Cross-Over Murders by Frank F. Atanacio Chapter One

Roman Deharte floated in a point of consciousness between wakefulness and death. His heart rate had slowed down to a point where it was almost gone. His body was close to lifeless, and his mind battled to remain coherent.
Jaunito, I’m coming.
His breathing was difficult. His lungs were filling with salt water as the bridge over the Long Island Sound was the last physical thing he saw.
The darkness of the Sound made the ending of his life complete. Strangely, it did not bother him. In fact he wasn’t even aware of it. Everything happened too fast and too soon.
In his semiconscious state, images floated in front of him. Images of his father who was shot to death opposing Castro. Images of his mother who was raped by Freedom Fighters. Images of uncles and aunts floating passed him. All dead or missing, and even in his death-like haze, he didn’t care for them too much. He was only concerned for his younger brother. He only cared for Jaunito.
It was Jaunito who came over to America with him on a rickety make-shift boat. It was Jaunito who braved the deadly, dark waters crossing over to make it to Florida from Cuba. It was with Jaunito that he spent time with floating toward the passage ways of death.
They made the cross-over and his family hated him for it. For they had tended to think of American people as far beneath them, no matter how much they struggled under Castros’ rule. His family wanted him to stay in Cuba. They wanted him to embrace his heritage despite of what happened to his mother and father. They wanted him to not become like the Americans. It wasn’t a move up for him, it was a cowardice move down.
In the floating darkness he saw himself reaching out to his younger brother. Reminding him that coming to America was the most sane thing to do. His family pleading, outstretched arms trying to reel them back to shore.
Jaunito’s image burned on his mind. His lifeless body being buried in an unmarked mass grave for people who had no family, and others who couldn’t afford the burial costs. He had let his brother down. He couldn’t protect him from a murderer. He, who had not seen it coming, was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The same thing could have been said for Cuba, but it happened here. He wasn’t expecting it, and it led to this. His uncles and aunts weren’t here to help explain the risks of coming to a foreign land. A land that had promises, but never fulfilled them. A land of freedom which was hidden behind laws that protected the states, not the people. His uncles and aunts wanted to warn them of these false realities, but they did not listen.
Would he had been better off staying put in Florida? Was coming to Connecticut a big mistake? Roman did not have the answers, nor did he want the time to figure it out. He just wanted to be with his little brother. He couldn’t protect him through life, so he wanted to see if he was able to protect him through death. If he had been there, he might have saved his little brother from the clutches of his murderer. He would at least have died trying. It was the chance to help his brother that he really wanted. It was the chance that was never given to him. It was a chance stolen by circumstances way beyond his control. But stolen, nevertheless.
Instead he now felt as if were in limbo, a result from throwing himself off of the Congress Street bridge.
His body was getting colder and his mind losing even the images of his family. Roman knew he wasn’t really prepared for death, but he knew that death needed no preparations. It came at you like a predator, and it staked claims like the devil when souls need collecting. He has taken his final step toward being with his younger brother. He was ready to accept the fate that was in front of him. He was ready to deal with the consequences of suicide. He would leave it up to the creator of Mankind.. The punishment for being loyal to his younger brother was going to be left up to god. It was what he had planned all along. It was Roman’s choice.
And suddenly, brutally almost, Roman Deharte was dragged back to reality. He was jolted out of the cold water by strong hands. He was hauled onto a small motor boat by a stranger. He was lifted bodily out of his watery grave.
“He’s coming to!” he heard someone shout.
“Alive?”
“Yeah!”
“Good job!”
“Are you god?” Roman asked as he quivered.
“God?”
Roman nodded slowly as the image that looked down upon him was extremely blurred.
“No, but I have been called Superman before,” replied the stranger. “But I’m not even Superman. However, one time I was having sex with this girl and she kept calling me god. Does that count? No wait, she was saying oh god, yeah that was it.”
“Nick!” Someone else shouted.
“I’m sorry, friend,” said the stranger. “I’m Nick Barnum, at your service.”
“Service?”
The Nick Barnum Stranger nodded.
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