secuestrado

My head throbbing, I hear the click of a latch as the trunk pops open.

I open my eyes slowly, as the light is blinding and makes my head pound.

Where the fuck am I?

And how did I get into this trunk?

The last thing I remember was slow dancing with a handsome stranger, who had handed me a drink. Fuck. fuckfuckfuck what was in that drink?

And why did I take a drink from someone I don't know?

Because she was beautiful?

I hear conversations all around me suddenly, in a language I can't quite place, but then recognize all at once. Grateful for that semester of Spanish I recently completed in college so I could grasp words and sometimes phrases, clues to my whereabouts.

Mexico. I have crossed the border while hungover and passed out in the trunk of a car.

How is this happening?

My mind is groggy and snippets from the night before flash through my mind. The night hot, sticky. A pool nearby in the home of a Texas socialite, cocktails and party dresses swishing through the night air, people sweaty with dance and dripping compliments and flirtations.

I had seen her from across the room, glistening in a dress made of gold that looked like it had been poured from a glass of champagne down her body. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. It took me over an hour to get the courage to approach her, and then I did bashfully, a shot of liquid courage beforehand. I had already had too many, my judgment was off, but I had to shoot my shot.

She laughed at my clumsy effort at a hello, then held my hand and guided me through the crowd. We talked and laughed, flirted and began to dance. She left to get me a drink, I don't even remember asking what it was. I was too enamored, to drunk on lust to notice that I was also just drunk.

And now here I am. In Mexico, being pulled forcably out of the back of the trunk of a car. There are men everywhere, and the beautiful stranger is nowhere to be seen. Was she a pawn? A willing participant? What happens now? Where will they take me?

I shake my head and listen for clues of my whereabouts. I can get out of this. I have been here before. Maybe not this country, and not this group of men, but the situation is the same. When will I learn from my mistakes?

When will I stop accepting drinks from strangers and stop mistaking beauty for safety?

Don't roses always cut you with their thorns?