The open black bag rests on the white ceramic floor. My dad had hauled the Kipling duffel out of the luggage closet and into my room. I'm taking this bag to the United States when I move there for college in a week. I'm sitting on my bed in Caracas, carefully considering my possessions. All my clothes are spread out on my duvet, awaiting my evaluation. They shimmer, as if putting on a little show to try to get me to choose them. The edges of my basic white tees blur like fog into my green sheets, my black jeans buzz, emitting a pleasing, soft, orange light. Alas, their auras don’t help me. I can’t discern what would be valuable for me in America. Because despite my determination to leave Venezuela, I don’t know how to determine today what I need for the rest of my life.

It is a warm weekend afternoon. I'm listening to Fall Out Boy; “Dance, Dance,” is on repeat. The
rhythmic bass from my computer reverberates and echoes in my room. I appreciate Dance, Dance,
because the vibrato of the singer makes me feel that his misery loves me too. I have it on so loud
I don’t understand why my parents haven’t come in and told me to shut it down. Maybe since I’m
the one doing the leaving, only I can hear the music.

The sun's ochre rays filter through my window's white metal bars. These beams light my empty
bag, accentuating the sheen of its acrylic fabric. Its open, empty center broods pitch black. The
darkness is inviting; it has a gravitational pull. That darkness parallels the pitch black of the
mosquitoes. When they fly over my bag, I can’t see them. They lazily ride the tiny tropical
thermals, waiting until they find the opportunity to pounce.

The bugs bite my body. I would wear additional layers, but it's too hot for that. These blue Lycra
shorts and red My Chemical Romance t-shirt keep me exposed but fresh. I hold on to the soothing
feeling that I am moving to a place where I believe they can no longer hurt me.

The injected toxins activate my brain. My neurons beam out a message. This message transmits
itself with every prick, a Morse code pierced into my skin:

There's poison inside you.

Tear it out.

Dig, baby, dig.

I scratch my forearms with increasing ferocity. The bass of my emo music fades with every swipe.
My half-eaten nails rasp against my dry skin, sounding like a knife dragging against a wooden
cutting board. The more I dig, the more I desire to dig. I am convinced my scratching will save
me.

In the waking world, my armpits sting with excess sweat, increasing the already high humidity
of my Caracas. My closed eyelids flutter at the frequency of the mosquitoes' buzz, evoking tiny
temblors in my dreamscape of a room. My sleeping throat contracts with every subconscious skin
penetration, making the white bars of my window quiver.

Someone else usually snaps me out of my mosquito-induced self-harm. But in this dream, I am
alone.

My packing becomes panicked. I am no longer careful about my clothing choices. There is no
planning for the future because there is no future that I can feel. There is only itching. Itching now.
Itching forever.

I gash my thighs, shred my forearms, plow past my dermis. My nails become bloodied. They stain
what I'm packing. My stuff — the silver-auraed, white button-down my mom says I should take,
the neon-flashing, blue jeans I know I'll fit into one day — becomes streaked in red.

I ruined my clothes. Did I ruin my future?

It doesn't matter now.

The only way out is through.

Dig, baby, dig.

In this dream, the duffel takes it all: shirts, shoes, desperation.

At the end of the dream, I throw myself into my bag. It's hard to fit, but once I'm in, I fall farther
than I expected. I land with a gentle thud. The interior of the bag is a cave, dark and dry. I thread
the metal zipper from the inside. I get on my toes to reach it. The duffel looks bigger from the
inside. I sit next to an unorganized pile of my ruined clothes. The cool, stale air quells my skin's
irritation.

My calm is short-lived. Respite makes me realize I can’t leave Venezuela. I won’t go to college in
the States. I'm constrained in this duffel. You can't leave if you’re trapped.

My heart begins to palpitate again. It is stuck in my body as I am stuck in this bag. I unhinge my
jaw as I call out: Sáquenme de aquí, I repeat, Get me out of here. The only thing I hear is myself
echoed back at me.

My throat is scarred by my efforts, forcing me into interludes of silence. It is there that I notice:
They're here.

I can hear them. I can hear them buzzing.

My husband wakes me mid-scream sixteen years later, a year after we disposed of that black
Kipling duffel. My heart rate lowers every time he tells me, It was just a dream.

Sólo un sueño, I tell myself.

My breath slows and expands, my ribs rippling against his right hand rubbing my midback. His
fingers emit currents of relief that soften my muscles.

It's a foggy San Francisco morning. There's a blue-tinted light creeping into our bedroom. I've
sweat through my shorts and Counting Crows t-shirt. I escape the damp sheets by getting up to
make coffee. My husband usually makes it, but I want to thank him for saving me from myself.

I smell the beans as they fall into the grinder. The kettle heats the water. I know to have patience
in this prep. If bean and liquid come together at just the right time, they will make the smoothest
drink.

As the percolator boils on the gas stove, I feel a pinch on my forearm. I slap my skin. I look at the
palm of my hand. I find bright blood, speckled alongside the black pieces of a dead mosquito.

Alexandra (she/her) was born and raised in Caracas, Venezuela. She writes about her experience migrating from Venezuela to the United States. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming from publications such as Phoebe, Sundog Lit, and The Columbia Journal, where she won the 2025 Winter Contest for non-fiction. You can find her online at aleclemente.com. She lives in the Bay Area in Northern California, where she is still bitten by mosquitoes.