Breath 21

Tom woke to darkness.

Thick, absolute, suffocating.

His head pounded like war drums behind his temples,

each throb rattling in his ears.

For a moment, he thought the ground was shifting beneath him—but no,

it was his head lolling weakly from side to side,

slick with blood, his lips torn and swollen.

The chill bit deep into his skin.

He was nearly naked—just his white briefs,

soaked with sweat and dirt,

barely clinging to him.

Rope burned across his chest and arms,

pinning him to a dead tree that jutted

like a broken finger out of the earth.

A flick—then a flame.

The hiss of a cigarette lighting.

"Welcome to Crab Point," the Barista said,

his face emerging in the dim glow.

Smoke curled around his head like a halo of menace.

His eyes were hollow, expression unreadable.

Tom tried to speak but only a hoarse whisper came.

"Why... why am I here?"

The Barista crouched, exhaled smoke into Tom’s face.

"That’s a stupid question," he muttered.

"You know where you are. This—"

he spread his arms "—is where the unwanted come to disappear.

Illegals dump their IDs, their clothes, their names... their past.

It’s the last stop before they vanish into America like ghosts.

A place where stories die."

Tom's throat clenched.

The cold wasn't just in his skin—it was in the air, the soil.

All around him lay scraps of clothing half-buried in sand,

abandoned backpacks, torn shoes, a rusted stroller.

The trees were skeletal, leafless, rising like the ribs of a sunken beast.

Nothing lived here.

Not even sound. No birds. No wind.

Just the distant groan of the earth

and the brittle crack of dying branches.

His voice cracked as he whispered, "Are you... going to kill me?"

The Barista looked away, then back,

as if the question irritated him.

"Another stupid one. Did you forget what happened back at the restaurant?

I already tasted you. You’re yesterday’s stale meat."

His eyes narrowed, smile gone.

"What’s left now? A limp body and a few pitiful tears.

There’s no reason to keep you."

Tom’s tears welled over, streaking down his bruised face.

"Why?" he sobbed. "What did I do to you?"

The Barista stood and began to circle,

the cigarette glowing between his fingers like a firefly of judgment.

"What did you do to me? You invaded my country.

You crawl in like rats. You take jobs, jam the hospitals,

pop out anchor babies like candy,

make rent go sky high.

You're the virus—slow, spreading, silent."

Tom lowered his head, his voice barely audible.

"I’m not here to take anything... I just wanted something

you didn’t even need."

The Barista stopped behind him.

The pause was long.

Too long.

Then his voice, twisted with rage:

"Well, I need everything. And I’m not giving you a goddamn thing."

The click of the gun’s safety broke the silence.

Tom squeezed his eyes shut.

Waiting.

The desert held its breath with him.

Tom’s breath shook.

He wasn’t sure if it was the cold or the fear—or the

hopelessness curling into his bones like rot.

“I trusted you,” he whispered.

The Barista didn’t answer.

He walked a few steps away, staring at the ash tip of his cigarette.

Something in his silhouette wavered—regret?

No. That would make him human.

This man had carved it out of himself.

Tom’s thoughts spiraled, back earlier that night,

the first time he saw him, outside the restaurant.

He asked for a light. He gave him a drink.

“Earlier tonight, I thought you saw me,” Tom said.

“Not just as an illegal. As… someone…you can have

something with”

The Barista turned back to him slowly.

“I did,” he said quietly.

And for one second, Tom saw it—something flickering

in the man’s eyes. Remorse? Pain?

Then the Barista chuckled. “It happened at the kitchen floor.

Don’t you see, you’re nothing but a one night fuck,

And that’s why I have to end you.”

He raised the gun again, stepping closer.

Tom tensed, eyes locked on the muzzle,

breath caught in his throat.

“But you want to know the worst part?”

The Barista crouched again, his face inches from Tom’s.

His voice dropped to a whisper, intimate and cold.

“You almost made me forget why I hate people like you.”

Tom’s lip trembled. “I’m not your enemy.”

“You all say that.” The Barista pressed the barrel to Tom’s temple.

Tom closed his eyes.

Click.

Nothing.

Tom gasped.

He clicked the gun again.

Nothing.

The Barista smirked and tossed the gun aside—it clattered to the dirt.

“You think I’d let you off that easy?

No. You’ll die here, sure—but not now.

You’ll sit. You’ll wait. Just like the others.

You’ll hear the wind scream your name

and wonder if the next thing to bite your skin is a bullet or the coyotes.”

He stood, picked up his gun, lit another cigarette with deliberate calm.

The flame briefly lit the carvings on the tree behind

Tom—scratches, initials, dates. Ghosts.

Crab Point wasn’t just where stories ended.

It was where they were buried.

Tom sagged against the ropes,

the tears finally falling—not from fear,

but from the realization: no one was coming.

Not even Nick.