Blood in the Streets

The border whizzed past, a blur of colored lights and smeared uniform. No one stopped the old hatchback as it blew down the ancient highway. Sara set her forehead against the cold glass and closed her eyes, feeling the car’s movement reverberate in her skull.

“None of that.” Her cousin shook his head. His slurred accent was thicker than she was used to, he didn’t come state side much. “Don’t cry, I don’t want to see you cry.” He muttered something she couldn’t hear through the engine’s rattle.

Sara didn’t cry, and she didn’t tell her cousin to go fuck himself. She pressed her head harder into the window until her teeth chattered off each other. Outside the car, the desert stretched endlessly in all directions.

Her eyes ached when she opened them to the orange light of the power lines bordering the highway.

Next to Sara, her cousin talked in low spanish over the crackling radio. He was going to get them back, every single one of them. He do it for Sara, and for his father, who’d lost his favorite brother. Their blood was going to run in the streets.

Sara turned to him slowly, the crick in her neck shuddering with the tempo of the road and the car’s tires. She stared through swollen eyes long enough for him to notice.

“Shut up.” She said. Her throat was still raw from the night before and the word hurt. But she couldn’t listen to him get off on what had happened, what would happen. He didn’t get to feel better about any of this. Sara turned her cheek back to the cold glass before he could respond.

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