The death toll has risen to 52. That's what the news says, news I'm not allowed to watch because my parents think I'm ignorant. I love my father, but when I look at him, I can't help but see the face of a murderer. Fifty-two is a small number compared to what happened five years ago. Six hundred people. How could he give the order to end the lives of so many innocent people? When I see the names, my heart shrinks. When I see the ages, I hate my father.
My relationship with him hasn't been the same for months. I used to say I was lucky to be born to hardworking parents, until my classmates at school began to turn on me. My final year became unbearable. I still had six months left before graduation, but I could no longer attend classes. If I did, I would probably be in danger.
Only two hours and thirty-six minutes remain before we know the results. My parents are confident: the opposition will lose again. I deleted my social media accounts a while ago. I only kept WhatsApp to stay in touch with Valeria. My only real friend, the one who sees through me without judgment.
At midnight, it's finally time. Time for the truth. The final results show 67% for the opposition. They have won with over seven million votes. I can see the worry on my mother's face, and I wonder why. I'm just sitting on one of the living room couches, eating Doritos, watching her grow increasingly paranoid. I can't quite hear what she's saying, but something's wrong.
Maybe I'll be able to go back to school, and no one will call me a "parasite" anymore. Maybe my life will return to normal. Maybe millions of Venezuelans will get their lives back, too. I wish I were a pilot, the one who brings them home on return flights. There it is, a thought that excites me, though I can't share it with anyone. I have to stay silent about what goes through my mind.
I'm only sixteen, but on nights like this, I feel so much older. My parents don't understand what it's like to carry the weight of a stained last name, of a reputation I never asked for. I wonder if someday I'll be able to escape, take control of my life, and fly far, as high and free as the planes I watch from my window.
The voices in the living room grow louder. My father is on the phone, his tone firm but worried. My mother watches him with a mix of fear and resignation. I close my eyes and picture myself in the cockpit of a plane, leaving all this behind. The thought makes me smile for the first time in weeks. I don't know how or when, but I know one day I'll leave.
Meanwhile, the clock keeps ticking. Two hours and thirty-six minutes, and now an uncertain future unfolds before us. Tomorrow will be a new day, and I'll be one step closer to my freedom. For now, all I can do is wait.
"Get up, Isa!" I heard my mother's voice in the distance. When I finally opened my eyes, I saw her face stained with tears.
"What's going on?" I asked, my voice hoarse.
"We have to go," she said. "Grab Lana and let's leave. Now."
"Where?" I asked, nervous.
"Don't ask questions. We need to leave."
"But why? What's happening?"
My father walked into my room and asked, "Ready?"
My mother took my hand and pulled me out of the room. I asked again:
"Where are we going?"
"No questions," my father said, his voice sharp.
I didn't understand. I held my little dog in my arms while both of my parents acted like lunatics. Then it hit me: karma was coming for us, just like my father had gone after opposition politicians. We were running. My father started the truck, and I remembered my phone.
"Mom, I left my phone. Give me a minute."
My father looked at me through the rearview mirror and said no. My life was about to change in the next sixty minutes.
When we arrived at the airport, it wasn't Simón Bolívar. Of course it wasn't. We ended up at a private military airport. How long had my father been planning this? We boarded one of the planes quickly. I recognized it immediately when I saw the control panel: a Pilatus PC-12.
"Sit down, Isabela," my mother said, breaking me out of my fascination.
I finally asked, "Where are we going?"
"Thailand," she replied.
"What?" I blinked, stunned. "Why would we go to that country?"
My mother avoided my gaze as she buckled her seatbelt. My father, seated up front, reviewed some documents and murmured with the pilot. I didn't get an answer. The entire plane was wrapped in tense silence, except for the steady hum of the engine and the rapid beat of my heart.
Why would my father take me away from the country I was born in? Venezuela had always been my home, even in the midst of chaos. But now, that chaos was chasing us, and I couldn't stop thinking: what had he done? What horrible things had he done to make us flee like criminals, barely five hours after his government fell?
I used to think I was ready to leave. I fantasized about studying abroad, exploring new cultures, starting over. But not like this. Not in panic and fear, leaving everything behind like our lives depended on it. Because maybe, they did.
I clung tighter to Lana, my little dog, who seemed just as confused as I was. Her small eyes searched mine for answers I didn't have. I tried to breathe deeply to calm down, but every thought only made my anxiety worse.
I'll always have to live with this, I thought. Live under the shadow of what my father did. No matter how far I run or how much I try to reinvent myself, there will always be someone who points at me, who blames me for the actions of a man I never chose to be my father.
And still... Thailand? Of all the places in the world, why that one?
God, I couldn't even learn Korean during my BTS-obsessed phase, how am I supposed to learn Thai? I can barely pronounce the name of the capital. Bangkok... Bankok... Who cares? My mind spun between panic and absurdity as I looked out the plane window. The city lights began to disappear beneath us, and with them, the life I'd always known.
I didn't know what waited for me on the other side of the world, but I did know one thing: the Isabela who got on this plane would never be the same one who got off. And as the aircraft climbed higher, pulling me farther from my homeland, I couldn't help but feel a deep, indescribable void. I was leaving behind my home, my language, my childhood dreams. And even though a small part of me desperately wanted this to be a chance to start over, another part knew I could never fully escape the weight of my past.
With my head against the window, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine a different future. But only one question echoed in my mind, over and over again:
How am I supposed to move on when I don't even know who I am without all of this?
The engine roared, the plane leveled out, and just like that, my exile began…
To a country where not even the words would understand me.