VIVIDLY

“Wake up, Ruthie! Welcome to Monterrey!” Atzi chimed as we started passing outskirt buildings. 

I pulled myself up from the uncomfortable slouch I had sunk into over the last few hours. I faintly remember passing through the border station, cognitive enough to have handed over my passport and made eye contact with the officer checking our credentials. As soon as we were once again on the road, I must have passed out hard, and nothing else came to my memory of the first half of our trip. 

Despite our initial mechanical delays we arrived at an overall decent hour to grab some food before continuing to our hotel in Mexico City. 

Civilization slowly came into view, as rural land gave way to industrial parks and then a metropolis. The traffic thankfully seemed to be at a steady flow, and once we made it through the heart of the city, Atzi located a small family run cafe to grab dinner. 

I was particularly thankful for Azti’s navigation through such terrain. Driving was by far my least favorite activity. The very thought of attempting to maneuver a vehicle on unfamiliar foreign roads gave my stomach a nauseous knot.  Atzi, on the other hand, drove along as if she had grown up on these highways. I suppose in some degree she had. She explained once that she never really had anywhere she called home. She often joked that home was wherever the river took her. When she was younger, her family lived in Mexico City. She had some residual familiarity with the region. Her calmness was probably the only reason I had managed to sleep for the length of time I did. 

Hopping out of the truck, some graffiti on a wall across the street caught my eye. The design itself was rather large for graffiti. It was at least 8 feet tall and 3 feet wide. The artist must have used some form of irradescent paint as the symbol glowed faintly in the fading light. Two blocky styled snakes intertwined around each other. One blazed red and orange with flame like accents for scales. The other was blue and white with swirls along its body indicative of flowing water. Their heads faced each other with bared fangs.

“Woah! Atzi, check this out!”

Atzi stiffened as her eyes caught the intrinsic graffiti. Clueless to her initial reaction, I continued, “It’s beautiful and so detailed!”

Atzi muttered a word under her breath that sounded like a mess of syllables strung together as someone attempted not to choke on something.

“Huh?” I finally took in her countenance. It was everything I had never known Atzi to be, cold, calculated, and stiff. 

“Nevermind” she dismissed, masking the reaction. “Let’s eat!”

With the help of my middle school Spanish and Atzi, I managed to order a chile rellano. Then began the most awkward meal I ever had with Atzi. She poked unconvincing at her taco plate. Her eyes kept fleeting between the door and the window where you could still see the faint glow of the graffiti behind the parked truck. Her mind was obviously far away, lost in paths of thought. 

“Atzi….Atzi?…ATZI!” I called out, escalating in volume. 

“What!” She snapped. 

In our entire friendship, we had never had a spat or even had a tense conversation. The look of shock decorating my face must have shook the rest of her trance, and she immediately apologized, “Sorry Ruth. Are you ready to go? We still have a long way.”

“Yeah, I guess.” I said, “But aren’t you hungry?”

“Not really. I just want to get to a hotel room and a shower.”

“We aren’t going to be there until like 2 am. Wouldn’t it be better to try find something around here or camp in the truck?”

“No. We can make it. I have plenty of energy. I’ll call the hotel to let them know we will be a late check in.”

We paid for our meal and returned to our truck. Atzi got in the truck quickly, as if avoiding the graffiti now glowing defiantly against the darkening of the sky. It fascinated me, and the more I looked at it, the more it beckoned questions to my mind. Why did it bother Atzi so much? How on earth did it glow so vibrantly and almost unnaturally? What did it mean? What had Atzi called it? Who painted it there and why? She pulled out her cell phone, explained our arrival plans to the hotel, and we were off again. 

Once Monterrey was in the rear view mirror, Atzi relaxed. She joked about her memories of Mexico City.  She ended up going into an extensive history of the indigenous tribes and their beautiful architecture in the area. I’d like to say I was enthralled enough to stay awake through her narrative. Alas, cars have a devastating effect on my energy, and soon enough, I had drifted off to sleep again. 

My mind found no restful peace in my sleep. I dreamt of a city on fire. A massive river ran through the center, cutting through the heart of the city. Even this river had flames dancing on the surface. There was someone screaming. A desperate anguished scream. It was Atzi. Atzi was screaming. “Ruthie!” The pain was so intense. “Ruthie!” No, what had happened? Why was she screaming?

“Ruthie!” Atzi called me out of the dream. “Wake up, we are here!”

I nearly threw myself into the dash, jumping when she touched my shoulder to rouse me. 

“Atzi?! Here? Huh?”

“We are at the hotel, Ruth. I checked us in.” Atzi said, concern tainting her tone. “You are all sweaty. Are you feeling ok?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I murmured, shaking off the panic. “Just a nightmare.” I said as much to reassure myself as my worried friend.

I got out and grabbed my bag from the back. I did my best to brush off the dust and sand it had accumulated during the drive. Atzi handed me a key card, and we headed for our rooms.