t want that shit!"

"It’ll put the pain to sleep. Maybe we can think of something in the meantime..."

The mere thought of fighting back against fate shifts our weight, and the van sways like a drunk on the sidewalk. What I see in my partner’s eyes is a cocktail of terror, resignation, and pain. Dig a little deeper into his gaze, and you’ll glimpse the urge to pray, coupled with the knowledge he doesn’t know how. Me? I’d save my breath. No point wasting it trying to bribe my way into paradise with a scalped ticket. But him? He’s got to deal with a rabid dog chewing up his shin and a crushing weight on his chest.

"Take a hit, and let’s try to put two brains together."

His teeth clench so hard you can almost hear the buzz of a sawmill, and he reaches out. "Come on... just lay it out here... shit!" he curses, because the motion makes it clear: we’re slipping. The chassis seems tired of biting into whatever rock is holding us up. The suspension creaks, and the ground beneath us crumbles under the weight. If you listen closely, you can hear the front wheels slowly rolling into the void: gnick... gnick... gnick.

"Who the hell stole this piece-of-shit van?"

"Just snort the damn coke!" he yells, spitting blood onto the windshield and waving his hand dangerously. I do my best to improvise a line on the back of my hand, but it comes out crooked and ridiculously heavy. No complaints from him—he raises it to his nose and snorts like one of those coin-op vacuums at the carwash. "Shit, shit, shit! Give me more. I’ll grow wings!"

And I don’t argue. First, because wings would really come in handy right about now, and second, because I’d rather he not start bouncing around in his seat. I focus on precision, laying out five centimeters of artificial happiness capable of blowing your brain out like a hollow-point bullet. Terror grips me, starting in my guts, when he slams the back of his head against the headrest, and a noise like a boat at sea courses through the van’s frame like lightning. Then, just that endless blue through the cracked glass and a strange sense of peace.

"Who stole the van? You really want to know who stole it?"

"Maybe... maybe it wasn’t his fault. Who was it?"

"Who the hell do you think it was?"

"The Rotten One, was it him?"

"Who else? The Rotten One, same as always. Cleared a parking spot without anyone noticing, and not a single soul bothered to check if the damn wreck had working brakes."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I’m sure. I’m saying they sent us into town to park this heap with 400 kilos of TNT in the back without checking the brakes first."

You never really learn to do this shit right. There’s that little voice inside scolding you as soon as your brain goes quiet, and that ache in your gut that never settles.

And they’re all amateurs, anyway.

Once, they had butterflies in their stomachs. They worked, fell in love, and watched the sun set, convinced tomorrow would be better. They were boys, fathers, women—but with too much war to digest, too many broken bones, too many prison walls in their memories. No one listened to them, so blowing up a building seemed like a genius idea.

"We’re gonna end up in the ravine and die. When the rescue team comes, they’ll recognize us from the little bits left behind," my partner says, his pupils blown out like frying pans.

I’ve got a lump in my throat and can feel the wind teasing the doors, soon to grow stronger with the nightfall, sealing our fate. Some situations have no way out. Our struggle, our future—we’d driven straight into a dead end.

"There are situations," he tells me, a flicker of wisdom crossing his face like the calm flow of a mighty river, "where the only solution is to disappear."

I could do it. I could leave him there with his broken bones, swing the door open, and jump into the grass, claw my way up the slope to the road. I’d glance at the tire marks my desperate swerve left on the asphalt and walk away. But the TNT in the back would blow, and within minutes, a helicopter would be circling overhead. I’d end up in an interrogation room with a lamp in my eyes and a bad cop ready to bag my head.

I’m hazy on the details, but I’m pretty sure my partner’s plan involves a bang right under his ass and a spoon to scoop up what’s left of him.

Now the chassis isn’t creaking anymore—it’s crying: gne... gne... gne.

It sounds like a starving baby, one of those who never makes it.

I know the spot. Beneath the van lies a 300-meter drop, rocks the size of RVs, and cacti bristling with spines to finish the job.

"Leave me some pieces." When he says it, it’s like the coke hit has been shoved aside by a higher will. Blood’s pooling in the hollow between his shoulder and collarbone, and a wine-colored bruise has spread to his sternum. The cold air rising from the ravine seeps through the vents, icy as a ghost.

He insists. He’s seen the light go out of my eyes, a gray shroud falling over my face. I’m an open book now. "Leave me some pieces."

Because I could disappear—open the door, jump out—but I’ve said it already: it would be a short, pointless freedom.

"Everything’s going to blow, and you know they’ll come looking for you if they don’t find at least part of you. But if they find something—anything—they’ll stop. You’ll have time to hide, until the world forgets your face. What better chance to start over, to get out of this shit: to disappear."

I fidget with my hair. I’ve let it grow along with my beard, but I know snipping a few locks won’t cut it. They’ll find them, scattered and singed, but they won’t buy it. My partner pulls out a knife, and the blade snaps open with a sharp click. "At least a finger and a piece of flesh."

"What... what do you mean?"

"You choose." And in my ears, the sound I never wanted to hear materializes: snick... snick... snick.

Disappearing is the ultimate gift, but this time, the cuts are anything but figurative. I wish everyone could do it—choose something they can let go of and vanish. But life isn’t that generous, and sometimes it shines a spotlight on you when you’d rather not exist. It hunts you down like gas seeping through cracks.

I snort a hit of coke strong enough to double as an anesthetic, then I cut.

It’s skin. It’s flesh. It’s a blinding light bursting in my head, a climb of venomous snakes coiling and sinking their fangs. It’s a chorus of a thousand demons. It’s bone. It’s pieces I need to leave to feed the TNT. When it’s over, they’ll look like steaks left too long on the grill, but they’ll fool the investigators.

Dead. Blown to pieces by the very explosives he was supposed to plant under a big building. Justice served.

I’ll jump out, run to the woods, and halfway through my escape, I’ll hear the van blow up. A thousand shards of metal, of my partner, of me, scattered everywhere—on the ground, for the ants, for the police labs. Little bags of scraps, like when you leave the butcher’s. And I’ll stop crying and bleeding, slowly, under the first bush I find.

In the end, whatever you decide to do, you always leave behind pieces.