all in the name of god

I just spent the past three hours under my bed holding my breath,

Thinking of what they would tell my parents,

And how they would tell you.

-

It’s 4 AM and my roommate Amelia asks me if that’s what a gun sounds like.

She starts to slip under her bed and I roll back over, chuckling internally, thinking how Canadians don’t lock their doors.

And then six more blasts shatter any semblance of sanity in the air. The sound of sawed off shotguns echo so close to where I lie.

And my heart pounds.

And I know the door is unlocked.

It’s just something sad in the neighborhood, but damn, it’s close.

Two more shots thunder right outside and I start to think she’s on to something – I slide under my bed, gripping the ground with white fingertips. My languid limbs protrude casually; safety in doubt still lingers in my mind. Just a laughable precaution.

Roosters wail in the distance.

Just roosters, not a heartbroken family.

Just roosters.

Then a siren – almost church bells –

But

Not quite.

Amelia notices something, so I start to listen.

A motorcycle rumbles to a stop out front. And then a car engine.

And two more blasts puncture my last hope.

I don’t know how long it is between them.

Long enough for every time I think it’s almost maybe safe to crawl from under the bed, they return to liquefy my nerves.

Always in twos – a funny coincidence – just how many people sleep in each room.

Always in twos, and nothing else.

Just tiny footsteps.

Creaks.

Sounds of dragging.

Bags or bodies, I don’t know.

I imagine everyone who is left in the same position as myself: now under the same bed as Amelia, suctioned to the wall behind a blanket. Hoping that maybe, maybe they won’t see us. Just take the bags and go.

My final happy thought now is the lack of screams. They must be good aim – one shot – no hostages.

A big diesel engine rolls up out front. Hopefully this is the truck for our bags.

I think about which would be worse for me and for you and for my parents – to die instantly, or to be a tortured captive with hope of freedom. My dad’s fears echo in my mind and it floods with visions of dark cells and my piercings being tied to a pickup truck, running until I stumble. Always stumbling. I await the bursting open of the door. I have to watch because my blood pressure is deafening. Every blast ricochets through every muscle, bringing with it uncontrollable spasms.

Footsteps sound in the courtyard in front of the wooden box we call a room. A tiny knocking sound: Amelia thinks it’s Maria telling everyone it’s okay.

I don’t think so.

Maria and Aleks stayed at a different hotel. This is a foreigner hostel. No one staying here has phones that work, or who would I call, even if I did?

No one has anything to defend themselves with.

No one has anything.

No one can do anything.

We’ve been parading ourselves around town with all our fancy cameras like a fucking procession, from studio to set, every person’s hands filled with expensive equipment. They watch us all day. They know where we sleep.

The sun is coming up.

Fireworks, says Amelia.

That hissing, there? They are fireworks.

There is no dragging. No bags, nor bodies. Just the muffled crackle of a dynamite wick. A motorcycle drives away. Then two more. The shots stop.

I hear water running.

Someone has made it to the shower alive.

I creep out from the bed to peer out the window. I start to hear the noises of the cleaning lady, probably, just bustling. It takes twenty minutes for the geriatric to bathe and exit and not get shot and my heart to realize I might not be dying tonight.

It takes another hour to find out that those murderous roars were just ceremonial sounds drifting over from the church. My death bringer, my life bringer, my 4am heart stopper, just your average every day break of dawn church cannons. All in the name of God.

(How animal is fear, when God is near.)