The Guadeloupe Squadeloupe

Chapter III: Guad

Guad

"I've got demons running 'round in my head / and they feed on insecurities I have."- Send Them Off! // Bastille

The pain I'm used to is intense hunger and weakness. But this is a different kind of pain. It's blunt and crippling. Every step I take also takes a lot of my futile energy.

By the time I reach home I'm flooded with relief. I guess it's strange to say I have a home at all when I'm technically "homeless." But my home is really just an unfinished concrete shack taking up the width of a hidden alleyway deep in the town. I don't even stay in it every night, but in the winter, it provides better protection for Bob and myself.

Directly above the shack is a clothes line strung across the alleyway by the apartments in either building.

Inside, Bob is sitting on one of the two cots that take up most of the room inside. As I walk in, he's grinning, but it doesn't last long.

"What happened to you?" he asks in Spanish, his voice laced with concern. Standing up, he pats his cot, and I come sit down by him.

He glances around the room, looking for some kind of medical supplies, although he knows we have none. Nevertheless, he's always been an able medic so this doesn't stop him from trying.

"I got mugged. It's the first time in years. I mean, it always used to happen when I was little, of course."

Bob turns to look at me, his scruffy face not concealing the pity I don't exactly want to see. "We don't have any supplies. The only thing you can do about those bruises is to rest. Be grateful you have an excuse."

"HEXA's symbol hasn't gone away," I blurt out. Everyday we both see the insignia and its strange black spirals. Yet we rarely speak of it.

Bob pauses and sits on my cot across from me. "Delgato and his organization haven't found me yet."

"That's why you're hidden with me, so far away from San Diego." Bob flinches at the city's name. I've always known that he didn't come to me because I meant anything in particular to him. But I'm trustworthy enough to keep his secret, and I'm far away from the reaches of HEXA. Even so, we're knit together. It's strange, but I feel an odd desire to protect him.

"But his symbol is always around where I am, and I'm not sure why." Perhaps bringing it up was a bad idea. What help can I give on the subject?

"Maybe they've found me," he adds. "I was the first test subject in that particular experiment. Maybe they need to take me back."

"And experiment on you again?" I ask. He flinches.

"They could be watching us right now." I feel useless listening to him. What help can I be? So I change the subject.

"Bob- I want to move."

The worries of danger from his past flush out of his face. "What do you mean?" He's confused, which makes sense. I don't exactly have the means to leave.

"My life means nothing." Normally I don't like to tell anyone what I think of things, especially not what I think of myself. "I want to move to America. I speak English, and there is opportunity there."

"But do you realize what you're asking me to do? HEXA is crawling around the US. I would know!" he says, looking angrier than I've seen him. Bob isn't anger. He's bubbly and fun. "My parents worked for them, and the times I was in that country I saw horrible things."

Guiltily I think about the terrible ways he was experimented on and tortured. The white scars peer through the collar of his blue sweater.

"Bob, you heard those people at breakfast." My voice is weaker than it was before. "The security is loose. We can just sneak on from the airfield, or whatever they call it." An avid world traveller, he rolls his eyes. "Anyways, if HEXA is looking for you down here, this would be a good chance to escape. They wouldn't see it coming."

"What if you get caught?"

"Then I get thrown into prison, where they'll feed me! Or I'll get killed, but it's not like I'll be losing a meaningful life!" The burst of words, although not even long, takes a lot from me. My body heaves up and down as it breathes. Moving words from my heart into the air is something I don't ever do.

Bob's blue eyes shine with that light that I can't ever understand. "Where you go, I will-"

He's interrupted by a sound I never thought could interrupt us, because I never thought I'd hear it.

Somebody is knocking at our door.

At first I have no clue what to do. I haven't answered a door in 10 years, since my parents died, so I just stay seated.

Bob gets up and opens the door, shielding the visitor from my view.

"Hello, do I know you?" asks Bob, still speaking in Spanish.

"I, uh, don't speak Spanish," a familiar voice says. Perry?

"Oh sorry, man," says Bob in English. Act your age, I think. "I'm Bob."

He closes the door, and what I thought was confirmed. Perry White stands in the doorway, his arms carrying bags of food. "Hey, I'm Perry White. I was with your friend when he was hurt earlier."

My first feeling is shock, followed by anger. It's irrational, but I don't like having been rescued by some Gringo who's at least several years younger than me. A decade of my life I've spent protecting myself on these dangerous streets. I hate to have needed someone for even a moment.

"Hello, Guad," says Perry, not surprised in the least to see me. Yeah, he definitely followed me home. The question is why he thought he needed to.

His eyes search the crammed room, looking for a place to put the food. I move over on Bob's cot, and he places them down there. My eyes can see apples, Chilean pastries, and other things. Some I haven't had since childhood.

Betraying myself, my stomach growls in desire.

"This is for you guys," says Perry as he motions his hands towards the food. "I'm only on vacation to watch over my sister, so I thought I'd try to do something worthwhile."

Unlike me, Bob doesn't have any restraint as he rushes forward to grab handfuls of food. "Hey, we're going to ration it out, you know," I tell him in Spanish.

I turn to see if the Spanish fazes Perry, but his head is turning away as he digs through his bag to grab something.

"These were on your doorstep, Guad, I think they're for you," he says.

Utter confusion and curiosity fills me as he hands me a packet of letters. The rough coarseness of them rubs against my palms as I look through them, each of them reading, "Guadeloupe Bridges."

First, someone is knocking at my door. Second, someone has given me mail. Today is definitely off the usual track it's been on for years.