Killing Sarai

4

It takes a moment for my brain to register the meaning behind his strange words and to realize that he's actually talking to me.

I rise up quickly from behind the seat and cock the handgun, pressing the barrel against the back of his head.

"Just drive," I say in English, my hands shaking holding the gun in place. I've never killed anyone before and I don't want to, but I'm not going back into that compound.

The American slowly raises his hands. The glint of his thick silver watch catches my eye but I don't let it distract me. Without another word he places one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear shift, putting the car into Drive.

We've been driving for twenty-eight minutes. I've been watching the clock in the dashboard, the glowing blue numbers already starting to burn through to my subconscious. The American hasn't said a word. Not one word. I know it has nothing to do with being afraid. I'm the one with the gun but I'm the only one of us who is afraid. And I don't understand why he hasn't spoken. Maybe if he would just turn the radio on...something...because the silence is killing me. I've been trying to keep my eyes on him while at the same time trying to get some kind of idea of my whereabouts. But so far the only landmarks that I've seen are trees and the occasional stucco house or dilapidated building-it all looks the same as the compound.

Thirty-two minutes in and I realize I've already lowered the gun at some point. My finger is still on the trigger and I'm ready to use it if I have to, but I was stupid to think I could hold it up pointed directly at him for longer than a few minutes.

I don't know what I'm going to do when I get tired. Thankfully the adrenaline is keeping me wide awake for now.

"What's your name?" I ask him, hoping to stir the silence.

I need to get him to trust me, to want to help me.

"My name is inconsequential."

"Why?"

He doesn't respond.

I swallow a lump in my throat, but another one just forms in its place.

"My name is Sarai."

Still no response.

It kind of feels like torture, the way he ignores me. I'm beginning to think that is exactly what he's doing: torturing me with silence.

"I need you to help me," I say. "I've been a prisoner of Javier's since I was fourteen-years-old."

"And you assume I'm going to help you because I am also American," he says simply.

I hesitate before I answer, "I-I...well, why wouldn't you?"

"It is not my business to interfere."

"Then what is your business?" I ask with a trace of distaste. "To murder people in cold blood?"

"Yes."

A shiver moves through my back.

Not knowing what to say to something like that, or even if I should, I decide it's best to change the subject.

"Can you just get me across the border?" I ask, becoming more desperate. "I'll-." I lower my eyes in shame. "I'll do whatever you want. But please, please just help me get over the border." I feel tears trying to force their way to the surface, but I don't want him to see me cry. I don't know why, but I just can't let him. And I know he understands what it means to do whatever he wants. I hate myself for offering my body to him, but like I said before about desperation....

"If you are referring to the United States border," he says and for some reason his voice surprises me, "then you must know the distance is longer than I care to have you in my car."

I raise my back from the seat just a little.

"W-Well how long would you allow me?"

I catch his dark eyes in the rearview mirror again. They lock on mine and this too sends a shiver through my back.

He doesn't answer.

"Why won't you help me?" I ask, finally accepting the fact that no matter what I say to him, it's futile. And when he still doesn't answer I say with exasperation, "Then pull over and let me out. I'll walk the rest of the way myself."