@kmmba : ’ mmph . ’ the eyes of god narrow as he huffs, the deep sound of it seemingly subtle with displeasure. his precious expectations have been proved incorrect, and though he could have lingered about in the silence, he dares to nevertheless speak, his visage betraying nothing. ’ no marbles today, boy? ’ no other silly little toys he so desperately wanted to show them? tsk!
〈 ♙ *〉┊ The boy is uncharacteristically quiet as he joins nigh-silent god. He attempts a smile, but it’s a pinched little thing that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Rather than offer adoring gaze and babbling words, he shuffles nervously. Occasionally, he’ll look across the gully and into the village dotting the valley below. Smoke rises from the center. It’s almost unnoticeable at first, with how it blends into the gloomy hues of the overcast sky. A funeral pyre, he’d heard an anxious mother call it as he had snuck out. For one of this first times in his life, curiosity hadn’t won out. He had slipped away before he could hear her say anything else on the matter. After all, he already knew what was being burned. All he wanted was to be away from it, before he smelled what was burning. There was only one place far enough that he could think of. One place and one person.
“No,” he answers glumly, keeping gaze downcast. “I got in trouble, so abuela took my marbles. And my slingshot. She even took Mullido. Eh– that’s my cotton doggie.”
He frowns down at the scratch marks still puffed up on the sides of his palms. He can’t recall ever seeing his grandmother so furious with him. So fearful. Her words still rang in his ears, so loud, so very loud. Even though he had walked all the way here with his hands cupped over his ears, he still hears her. She has said mean things to him before while angry. Usually she gripes about him toting stuffed toys and dolls around with him wherever he goes, saying that most boys his age would gladly let go of them to go play with real dogs and real cats instead. The one time he had pointed out that their village had neither, he was promptly smacked.
But this was… different. His mother, who normally stepped in to calm them both, had only stood with her back pressed against the wall, openly weeping into her flour-dusted apron. And his abuela– his grouchy but dearly loved abuela –had lashed out like a frightened kitten. ‘Who raised you to be so gluttonous, baboso? Certainly not me, certainly not your mother! Give me that– give it to me!’ Her blunt nails had caught on his hands as he’d yelped and tried to yank his favorite plush away, terrified of losing its softness and its comfort. Where else would he find any? He couldn’t go up to his brother. If his brother even so much as smelled the unholy blood that had remained smeared all across his lips, then he might fall ill again. Unclean things couldn’t get near his brother. Unclean things were supposed to stay outside. Unclean things were only to be eaten when he was told to do so.
A quavering little huff blows from the boy’s stuffy nose. He sniffles and swipes at it with red-tinged fingers. “I was just hungry.” He knots the him of his shirt in his hands, twisting, pulling. “I didn’t even eat that much. I just– I hadn’t eaten since…. and he was… he… I…”
An uncomfortably warm breeze sweeps across the little valley, kicking up dust and ripping through the murky water of the pond beneath them. He hunches his shoulders against it, shrinking in smaller than he already was. The visage of god’s sandal-clad feet blurs as his eyes start to burn. He swallows. His stomach rumbles. He slaps his hands back over his ears, whining as that sound, too, joins the echoing of his grandmother’s rebuke. Eyes squeeze shut so tight light bursts behind heavy lids. The image of a torn open chest sears through the darkness. His hand dips into it. Cracks bone like he would so easily crack an otter pop in the middle of the summer heat. Finds bright pink, bright crimson, shoves it into his salivating mouth. More more more. He needs more if he’s going to stay like this. More. More. They like him this way they love him this way they call him a blessing they call him their little angel they love him he wants to stay wants to stay wants to stay–
Tears the color of honey drip from the corners of the boy’s tightly shut eyes. An ugly, choked noise gurgles up in his throat. He rubs the backs of his hands against his face, doing little more than smearing the evidence of his sins across his cheeks. The thing that looks like a boy blinks his eyes open slowly. The sight of the god’s face, ever so stony, ever so distant, makes his stomach heave. Then growl again.
“I’m sorry,” the thing that looks like a boy and cries like a boy whimpers, “I ate ‘for I was s’pposed to. So I couldn’t bring things to play with.” A pitiful sob. Teeth too sharp, eyes too bright, heart aching and full and empty. The thing that looks like a boy and cries like a boy and fears like a boy pleads with the only god he’ll ever know. “Abuela said I’m turning into a demon. She said that’s what bad angels do. You don’t wanna be near a demon, do you? Am– am I a demon, tio?”
