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Zurita

Updated on February 9, 2013

The orange rays of the early morning hung onto the smoke of his cigarette as he put on a pair of khaki shorts. His girlfriend remained in bed as she silently watched him through the thin haze. She knew he was only going because it was for Victor and Chavo. She knew he had to go but wasn’t sure she agreed with the methods being used. Sitting down on the chair at his desk he looks over his copies of Che’s Guerrilla Warfare, and Raul Zurita’s Ante-Paradise, his Bible and Koran for the last two years of college, then glancing down at the tattooed word Zurita over his belly button, he knew this is what had to be done. He takes a final drag and exhales watching as the smoke rises and lingers, shifting and morphing in a slow, silent ascent. Looking at his girlfriend, their gazes lock into the same intensity they felt when they first saw each other, still only in high school. Nothing needed to be said as they already knew through the cosmic energy that connected them as one, what the other was thinking. I love you. She knew he loved her with everything he had.

He looks out the window towards the city as the sun rises higher over the buildings and knows it is almost that time. Standing, he puts on a white long sleeved t-shirt and also grabs a black t-shirt to put on over. He sits down onto his bed with his girlfriend and holds her hand. They rub each other fingers to ease the nervous jitters, their eyes never shifting away from the other’s sight, they need no words. He looks away out the window over the city one more time and knows he is ready. Before he leaves, they share a lingering kiss that is only reserved for those that are true.

Walking outside, the streets are empty and only silence can be found as even the birds know that today is not one for singing. The bright, warm sun gave an added sense of surrealism to the mid-autumn day. He felt as if he was headed over to the university for his anthropology class or to Victor’s to smoke and hang out on break. For almost six blocks, he believed that it was just another day, not the one that lay in front of him. He wished Chavo and Victor were still here and this bullshit didn’t happen, but it did. Victor and Chavo had always been there, since the very beginning. They were his friends, his first contacts, his brothers. He couldn’t let this corruption take hold of his home anymore. Now he and tens of thousands of others knew what had to be done. This had gone too far. No longer was he to just sit by and watch a few destroy thousands. Thousands that he cared about.

A couple blocks later he began to see more people, students with the lower half of their faces covered, out to fight the murderers of their classmates, Teachers’ pissed off over the decay of the system and civilians sick and tired of the hassles. They all had silently sat back and prayed it would pass over, however the plague finally claimed a son and now they rose like the ocean’s tide. More and more and more and more people. People of all races, and religions. Male, female, the old, the young. The husbands and the wives, brothers and sisters. They all marched to protect their homes. Everyone turning out, thousands upon thousands behind him, yet there still remained silence. There was no shuffling of feet, no thunderous pound, just silence as everyone walked on. There was no need for words. They all knew what needed to be done. The people were a storm cloud making its silent and deadly approach.

As he got closer to his destination he begins to survey the ground. He needs to find something large and heavy. Passing a construction site he finds a chunk of concrete lying near an orange cone. Picking it up without slowing his pace he continues on with the hundred thousand people behind him and his march. Closer and closer they come to their final destination. Everyone now with something to heave or throw in their hands, soon, the skyline will be on fire in a thin orange haze as hearts bleed for homes besieged, lives ruined and hope.

Three blocks away they all start to see the lines of police and stop. Standing there, there is no sound. He sets down the concrete chunk and removes his shirt to tie around his face below his eyes. He picks up the concrete and just stares at it. Watching as a tear splashes and disintegrates onto the object in his hand, for the first time all day, he is at ease. No nerves. Looking up he screams and starts to run at the lines of officers in riot gear. He can feel the weight and hear the screams of the mass of bodies behind him. With a cause in his heart he plants and hurls the concrete rock at the cops as tears stream down to the shirt wrapped on his face. Just like Los Angeles, Barcelona will burn today.

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