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Snippet #2718682

located in Tijuana, California, a part of Left Hand of God, one of the many universes on RPG.

Tijuana, California

Welcome to La Basilica, so far out in the Tijuana desert that nobody might hear you. Ever.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Nico Pastor Character Portrait: Friday Knapp Character Portrait: Jack Soto Character Portrait: Isa Nash Character Portrait: Knox Xanthi Character Portrait: Damon Soto
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first person POV ā™° 2016



Iā€™m blurry the way children get between naps, rubbing paunchy little fingers at their eyes. Iā€™m trying to sweep off last nightā€™s dust but I donā€™t think itā€™s worth it, because Iā€™m just going to fall back asleep anyway. On the edge of nineteen, I shouldnā€™t be sleeping the way a toddler does.

ā€œGet him on the fucking table!ā€ The noise is drowned by attempts at whispers. Shuffling. I figure Luca and his friends are drunk again. They mean no trouble. Just men of their devices. Iā€™m used to it; theyā€™ve practiced being quiet around the house. Luca doesnā€™t like to disturb me for the most part. Not that Iā€™ve ever minded. Recently, however, heā€™s gotten really p a r t i c u l a r about keeping out of my business. Or rather, making sure I donā€™t have an eye on his.

Light cuts through the shutters, hemorrhaging a reflective yellow onto the sterling crosses I hung up on the loose particle board of my bed frame. It does this every day. Morning. Sometimes dusk. Hits me dead in the face and thatā€™s it - thereā€™s no rest for myself, nor the wicked, I guess. Weā€™re all one in the same. Only human, much to the distaste of other worshippers. Whoops.

The sun has soon come to serve as an alarm clock of Godā€™s instrument, where my parents once stood and cooed in the doorway. Iā€™m so tired. But the work is never over. Whether theyā€™re here, or overseas, or scrubbing steel whisks up and down the robust oak of La Basilicaā€™s ground level. Iā€™ve taken up the ladder. Not as easy as they made it look.

In spite of the bible, regrettably, thereā€™s no glory in the morning. I hate it. Iā€™m not happy to see the old circular clockā€™s hour hand creeping on to 7AM. T h i s should be an original sin.

Gratitude should shine out of most peopleā€™s rear end when they wake up. Blessed to see another day. But Iā€™m a little less than thrilled to hear the pantry being assaulted, and even less to see the sun. What can I say? Sorry, Iā€™ve just never been a morning person. I make up for my dawn lethargy in substantial worship. Promise.

Silver is slung around my neck in very lazy preparation for yet another day. Thank you almighty Lord for this splendid gift. Amen. I loll at my bedroomā€™s entrance, scrounging with a single open hand to find my glasses by my good old book. I nearly bend the thin wire in my negligence, and donā€™t care much as long as I can see just what in the world is going on beneath me.

Banisterā€™s whiney against my waist, again I rub my eyes like a tyke and strain my ears. Itā€™s the only noise in this place that doesnā€™t belong to my brother or his gang of misfits. I hear a lot of shushing and sound swamped in quiet chiding. If I had to guess, it sounds like a drunken mess. But as I lean a little further and get under the frame of my glasses, incessantly rubbing, nosily listeningā€¦

ā€œHeā€™s gonna bleed,ā€ I hear Damon mention in that immune vernacular they only teach in medical schools.
ā€œCome on, come on,ā€ Luca exhausts, ā€œCĆ”llate la boca, Damon. Justā€¦ Fucking put pressure or something!ā€
ā€œGet it out of me!ā€ Who is that?ā€¦

ā€œGet it the fuck out of me!ā€

A blunt, inanimate din echoes in a short story. The house is a little too taciturn and eerie. Itā€™s sudden. My worst fears jump between horror movie plots and bad water in Mexico and Iā€™m wondering just how wild the night got for the boys below. They have no idea Iā€™m here. Itā€™s as if I donā€™t exist at all. Thereā€™s glass between us, and I havenā€™t bothered to look down because Iā€™ve been mostly indifferent and trying not to see sun spots this entire time andā€¦

Something cuts loose from my face, but not words or anxiety to spill from my mouth. Not concern. No. Itā€™s my glasses.

They follow the silence and the brusque noise and turn the place upside down. Clattering lackadaisically on the dining room floor, probably inches from someoneā€™s foot. I can feel everyone looking up. Ohā€¦ Shā€¦t.

Lord forgive me.

Now theyā€™re above me. I canā€™t tell how many there are, really. Staring into me, shocked that Iā€™m here like I havenā€™t lived in this house since conception. Same as my brother. But Iā€™m just some sad bug, flattened on a slide. Thatā€™s how it feels. ā€œNico,ā€ heā€™s feigning serenity and I can hear it distinctly, tongue caught on his teeth, like it used to be when we were kids. He had a stutter heā€™s since outgrown. It rears its pesky head when heā€™s in a pickle. ā€œIā€™m gonnaā€™ hack the stuff at the church today why donā€™t you take the day off? Hey or uh,ā€ he gives something hefty a pull. Something unconscious.

ā€œHey Neek what about that memorial park you wanted to volunteer at?ā€ Damon crops up. How he remembers things Iā€™ve only muttered while walking by, I have no idea. Heā€™s quick. Quicker than Luca, that way. Heā€™s saving Lucaā€™s behind, the vice and the versa. Childhood friendship evolved into brotherhood. We love him here, we always have. But whereā€™s that other voice I heard?? And what is Luca going to do at La Basilica on a Saturday? Yeahā€¦ Right.

I donā€™t ask questions. I donā€™t say a n y t h i n g. I just open my eyes, full as theyā€™ll go, and sort of cock my head and peer at the dining room table. Whose table cloth, FYI, is rumpled. Mom would go absolutamente loco if she saw that. Why wonā€™t I ask questions? I see the blood. All that blood. Dripping from the fringe, slow and thick, getting cold. Because I know for the secrets that Luca has to handle - oh man, Iā€™ve got a big one of my own. The wicked and the pious are all one breed. I donā€™t ask any questions. Judgment isnā€™t for me, itā€™s for God

ā€œIf you need my help, Luca,ā€ I fidget, nearly breaking my thumb nails on the baluster. Iā€™ve never seen that much blood. My knuckles turn white, ā€œD..Damon? I can help.ā€ What could I help? Is someone going to die? I feel sick. Iā€™ve got to help, but Friday isnā€™t just yesterday. Heā€™s my private sin. Heā€™s in the attached room upstairs. He counts on me to unlock the door and wake him up, and let him be more than just the weekend. Iā€™ve been keeping a promise to him and to God. How much more room can I make inside of my soul for all of these lost men? Itā€™s too big for my body, like a spirit pregnant without means to deliver.

There go I before the grace of Godā€¦

ā€œNo, Nico, itā€™s fine. We got it.ā€ Iā€™m not sure which one of them said it. But itā€™s enough to excuse me to expel my dinner. I push the pathetic lock of my bedroom door in and pray through wretches, knowing the wall separating myself and a l o n g weekend, is not thick enough to mask the noise. I house the excess. The way a church does for those who need guidance and a place to rest their heads. Only I am not the abbey, Iā€™m just a girl. A sort of inadequate home now that I mention it. An even more inadequate Catholic. Did I just turn a blind eye to murder? The doors on either side of the bathroom slip latches, creak on a side of the morningā€¦ That Fridayā€¦ Just doesnā€™t understand.

Heā€™s not humble. Tactful when called for, but more on the vain side of my sect. A vital force that leaves a rippling wave of pigment that I really could not ignore. Like - I, just had to touch that brilliant color. My childhood chaplain makes it comparable to snakes and the devil. Theyā€™re so very beautiful and charming, arenā€™t they? I revert, cajole myself into thinking no matter how difficult or how harlequin, we all harbor a human soul.

I try to drown the impression that 7AM has made on me. Mouthwash doesnā€™t cut it, so I brush my teeth until my gums spit cherry pits back at my reflection. Pat my face with a damp rag. Roll my eyes at what heā€™ll say. I know heā€™s waking up, Knapp from his nap. Iā€™m buzzing on a short circuit and I feel like I could flicker out of this world. As if I were a mosquito clapped up by an open palm, ā€œPlease be quiet,ā€ I whisper and angle my elbows. Clutch the sink, ā€œPlease just be so, so quiet, this morning.ā€ I know I look like the very ugly side of insomnia. I slept very well, thank you. I was rudely awakened so you seeā€¦..

Leave out the blood.

When he peeks, so kindred to maybe what he used to look like, a child curious and eager to come out and play, Iā€™m swallowing a lump in my throat. It bobs in my chest. I donā€™t think heā€™s ever seen me like this. Me neither.

I imagine what he must have been like as a kid. But reality rips me from the false apparition of an angel. ā€œWeā€™re not going to the church today.ā€ Declaration from my usual multiple choice. He wonā€™t like it. But we are not going t h e r e. We may even climb out my window, now. His gaze is as extensive and intimidating as the Pacific. Asking questions, demanding answers without utilizing any precious energy he pulled from sleep. He doesnā€™t think Iā€™m worth it. Iā€™m used to it, because half the time, I wonder if I should have ever helped him. My Father is my courage and my devotion, and so I give unto.

Snowfall is equivalent to his hair, even when itā€™s a mess from being choked by a pillow. Plush and youā€™d want to touch it whether it fell from heaven or grew out of Fridayā€™s head. So blond itā€™s white. Heā€™s pale, but not too pale - just the kind of porcelain that blushes soft pink when you press it to hold hands. Jaw turns into a scored piece of marble when heā€™s thinking. When heā€™s displeased on his illusory throne. Iā€™m the textbook definition of a schoolgirl in his description. But believe me when I say, he is every bit the force to be reckoned with. I know this. And I keep a l o t of distance between us. He judges me and he invites me. Iā€™m not the first Catholic in his arsenal, even if he didnā€™t tell me that. I can tell thereā€™s a tickle of nostalgia he gets when heā€™s close to me. Itā€™s his cross to bear. Not mine. Iā€™m no Eve. My mama didnā€™t raise no fool.

I love him, because Iā€™m supposed to.

Heā€™s been here a couple weeks beneath the radar. My compassion gauge ticks on empty frequently around him and his mouth. His teeth could cut steel. Tongue, diamonds. But somebody dumped him in this place for me to find. God Bless California.

ā€œFriday, please stop looking at me like that.ā€ Iā€™m out of breath still from the contents of my stomach clogging my wind pipe. ā€œWeā€™ll do something fun,ā€ Iā€™m masking the chaos worse than my brother, and Friday is thinking, ā€œYour idea of fun makes suicide sound like a bouncy castle.ā€ It causes me to pull at my shirt. He never made me uncomfortable. But his flinty scrutiny is making me want to confess to murders I donā€™t even know happened. I imagine, this is how anyone feels even casually interacting with Friday. It gets him off. So now, heā€™s looking more pleased than judgmental. Fit for a thorn crown rather than his jewels if you ask me. Conceit is a sin. I havenā€™t gotten him to repent.

Yet, thereā€™s an understanding between us. He softens and scrapes me with his inquiry but doesnā€™t step a foot onto the tile. ā€œItā€™s okay.ā€ I tell him. ā€œTheyā€™re so distracted they probably wouldnā€™t even notice you, today.ā€ Iā€™m just as tired as he is on a good day, which is not at all normal. even he knows that. ā€œIā€™ve been thinking.ā€ Try to distract from the obvious.

ā€œI could just make you up a room at the church instead of here. Itā€™s less risky and you wonā€™t be forced to be around me so much. As much, really.ā€ Careful about my words. I wouldnā€™t want it to look the wrong way. Like I'm maybe covering up a homicide.

Fridayā€™s expression shifts before she even finishes speaking, a here and gone irritation strong enough to promise a Biblical Plague. Displeased. /Displaced/. Heā€™s taken up residence in the back of her mind more than in her home, a vice grip on her spinal cortex. Sheā€™s as aware that heā€™s pulling at her strings as he is.

He /wants/ to be here. The first thought she has between her morning prayer and her brothers sins. As consistent and constant as her faith. Her face doesnā€™t always match her words, but he canā€™t get any closer to see the distinction. Thereā€™s a threshold he canā€™t cross - /leave space for Jesus/. One day, heā€™ll burn that bridge down.

He resists the temptation to fold his arms least the distinction causes her back to draw up tight. /No paths have been cut yet, Friday, take a deep breath./ ā€œForced,ā€ he repeats, southern lift softening his tone from the knife that it could be. ā€œIs that how /you/ feel, darlinā€™?ā€
--Written for Friday as played by CharlotteV

For a moment I want to reach out and touch the vitality thatā€™s been taunting me over a course of weeks. I wonder whoā€™s the serpent and whoā€™s the charmer. If itā€™s time to deliver bad news, or good. He plucks at me like fine ivory looped on maple wood. From what I can tell, Iā€™m not quite singing the song he wants to hear. He tightens the strings and brings that bow across me slow and steady, ā€œDarlinā€™.ā€ My thumb grazes the glossy crucifix. Bad news, or good news.

How about a house blend?

Physical dominions close no space between us, but he narrows us up real analytically just with a few words. I donā€™t think heā€™s evil incarnate the way another god fearer would. But I can see the devil dancing behind blue, when it shines opal and stares at me. The sun catches him better than I, but I know heā€™d rather be asleep. My hair is all dark and a mess, so I cut the staring contest with a glance to the mirror. I see a reduced pupil of Christ masquerading in about a buck seventeen of thin skin. Shoulder bones tipping up into white fabric to match the collar of my body. I think of how Luca used to tease me and say Iā€™d never grow into any shape, much less a womanā€™s. The girl in the glass has augmented since high school, and sometimes I donā€™t know how to face her like this. A virgin who feels guilty even buying a lace bra because itā€™s the last one in her size. Grasping a cross and dithering on the other side of sepia opticals. I donā€™t ask questions, let alone question God and what heā€™s given me. ā€œWell if you had another choice you wouldnā€™t be here.ā€

Feebly smiling I might as well lay like a rug, but I donā€™t tend to get walked on easily. I only have too much patience. A surplus for Friday. Because heā€™s meant to be good, as Iā€™m first to Sunday. I know that test pilot sort of timbre he uses when talks. Signifies that Iā€™m walking a rope that could fray or be pulled to balance me out. Drop me or clock my piece of mind a little longer, Iā€™m getting a little better at playing the game of wit with Mr. Knapp.

But as nice of a distraction as it is to whatā€™s going on downstairs, I have to cut it short. The rood is pendent, loose from my tapered throat. Relinquished in a way that might look like surrender. Truth of it is, Iā€™m just not afraid of Friday. God is always looking out for me, but I look out way better for handsome dressed darkness in my doorway. ā€œDonā€™t look so sour, Viernes, es porque me importa. I donā€™t know how much more I can do for you here. I could take better care at the church.ā€ And itā€™ll look a lot less suspicious when Luca finds out about you. Fully.

Iā€™ve practiced not feeling small in the company of men. Luca taught me that. Dad sort of instilled in me that men are my superior, but Mom was a little more lax and feminist-influenced. Luca latched on to that. He gets to talking and knows how to make you feel small, but it isnā€™t ruled by any bias. Luca is a demanding presence. Sometimes he tells me that not even I should shudder in the shadow of God. I turn it over in my mind, thinking hard enough to grind my teeth into fine meal when Friday digests my native tongue.

He can read her better than anyone heā€™s ever come across. A good Catholic, a /true/ Catholic, has no need for secrets or deceptions. Sheā€™s an open book, a vibrant promise. Which means that now, the way sheā€™s dancing around him, up all the balls of her toes to keep from causing damage, sheā€™s carefully misplacing weight not just on his bomb, but someone else's.

He canā€™t smell blood, but that doesnā€™t mean it isnā€™t there. The curiosity for her thinly veiled antics causes his own raging storm to calm. The truth is. Itā€™s too early. Heā€™s still more tired than her. Thereā€™s a ring on his thumb, forgotten silver from a forgotten time, and he spins it now while he thinks. Considers.

Sheā€™s not wrong.

If he had another choice.

But here he is, and the bed is made, and the monster has taken up permanent residence underneath it. The stories begin to form in his mind, flesh out, take a life of their own. /Who is he, where has he been, who does he know?/

Oh, the answer to that? A Pastor.

He seeā€™s her play, but he thinks itā€™s okay. ā€œItā€™s fine,ā€ he says, and if he clips the letters a little, well, itā€™s only /because he cares/. ā€œIā€™ve always liked church."
-- Written for Friday as played by CharlotteV

Good thing, too.

Because Iā€™m trying to figure out how I would gently reject him over again if he got closer than a few feet. Thereā€™s been a couple walls between us - and if we creep up on a month of borrowed time on my brotherā€™s timepiece, we might just be pushing it. Sometimes I donā€™t sleep at night knowing Fridayā€™s there. Worse, knowing heā€™s awake. Thinking the same thing. I forced a gap and plugged it with doorknobs and gentle knocks after he first went to smooth a lock of my hair. I saluted his false prayers knowing well they carried little weight. The memory hangs onto the church and leaks through the stained glass, its own color when Tijuanaā€™s eventide kisses it just right. It weighs on me when Iā€™m at the pew.

ImageIt was about the sixth day weā€™d spent together, him in my voluntary keeping. La Basilica needed weeding and I felt like the buckets were better used for sweat than dried dandelions. Friday attested it and told me he could never look at me the same after seeing me knuckle deep in cow waste, fertilizing scorched soil. Telling me it was hopeless. Refusing to touch the stuff. But he locked onto me that day, when he was taken with my hair for some reason. I think thatā€™s when he got his claws in me. His hands were softer than mine, probably manicured too. He took to a section of pesky hair that had frizzed free in my labor. The California sun can make the strongest women weak, but so could a fallen star.

He was so close. If Iā€™d not known better I would have leaned into it. But I put him carefully down and nudged his digits with my clean elbow, considerate. After that he didnā€™t try again, just strangled a motion of his Adamā€™s apple in thought, murmured about leaving room for Jesus. The usual ridicule to light up his hardened expression.

The blood I saw downstairs rattles the reverie. By the time Iā€™m back to the present world, Friday is watching me from my window sill. Unimpressed by my methods. Soon weā€™re to La Basilica and heā€™s complaining of the heat in the atrium but I reiterate his fondness of the church to shut him up. He asks why we're here when I told him we wouldn't be coming here. But there's no other place to go.

I bow my head, I break my posture, and plead forgiveness for my brotherā€™s trespasses, and a little extra for my own.

Harmony is fleeting the same way happiness is. I know it by life itself. The peace is cracked like china when I hear familiar disarray at the front of the church, and there is Luca. Damon. Jack, with a whole lot of ACE wrapped around his trunk. Thereā€™s been no regard for moral law, but at least Jack is standing on his own. It looks like a ball has been wedged up under his skin between his eye and mandible, threatening to rupture more than just a bruise. ā€œCome on Nico what the fuck!ā€ Luca almost whines, ā€œI told you to take the day off.ā€ Instinctively I drag myself to my feet disorderly, pin myself in front of Friday. Itā€™s the first time weā€™ve ever touched, and thereā€™s a gun in my brotherā€™s hand.

Heā€™s too pensive to notice the peculiar timing. Or that my ā€˜apprenticeā€™ has been around a little too much. Luca draws a vascular hand up to his furrowed brow, pistol dangling from his index, clearly more distressed than Damon is about his own brother. ā€œJust open up the basement,ā€ Jack blurts, and I can tell that Damon AND Luca think about socking him cold another time, ā€œI need some fucking Percs and Iā€™ll be fine in a few hours to work.ā€

I didnā€™t even know Jack had a job. Bewildered, I blink incessantly and wait for some sort of additional commentary. Luca glances between me and the century old rug, folds it up and drops to his knees. Swaps prayers for a passcode on a stout lock. ā€œDonā€™t worry,ā€ he grunts and yanks up a hidden subsurface, ā€œIā€™m gonnaā€™ have this filled over the summer.ā€ What he didnā€™t tell me then, was that he was going to build a new entrance in the back, and integrate a whole staircase as well as a heavy burnished ruby door. A supplement of sin to our familyā€™s pride and joy.






ļ¼°ļ¼²ļ¼„ļ¼³ļ¼„ļ¼®ļ¼“ ļ¼¤ļ¼”ļ¼¹
Fiestas Patronales de San Salvador, August 3rd, 2017
third person POV


ImageWith the last day of an Americanized las fiestas agostinas upon La Basilica, the place was swarming with souls. The churchā€™s doors were taped over with murals of the patron saint and opened for unsecured celebration. Nico had been working for weeks to take up seasonal hires just for the festival alone, employing a dutiful dozen of new preachers. They flowed even and accommodating, each to a booth both indoors and out. Dipping roses in holy water and taking confessions. Families danced in the courtyard at day, made their devotions and offerings at night. Everything felt and appeared alright.

One of the traveling clerics favored leather to traditional cottons, and Nico didnā€™t knock him for it as much as Luca did. He was good in his word and following of the Lord. But, so much wasnā€™t enough for men like Luca. Nico shoved him off the walkway when he wanted to start again, whispering, ā€œYou leave Father Xanthi alone and mind your business Luca. Heā€™s doing his job.ā€ And so instead, her brother b-lined for Friday, with Damon in tow knowing Damon wanted no part of it. Friday was newly accepted as a fixture of the unholy/holy stable. Nico capitulated, let it happen. He was good enough to defend himself now, even if heā€™d rather ten minions fall before him the way followers went before God. Even if heā€™d rather Nico keep herself perennial on the altar in his honor. Or anyone else thick enough to crumble. The smart ones might blink enough to think itā€™s worth it, looking at snow white hair in midday. A smirk that looked tacked in place and too sureā€¦

But, the digression.

She wove through the guests of the church under the sun, and passed by Xanthi in heedful gratitude. His southern sense of humor and sort of flat satire was faring well with visitors and, so far, had pulled some of the most generous donations. She nodded at his homily, not sure how he kept proclaiming under dark garb. It was hotter than hā€¦

Her lightweight frock clipped at the sand, and was threaded in custom-stitched flowers both gold and indigo. Part of her detested the exposure, and the other half exalted in the liberation of having an excuse to wear so little in comparison to in-house wear. Not that anyone really cared. Not when there were fetish fanatics snapping garters and whips on the other side of the good old homestead, melting condoms for fun in a declaration of sadism. She twitched at the thought of Blue naked. Or giving himself to anyone. Wondered if he was hustling a trick or wearing a little more than usual and coming out to see the revelries like he said he would. Nico didnā€™t try to succeed over any of the undergroundā€™s beliefs, but she really did like to try to keep them fed. She cooked almost every night and sent it downstairs. With Fiestas Patronales, there was significantly more for consumption on the top half, feasts of gazpacho, grilled corn, paella and cured meats. Theyā€™d be eating good. So where was that Blue, and where was Jack?ā€¦

ImageSophie skirted the festivities as per usual, helping how she could. Sheā€™d bob in and out of the crowd and kept reasonably busy. Nico kept an eye out for her habitually, like it had become her job to keep Sophie away from the red door. Everyone knew why that was.

In lieu of committed assistance to the family name, Luca pulled up a few new girls from the thirsty dirt of God knows what town(s) in California or over. They compliantly signed over their hearts and disappeared behind the red door. Nico really hoped he was smitten. He had his eye on a rolling stone though. Sheā€™d blown in at the first day of Fiestas, with a burlap bag and sunglasses on. Tawny, medium height, named Isa. No evidence yet of where she came from or why. Sort of lingered around in a manner that made Nico itch, like she should be worried that someone was investigating and sent in the most unassuming girl they could find. Nico didnā€™t want to risk losing her family. Losing the church. She needed to have a better scoop on what was up.

She approached with absurd and abrupt poise, or lack thereof, ā€œHi. Isa. Nico, Iā€™m the ownerā€™s daughter. We met a couple days ago. I havenā€™t heard from you since I set you up with a cot, are you enjoying your time?ā€