꧁ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥 ꧂
when: late. past ten-year-old bright-eyed lucía’s bedtime-late. the air’s been colored sweet by the scent of deserts, and the laughter of the oblivious sprinkles the comfortable silence. it’s quiet, far too quiet.
where: primordial auto shop. an old home, an old friend / hospital
𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: gun violence, injury, blood, food/drinking mention, hospital(s)
The common saying "the more, the merrier" remained true and very much alive the more people seemed to pour in through the doors. The scent of cinnamon and grilled meat colored the air heavy, and to Lucia, the song playing in the back had interwoven so seamlessly into the nonchalant conversations and breathy chuckles that it now sounded more like a hymn of the south itself.
Lucía herself did not know what to make of these gatherings - the current one, especially. It wasn't every day that a get-together of this magnitude was held, but then again, the dates as special as this one were few and far between. Even then, she could not feel as though Cronus Thane's ghost were looking over the event. It was impossible not to, given that this was the act of commemorating his creation, to celebrate his legacy. Once a portal was opened, ghosts were bound to come through whether they wanted it or not.
She's hopped from conversation to conversation - none of them involving the person she'd rather be talking to. If anything, today felt somewhat more unique solely due to all the tension in the background. But now, Lucía was impatient. She'd avoided the food table as if she were still waiting for the host, or the special guest, to come in before they could feast.
In a way, she was.
Parties were fun until they weren't. She must've lost track of time. Somewhere between the toast and the desert, everything had muffled, moments easing and overflowing like the mixed pigments in a painter's palette. She looked at her phone, the last call to one of the Trojan members. The conversation played in her head again.
"They're having a party at the auto shop."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. Come now, and come prepared. It could use some entertainment."
The only thing she was able to distinguish was the screeching of tires, the subsequent smell of burnt rubber. For a moment, Lucía allowed herself to think that the event had altogether become more entertaining. The more the merrier, right? And who else was there to invite than the old family? Lucía playfully thought that the invitations had gotten lost. But Cronus was six feet under, so cold he surely would not care. The remaining Primordials, however...
The shots marked the time like the ticking of a clock, the falling empty caskets mirroring calm wind chimes. The weight of her own weapon weighed against her skin, swaying inside the pocket of her leather cut like a pendulum. But she hadn't drawn her weapon, and she doubted she would. Where would her aim fall? Who would her targets be? Whoever she aimed for would make her look bad. Aim for Knox, send the Trojans after her. Aim for Andy or Anthony, give herself away. If anything, she did what she so often did: she watched. In the chaos and confusion, it was hard. Leather did not darken or damp due to the crimson. It was messy, and she loathed messy. But if she knew something, Lucía knew news would be waiting for them the morning after.
She visualized herself moving toward the closest exit, ending up unmaimed and successfully avoiding getting caught in the cross-fire. And she tried. The cupboards, stools and auto were her aegides throughout the way. She had gotten far quickly when she felt hot. It hit her like a wave somewhere in the back, close to her shoulder, flowering and spreading like ripples in water. Then a second one in the leg. Boom. Gotcha, she thought. Instinctively, she felt to the ground, uttering some curses as the denim surface dampened with hemoglobin. It was suddenly so cold, so cold she shivered. Her shaky hands clutched onto the leather, although her fingers proved to be too weak to hold on for long. Fucking bullshit. She wasn't supposed to become a casualty (not that she would, no. She'd drag whatever motherfuckers she could along with her if it came to that, but she was nowhere near done with her time yet). But suddenly she felt so sleepy, and her kids were getting heavier and heavier and everything felt so smooth and cozy and warm... She felt like a child in every sense, refusing to fall asleep. Growing up, she watched movies on their old cracked screen where the hero would get injured, and his friends would carry him an hold his hand. He'd be rushed through the ER, and someone in the back shouted that they were losing him. It felt so miserable not to be allowed that. Didn't she deserve something better? Something larger and kinder? No, none around here did, not when they were so willing to draw their arms and aim for their old brothers and sisters. She felt stupid for even feeling worthy of any kindness. But kindness was not the same as greatness, and it stung her how utterly shitty and stupid it would be for her to die in an auto shop while some shitty off-key country song remained stuck in her head. But maybe that's as big as she would get. When she had extended the invitation to Rhea's secret gathering over to the Trojans she wasn't expecting to get screwed over in any way.
Maybe it wouldn't hurt to take a nap now. Something to top this whole shitshow, like a cherry on top or something along that saying. Everything around her felt blurry and devoid of color. She closed her eyes, lights flashing on the back of her eyelids. And she slept, thankful to a strange, vulnerable extent that she was finally allowed to rest. It felt like a hug, like the welcome of an unseen yet familiar acquaintance. She of colors, like mauve and puce, then electric blue and poppy red. Her head went quiet before she felt as though she were being jolted awake, hoisted and shoved by an invisible tide. She found it unsettling to wake up in a different room, walls the same blinding shade of white as lilies, or the surface of the moon. Her eyes moved about the room while a distant beep increased in speed. The chemical smell made her want to throw up right then. Her limbs felt heavy and rigid, like she had been pulled apart and put back together carelessly and in the dark. Her ribcage burned, aching for air that wasn’t tinted with that fucking odor, or like it’d been stuffed with cotton. She didn’t feel light, or free, or changed; she felt fucked, and screwed, and stepped on.
God, if this ‘hangover’ wasn't turning out to be shittier than she'd expected. She'd never had anything against gatherings, or parties, but now the odd mixture of numbness and sharp, intense pain on her back and leg insisted on making her change her mind. She wondered if hospital food were to be as bad as it was made to be, and loathed thinking about the eventual bill in the mail. Maybe it was true: all snitches got were stitches. The only thing she desperately hoped was to be met with some good news from the Trojans in exchange for this inconvenience. She would be pissed had the fucking shots not been worth it in the end.
