Carlos (English version)

It's 4:00 p.m. Carlos has just gotten home. No one's there. His younger siblings are at their grandmother's, and his mom is visiting his dad in prison (who's serving a twelve-year sentence for drug trafficking).

Carlos heads straight to his room. He feels like watching TV to kill time, but before turning it on, he lies down on his back on the bed and stares at the ceiling. He stretches his arms out to the sides and closes his eyes, thinking about his party.

He wants it to be 7:00 p.m. already, because today he turns sixteen, and the celebration is at Chelo's bar. He's meeting up there with older friends and some girls. He won't have trouble getting in, since he's got a fake ID that Bombillo got him. He's happy, because that morning his mom and siblings sang to him before heading to school, and gave him new clothes and brand-name shoes he planned to wear for the first time that night. On top of that, Marcela, the girl he likes, confirmed she's coming to the party, and that has him thrilled.

He keeps lying on the bed. He opens his eyes, looks up, and notices that one of the ceiling panels is crooked, maybe from the last earthquake, which was a strong one. Curiosity gets the better of him, so he sits up, still staring at it. He gets to his feet, brings in the metal ladder from the patio, and sets it beneath the panel. He climbs up, nudges it loose, reaches his hand into the gap, and starts feeling around — one side, then the other. At first there's nothing, but just as he's about to come back down, his fingers brush against something: a gun.

It can't belong to Jason — his brother's a calm guy. No way, Carlos thinks. And it's not his mother's. That leaves only his father, who must have hidden it there before he was taken to prison.

Carlos didn't spend much time with his father, but he remembers well the afternoons when the whole family used to go plinking cans and bottles down in the dry stretches of the Río Sucio: they'd tuck the gun behind their back, count to three, draw it, and fire at the targets. Whoever was fastest won a prize. Carlos smiles at the memory of those afternoons. His father was the one who taught him everything he knows how to do with guns. Other than that, he didn't teach him much else.

Carlos never really lacked for anything: he went to the only private school in town, bought new clothes every month, and always had money in his pocket. The only thing he didn't have was his father's love — something money couldn't buy. Today, of all days, remembering him, he thinks about how nice it would have been to have a closer relationship with him.

He picks up the gun carefully, climbs down from the ladder, and sits on the bed. He checks the time and figures there's still more than two hours before his party, so he calls Bombillo, who invites him over. Bombillo looks at the gun and makes a couple of calls. The two of them head to the hardware store to find a guy who can sell them bullets no questions asked.

He gets back home at 6, puts the gun away in his nightstand drawer, and hops in the shower. His heart races thinking about Marcela. He's barely finished showering and he's already sweating again, so he turns the fan up all the way. He takes his time fixing his hair, wanting to look good. He puts on one of his new pairs of pants and a T-shirt that's a bit too long on him.

He opens the drawer, takes out the gun, and just stares at it. He thinks about his father. For a moment, everything else disappears. Then he hears a car horn outside: his friends are out there, come to pick him up. He doesn't put the gun back in the drawer — instead, without thinking, he tucks it between his waistband and his back. He jumps up and quickens his pace toward the door. He slams the door shut behind him. All he's thinking about now is the party, about Marcela.

He goes out and gets in the car. His friend offers him a joint, and the two of them sing along to a Cancerbero song ("yeah, yeah, no wound heals without a scar"). They're cracking up, laughing, happy, knowing the girls are waiting for them at the bar (maybe Marcela will give him a kiss as a gift, or maybe something more). His friend parks the car; they look at each other and bump fists. They get out, walk into the bar, and Carlos's eyes go straight to the bar counter: there's his enemy, standing right there, today of all days.

In that moment, it all comes rushing back. He remembers, in fast motion, all the years of bullying — how humiliated he felt when his enemy made a fool of him in front of the whole class and everyone laughed, when he threw his notebooks in the trash and everyone laughed, when he made his nose bleed on the school field, when he pulled out a knife to threaten him. The looks come flooding back, the mocking smiles of everyone around him, and he's overcome with rage.

Marcela's there too, sitting at a table to his right. Carlos's eyes go back and forth — from his enemy at the bar, to Marcela — his eyes darting, fast, nonstop — from Marcela, back to the bar. Ping, pong, ping, pong.

Then Carlos catches her happy expression. He almost gets lost in Marcela's smile, almost forgets about his enemy — but he looks back toward the bar, and there he is, his rival, looking right at him, smiling too.

How can two smiles be so different?

In one second, everything goes silent: the words disappear, the air stops flowing, his whole world comes to a standstill — only his hand still moves, as if it had a life of its own, aiming and firing six bullets that slam into their target.

Quick, precise, and firm — just like his father taught him.