Breath 9
As Tom slid the false wall shut,
sealing the Indian man inside the dark room with Ploy's mother,
something caught in his throat.
He tasted bile.
He wanted to throw up.
A memory clawed its way back.
He was wet. Cramped.
Trapped in airless darkness.
Packed like sardines inside a cargo container
with a dozen other Mexicans—everyone was silent,
gone are the murmured prayers,
the nervous laughs,
it seems everyone forgot to breathe,
except Tom.
The heat was unbearable.
Sweat dripped from his scalp down his spine, soaking his jeans.
There wasn’t room to sit.
His legs trembled under him.
He couldn't tell if the man behind him was still alive or just sleeping.
His chest rose, panicked, desperate for air.
Don’t vomit, he told himself. Don’t cry. Don’t die.
Then, a thin sliver of light cracked across the blackness.
The door to the container swung open.
Flashlights. Shouting. Footsteps.
Tom squinted into the harsh beams.
One of the ship’s crew grabbed his arm, dragging him out.
His legs buckled. He collapsed onto the ship’s metal floor.
A bucket of water splashed over his head, shocking him back to his senses.
He can’t hold it anymore.
He vomited.
When he looked back what he saw are just bodies after bodies.
There were bodies behind him. Half-naked, some had lost all their clothes.
Shriveled. Some still leaning against each other like they were asleep.
Most weren’t.
Everything blurred.
In seconds, he was hauled down a narrow hallway and thrown into an engine room,
wrists bound with plastic straps to a rusted metal pipe.
The roar of machinery thundered around him.
Grease burned his nostrils. His stomach curled inward. When had he last eaten?
Guadalajara.
That taco from the stranger before he climbed into the container.
He hadn’t even said thank you.
He was too scared to say anything.
He fell asleep.
A door creaked open. The ship’s Captain entered,
flanked by two men.
Big, leathery hands. Cigarette lips. Stomach pushing against their buttons.
But what woke Tom up are the heavy boots that stomped inside.
One of them kicked the door shut behind them.
SLAM.
The sound echoed through the metal walls,
sharp and final like a prison gate clanging shut.
Tom flinched.
The Captain didn’t speak right away.
He walked in slowly, surveying the room as if he were inspecting livestock.
Then he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a metal lighter, and lit a thick cigar.
Smoke curled into the air.
He leaned against the wall. Watching.
“So,” the Captain finally said, exhaling. “You’re the only one who made it.”
Tom stared at the oil stains on the floor.
The Captain clicked his tongue. “How old are you? Twenty?”
He took a long drag, eyes narrowing behind the smoke.
Then he crouched in front of Tom.
“Do you speak English?”
Tom nodded, barely.
The Captain exhaled in his face and winced.
“Shit. You stink like death.”
He spit on his face.
“This is America. Everything has a price.”
The two crewmen stepped closer.
Tom's eyes darted to the door, but it was closed.
The hallway outside had gone quiet.
His wrists were still bound to the pipe behind him.
One of the men cracked his knuckles. The other just stared at him, dead-eyed.
Something primal rose in Tom's chest.
Panic.
Not loud or dramatic—but cold and paralyzing.
His body understood what was about to happen before his mind could fully grasp it.
“No one’s gonna find you in here, you can scream all you want”
the Captain said, took his seat at the metal stool tapping the ash from his cigar.
Tom’s breath hitched.
He shook his head slowly, tears forming before he could stop them.
The two men began to unbutton his shirt, as the Captain watched.
Then—
CRACK.
A slap. Open-palm. Hot and hard. His face whipped sideways.
The Captain didn’t flinch.
“You don’t get to hesitate, boy. You want to be free?”
Tom tasted blood.
The Captain raised an eyebrow. “Well, boy? Do you want to be free or not?”
Tom didn’t answer.
He didn’t cry.
He just stood there as his pants fell.
The two men took turns as the Captain laughs.
The pain came, sharp and dull and endless.
But afterward, when it was over, he lay curled on the floor,
his skin sticky with sweat and shame.
That evening, the ship docked in Miami.
Tom stepped off barefoot, his lips bloodied, eyes rimmed in salt.
Miami shimmered before him—neon lights flickering like promises, like lies.
You made it, they whispered. You’re in America now.
No more dead men clutching at his ankles.
No more men taking everything
No more captain pounding shame and pain.
“Waiter!”
The voice cut through him like a whip.
Tom blinked. The cargo hold vanished.
The engine room dissolved. No rusted pipes.
No screams. No more fists.
Just the clatter of cutlery and the warm scent of jasmine rice.
He was back in the restaurant.
The table in front of him was smiling. “Can we get the check? That green curry was so good.”
He smiled back, practiced and pleasant, as if his body remembered
how to be human before his brain caught up.
Behind them, the Indian wife still sat frozen in her seat,
clinging to her bowl of curry like it was a life raft.
Her eyes were rimmed red. Her husband—the man Tom had just hidden—was her world.
And now, that world was behind a wall.
He walked over to her, crouched by her side.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “He’s okay. When things settle down, he’ll go home. I promise”
A tear slipped from her lashes, trailing down her cheek.
Tom reached out, took her hand gently in his. It was trembling.
And suddenly, he saw himself again.
Not as a waiter. Not as a survivor.
But as her—a terrified soul, clinging to hope in the middle of hell.
He squeezed her hand.
That’s when he realized—Nick was watching.
From across the room, the agent stood half-shadowed behind a pillar.
Eyes locked on Tom.
Not with suspicion. Not with malice.
But something else.
Something gentler.
Something that scared Tom
more than the smoke from the Captain’s cigar
