image [https://i.imgur.com/cZTUer5.png]
At the curb that sat right in front of Mercy’s house, I gave Cleo’s hair another quick ruffle, nearly getting my hand ensnared in the tangled curls her hat left behind.
“Alright, I’m lettin’ you loose— now you go on in there and get right to work on your homework,” I said. “I didn’t spend my whole afternoon staring at junk so you can half-ass your little story about your new best friend, Molten Lava Man.”
Cleo unbuckled her seatbelt. “Maybe if you read my paper, you’ll be a little more cultured.”
The arrogance of this kid, I thought, but I couldn’t help but laugh. She was lucky she had big eyes like a goldfish and that Mercy didn’t believe in using la chancla on her - that had to be why she was so mouthy all the time.
“Okay, mocosa, we can argue about art another time. Maybe after I read your paper.” With the press of a button, I unlocked the car door. “You’ll have to forgive me if I take a while to read it, though, since I’ve just learned from you that I’m borderline illiterate.”
Her eyes glistened hopefully. “… Would you actually read it though? Like, seriously?”
“Uh… sure. You write it, I’ll read it,” I lied. “And if you work hard and get a good grade on it, I’ll take you shopping. My treat.”
“What?! Really?!” With a squeal, Cleo bounced up and gave me a hug from the passenger’s side. “You’re the best! I love you, Tío! I’ll make you proud!”
“Love you too,” I replied, coughing from the tightness of her hug. “Be good.”
As Cleo bounded out of the truck, Mercy had been on her way out to the mailbox. When she saw us, she came right up and gave Cleo a kiss on her forehead, waving to me afterward. Stepping softly on the sidewalk, she leaned herself against the door and I rolled the window open for her.
“Hey, you!” Mercy said, eyes crinkling at the sight of me. “Did you two have fun?”
“Well… she did,” I replied, rubbing my nose. When I looked a little closer at Mercy, I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow.
Though it was chilly outside, all Mercy had on was a fluffy bathrobe, a pink nightgown older than Cleo, and raggedy slippers. Her nameplate necklace sparkled against her collarbone as it always did, but what caught my eye was that her face was unusually made up. I was so used to seeing her with only lip balm that when her under-eye circles mysteriously disappeared and her eyelashes seemed to grow a few inches, it was almost a little jarring.
“You sure look dolled up for an afternoon at home,” I said curiously. “Did I miss something?”
Mercy glanced away a little bashfully, but if she was blushing, her makeup concealed it.
“Wow, look at you!” Cleo chirped, looking over Mercy herself. “Does this mean you’re gonna go see Luke tonight after all?”
Clearing her throat, Mercy cupped Cleo’s cheek and gave it a pinch, her bracelets clinking against one another. “Nenita, why don’t you go show Abuela what you got at the museum, mm? Her next show won’t be on for another hour…”
Cleo had no time to make an objection; with a guiding little push on her back, Mercy motioned for Cleo to go inside, and it sent her scurrying off into the house straight away to avoid a possible lecture. After the front door shut, Mercy turned back to me and folded her arms against the car door.
“So…” I flipped my sunglasses up onto my head. “I guess I did miss something?”
“No, not really, it’s, um… Luke, he’s just…” Mercy sighed, waving her hand in the air. “Just some guy I met at the office Christmas party a few weeks back. We hit it off, but it’s not like it’s something serious. We’ve only been on a couple of dates.”
“It’s been a while since you’ve brought any guys around, though,” I remarked. “I was starting to think maybe you’d given up on men completely… or that you’d hit menopause super early.”
“What?!” Mercy’s face scrunched up in a cross between a frown and a grin. “Look, unlike some people, I have more important things in my life to prioritize than getting laid.”
“Well, hopefully breaking that dry spell goes well for you,” I said; I wondered if my voice sounded as flat as it felt. “Make him take you someplace real nice, okay?”
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“As long as it’s fancier than Whataburger, I’ll be fine.” As if to prove something to herself, she flexed her fingers in front of herself, her short, pink nails shining back at her. “I’m not exactly high maintenance.”
“That’s what chicks always say.” I reached up toward the sunglasses resting atop my head and brought them back down over my eyes. “Then when we take you to a food truck where you gotta eat with your hands, suddenly we’re getting that ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ conversation. I been down this road before, Benz… don’t let him make the same mistakes I’ve made.”
“Goodbye, Manny,” she said emphatically, rolling her eyes as she pushed herself off of the car door. Then she smiled, lips shimmering from their gloss. “Drive safe.”
Once Mercy had gotten off of my truck, I locked the doors behind her and waved at her one last time before taking off back towards my apartment complex. After a few more miles down the road, the warmth inside the cab had all but vanished, leaving behind a lonesome chill.
In an effort to escape it, I flipped on the radio, but it made no difference.
･ ･ ･
That night, I struggled not to toss and turn in bed.
Every time I closed my eyes, my heart hammered fiercely in my chest, like it was trying to break free of my body completely. Something about the darkness of my room only worsened that sense of foreboding within me, but even though I lived alone, I was too proud to leave the light in the hallway on, ashamed to admit that a fear of the dark could’ve lived on as long as it had. Somehow it felt better to lie in my sweat, pulse racing, stomach twisting.
When it seemed that my fear outweighed my fatigue, I patted my nightstand to find my phone, and the fluorescence of its screen made my eyes burn until they adjusted. Just over half past 0300… so I’d already wasted four hours tossing and turning, and for what?
Reaching for the chain of my lamp, I gave it a tug and bathed the room in a warm yellow light. The first thing I noticed was my medication, but it had continued to remain untouched; I kept telling myself I’ll take it tomorrow, but it’d been nearly three weeks now. The uneasiness of seeing it was enough to propel me out of my bed and out of my room completely.
Like a sack of bricks, I sank into the cushions of my couch, staring dead-eyed ahead at the TV screen in front of me. My search for something to watch was half-hearted: watching something new felt like an intimidating investment, but watching reruns felt like circling the drain. And truthfully, I was tired of living things over and over again, suffering from my own personal Groundhog Day every time I went to bed.
At least with Feliz, there was a grim finality in his death. I felt his blood on my hands, watched the light leave his eyes. But I wasn’t granted that same kind of closure with—
Gun shots.
Bending forward on the couch, I dragged my hands from the back of my head to down my face, covering my eyes. I didn’t want to think of him or Feliz, but as soon as he crossed my mind, a switch in my mind flipped.
Like a mirage—
Worse than reliving it in my sleep was reliving it when I was awake. Sweat began to trickle down my forehead, and my stomach churned painfully. What was that thing Dr. Oh had talked about at one point? Breathing exercises? I wasn’t sure how breathing in a rhythm was supposed to help, but I had to try, right?
Breathe in.
He hits the dirt with a scream.
Breathe out.
Eyes, wet with tears.
Breathe in.
Leave me…
Breathe out.
Ten years I’d spent hurting over him, but it was different from the scars that Feliz had left behind: it was a lonesome, hopeful hurt that led right to my core. The uncertainty of his fate made it impossible to feel as if I could ever truly close the door behind me.
But like digging through flesh to tear out a splinter, it was something that had to be done. No pain, no gain, right?
Moving my body off the couch took concentrated effort, but I pushed myself until I got to the closet in the hallway. After a few minutes of rooting around in the dark, I pulled out a guitar case that had been buried back there for ages, jerking it out from underneath boxes of junk. I hadn’t looked at it in so long, a fine layer of dust had accumulated on top of it.
The more grounded I became in the world around me, the easier it was to get back to the couch with the guitar in tow. When I unlocked the case, the sight of the guitar steadied my breath in only a second.
Despite the ravages of time, the guitar was still in great condition - probably because I never used it. Even when I thought to, I held a strange fear of it, as if it would act as a time machine and teleport me back to Afghanistan. I could still see his hands on it, birthmark twitching across his knuckles as he plucked each string.
In my chest, my heart weighed heavily, but it was good to see it. Bittersweet. I hadn’t even looked at it in who knows how long because it always made me think of him, and thinking of him always made me think of Feliz. But this time, I wanted to.
My eyes roved across the grain of the wood until landing on the bottom half of it. His initials were still engraved clearly upon it, but the little wear and tear it had made the edges of the letters sharp and hostile. Still, it didn’t stop me from running my fingers along them, unafraid of cuts or splinters.
The pad of my thumb looped around the curve of the R, pausing along the lower swoop of the S before trailing back up the guitar’s neck. With one last breath, I strummed my fingers across the strings, and just the way it resonated brought me back.
And for once, I decided, this was going to be a good thing.