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A Town of mass Destruction (standard:other, 2372 words)
Author: Leah LalalandAdded: Jan 06 2002Views/Reads: 1780/1308Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
What happens when your boyfriend holds a gun to your head and makes you swear not to tell...
 



A town of mass destruction 

I am standing outside the bank of America in Roswell, New Mexico.  It’s
98 degrees out.  I am boiling hot, and scared, because I know that 
Pablo is going to come out any second and hold his gun to my head and 
make me swear not to tell, like in the last three banks. Pablo is a 
power freak, a money freak, and an out of control man. He’s about four 
years older then I, and sometimes he grips my arm so tight I think I’m 
not gonna’ be able to breath anymore. 

Here he is.  His hair is greasy with the oil from his father’s car shop
because they are too poor for hair gel.  He is angry.  “Rosana, don’t 
tell.”  His gun is there again, and tears are streaming down my face.  
I don’t want this to be the Pablo I loved just two weeks ago.  “Dammit, 
girl, swear you won’t tell or I’ll blast that stupid head off your 
neck!’ he shouts at me. I can feel his heart beat thump up and down, 
he’s so close to me. I don’t want to swear. I don’t want to be next to 
Pablo, I don’t want him breathing down my neck. I want to break away 
from him and run, but he has the strong grip on my arm again. “I 
swear.”  Pablo shoots the big gun up at the sky, scaring the birds 
hovering above away.  There is no one in sight. “P-Pablo, do we have to 
g-go to the other banks?”  He slaps my face so hard it burns.  I don’t 
need an answer. “Hey, babe, I’m sorry. But this ain’t some small thing. 
If the cops catch me, we’re both gonna be locked up in those damn jail 
cells,” he tells me. I break away from him and head to the beat up 
Honda that he stole a week ago because his car broke down. I step into 
the car and buckle my seat belt. Pablo does the same. He starts up the 
car, and we roar up the street. 

“Rosana, do you love me?” he asks, swerving a dude talking on a
cell-phone.  I’m afraid to speak.  To say the wrong thing, to die.  
“Yes.”  “Good.  So you won’t tell.  I can trust you.”  He is silent for 
a moment, then grabs me, kisses me hard on the mouth.  I rip away, 
panting hard. “Hey, babe,” he says, using his pet nickname for me, 
“What’s wrong?” I stiffly gaze out the window. Sure, I’m scared of 
Pablo, but I’m angry at him, too. Part of me just wants to grab him and 
rip him up and scratch him with my slightly long fingernails until he 
bleeds, while the other half just wants him to stop threatening me. 

It is until after I start thinking about Pablo before he had to many
drinks that night that I realize that tears are flooding down my 
cheeks.  “Wassamatter, scared?”  “Bastard,” I mutter under my breath.  
“What?” “Nothing.” “Did you call me a bastard?” “No.” The death grip is 
back.  “I think you did call me a bastard.  Now fess up!” It feels as 
though he’s cutting off my circulation.  “Yes.”  He’s going to break my 
arm, I’m sure of it.  But instead he let’s me go. “Don’t ever, ever, 
EVER do that again!” he shouts, shattering my eardrum.  “Never.” He is 
one, though. His dad had about a million love affairs, and Pablo was a 
love child. He switches the radio off, and we drive Way into the night. 


By 11:00 p.m., we’ve reached the outskirts of Nevada, and we drive
through the still desert. I want to open the car door, roll out, and 
make a break for it, but Pablo would probably shoot me. We stop, and 
Pablo turns off the car. “Time to rest for the night,” he tells me. As 
I drift off to sleep, I begin to dream about my poor mother and what 
she’s thinking right now. 

When I wake up, Pablo is lying beside me.  “We have two more hours”, he
says.  “Wanna snuggle?”  I push him away.  “How can you say that if you 
hate me?” I ask.  “Aww, you know I don’t hate you.”  “You sure act like 
it!” “Common, Rose.  I’ll get us a room.  We can...”  “No! It’s bad 
enough that you try to hurt me, but don’t try to seduce me in the same 
God damn day!”  “Never tell me what I can or cannot do, woman!” he 
shouts, waking all of Vegas.  Then he pulls me close and kisses me, not 
letting me get away with my shirt still on me. 

Two hours later, we’re driving into Las Vegas. It’s morning, so the
lights are still turned off and the city is still. Pablo stops the car 
at a tacky looking diner, and we step out of the car. He has his arm 
around me, so it looks like we’re some young couple kickin’ it back for 
the weekend, but I can feel the gun through his jacket, and it’s a 
constant reminder that I’ll be dead if I make one wrong move. A 
waitress with greasy hair and tons of blue eye shadow seats us. “What 
would you guys like?” I order soup, and Pablo orders a plate of 


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