#nanberto

Trembling fingers press down on bloodied skin, desperately checking for a pulse. Roberto’s mind races as he struggles to find one. Gustavo is better at this, pointing out the dead versus the living, he knows this, but he still has to check; he has to know, feel the soft pulse flutter under his fingertips.

He can’t feel anything.

There is nothing and he’s going to be sick.

Finally, he stops his wild efforts and looks down at the face below him. His vision blurs as he sees the disfigured face, - almost completely unrecognizable- the matted dirty blond hair, caked with blood at one spot near the top, the harsh cuts under his eyes, where glasses should have rested upon the nose that gushes a stream of crimson down the side of his face. His entire head looks swollen like a balloon that’s ready to burst.

He can’t breathe. All the air from his lungs feels trapped within him. The sound of his own racing heart thumps loudly, obnoxiously, in his ears, drowning out the sounds of panic that surround him.

“Roberto! I could really use your help over here.” A voice from behind him says. The sound is muffled, as if he’s under water.

“He’s gone. Nando’s gone Gustavo.” He forces out before quickly turning away from the body.

Gustavo rushes over and begins to search for a pulse. Roberto holds his breath as he watches him with careful eyes. The first year medical student looks over his shoulder at him, “I got something! It’s very faint though.”

A tiny sound of relief escapes from his lips at the news.

“He’s probably not going to make it. We should move him with the others.” Gustavo continues.

With the dead.

⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂

The void was black. It was beyond cold. Warmth held no meaning here. It was hell, the ninth circle of hell, where even Satan himself resides, frozen within his icy fortress. The beating of Satan’s wings is the chilling gust of wind that shoves and pushes down upon them all.

Roberto floated between that space of sleep and wake, desperate to keep himself conscious, in fear that death may come for him in the night.

This first night will forever haunt him. The sounds of those moaning in agony from their injuries, the smells burned the insides of his nostrils, clinging to his clothes, his skin, everything. It’s everywhere. The blue jet fuel, blood, piss, sweat and death that lingered among the wreckage.

It’s all so suffocating.

The trembling body of Coche lays under him, pushed as closely to his front as humanly possible, whines when he instructs the boy to hold his hand tighter.

A rustling from the dark corner by the makeshift wall of suitcases catches his attention. He struggles to lift his head but manages, seeing Diego Storm arranging something that looks heavy.

Roberto squeezes his eyes shut and tries to block out the images that flash behind them. His mother weeping. His father holding her as she crumbles in his arms. Lauri’s beautiful eyes avoidant of any emotion as she fades away, like those of his friends, who grow stiff and cold in their eternal slumber.

His body betrays him, too weak to hold onto consciousness, slipping into a dream. A nightmare.

New images appear, playing out like a movie. Nando’s green eyes filled with amusement and slight irritation as he scolds him in a locker room.

“¡Pásala!”

“I couldn’t have done worse!”

His playful face morphs to a bloodied one. His body lay stiff in the snow. Next to his mother.

A pained cry startles him awake. He’s gasping for air and tightens his hold on Coche.

Just breathe. You’re still alive. You’re not one of them.

And so, he takes a deep breath in, holds it and then releases it to steady his nerves. He repeats this a few more times.

᯽᯽᯽᯽᯽

Gustavo seems to check his watch every few minutes, the illuminated face casting a dull soft glow over his features. “The sun should be coming up soon.”

“You said that last time and did it? No.” Roberto grumbles, still shaken from the nightmare.

“It’s a little past six now, it’s coming,” he announces again, ignoring Roberto’s tone.

After what feels like hours, the sun makes its appearance, engulfing the cramped space with its golden hues that stretch out and paint the cold steel walls. The snow that floats in front of his face like dust sparkles in the sun’s rays. For a second, he is mesmerized by its beauty - but only for a second- before the silence hits him.

The cries from the night have died out.

☀︎︎☀︎︎☀︎︎

Marcelo gives orders to clean up the fuselage and move the bodies out into the cold, to make more space, to make everything more comfortable for them. It’s almost laughable, that concept, of making any of this more comfortable . As if it’s that simple.

They move the cold stiff bodies out, one by one, until they reach for Nando, who lays right up against their makeshift wall. It’s then that he realizes it was Nando who Diego was moving during the night. His limp, emotionless body feels heavier in his arms than the rest and Roberto tries not to think too much on the significance of that. He tries not to think about how he most likely isn’t going to make it through another night, with no food or water to offer, no medicine to heal the gash on his head. He tries not to remember Suzana’s quiet prayers- in english- in the night, her cries for her mother.

“Nando is dying.” He tells Marcelo and it’s as if the world is going to crumble under his feet the second the words leave his mouth.

Three words he never thought he would say.

𑁍𑁍𑁍𑁍𑁍𑁍𑁍

Nervous hands trace and check over Nando’s head. When he is sure no one is looking he brushes fallen strands of dark blond hair and tries to put water down an unresponsive mouth. He brings his ear close to his mouth to hear that tiny faint sound of breath. His eyes can now see the slight rise and fall of his chest moving, showing signs of life.

Roberto had moved him to lean up against the side of the fuselage, propped his head up, against the cool metal. He’s still not sure himself why he did it but he can’t move past the string of hope that stretches and tugs within him.

His mind begins to wonder what runs through the man’s mind, even in his state. If it’s possible to think, to feel anything. If he can sense he was near. If he is dreaming. Would he dream of him, of all of them, of them together in Chile? Is he happy and warm in this dream?

He’s never felt more weak, more desperate in his life than he does in that moment. Desperate to see those green eyes open and look into his again, filled to the brim with their playful mirth.

Please hold on.

Just hold on a little longer.