Guanacolía: Testimonio 1
MARÍA de la CRUZ
I saw them kill Monseñor I saw the gunman’s gun point straight at his head, shoot straight through the mass, straight through his words as he lifted the chalice, “Pecata Mundi.”
I saw Monseñor drop the chalice, saw him spill the wine, crumple to the ground. I saw the first drop of his blood splash to the floor. My eyes followed the gunman’s boots. I caught his eye as he ran out the door. I heard his footsteps pounding, heard the echoes ring as he raced down the empty halls. No one would catch him, he would run free; his heavy boots clanging, his heavy boots grinding, his heavy boots rasping. A ghost against the pavement.
When I turned back to Monseñor, I saw it. His blood flowing in rivers, filling the streets. Rivers of blood pounding through San Salvador. People were screaming, people were shouting in silence as the rivers of blood roared through the city, deafening the saints.
Then the sirens ripped through the silence, came for his body.
When the rivers receded, the streets were stained red.
Although the chapel looked empty, it was not. You could hear Monseñor’s words still echo through the silence. Perhaps they had thought that one shot would be enough to silence his voice, the voice of the voiceless.
But they were wrong.
They did not know that one shot would be enough to free his soul, to unfurl it high above the crowds, free to sail, free to speak.
They did not know that his soul unshackled would rise above borders and shout their ugly truths throughout the world.
They did not know he would hold them to a mirror, haunt them until their death.
They never imagined that his unleashed spirit could comfort the people; that his bloodstained shroud could blanket them; that his silenced voice could grow louder than before.
On the day of his funeral, I went to Catedral. I moved with the crowds through the bloodstained streets. I reached Catedral with a wave of people and, as we surged into the building, I heard the shots. Shots ringing out through Catedral.
Then, again, I caught the gunman’s eye.
Shots and shouts broke through the crowd. People scrambled, people trampled, statues toppled. Death again, in Catedral.
And when I turned, I saw the statue cry.
I saw Monseñor drop the chalice, saw him spill the wine, crumple to the ground. I saw the first drop of his blood splash to the floor. My eyes followed the gunman’s boots. I caught his eye as he ran out the door. I heard his footsteps pounding, heard the echoes ring as he raced down the empty halls. No one would catch him, he would run free; his heavy boots clanging, his heavy boots grinding, his heavy boots rasping. A ghost against the pavement.
When I turned back to Monseñor, I saw it. His blood flowing in rivers, filling the streets. Rivers of blood pounding through San Salvador. People were screaming, people were shouting in silence as the rivers of blood roared through the city, deafening the saints.
Then the sirens ripped through the silence, came for his body.
When the rivers receded, the streets were stained red.
Although the chapel looked empty, it was not. You could hear Monseñor’s words still echo through the silence. Perhaps they had thought that one shot would be enough to silence his voice, the voice of the voiceless.
But they were wrong.
They did not know that one shot would be enough to free his soul, to unfurl it high above the crowds, free to sail, free to speak.
They did not know that his soul unshackled would rise above borders and shout their ugly truths throughout the world.
They did not know he would hold them to a mirror, haunt them until their death.
They never imagined that his unleashed spirit could comfort the people; that his bloodstained shroud could blanket them; that his silenced voice could grow louder than before.
On the day of his funeral, I went to Catedral. I moved with the crowds through the bloodstained streets. I reached Catedral with a wave of people and, as we surged into the building, I heard the shots. Shots ringing out through Catedral.
Then, again, I caught the gunman’s eye.
Shots and shouts broke through the crowd. People scrambled, people trampled, statues toppled. Death again, in Catedral.
And when I turned, I saw the statue cry.