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first person POV ā° 2016
Iām blurry the way children get between naps, rubbing paunchy little fingers at their eyes. Iām trying to sweep off last nightās dust but I donāt think itās worth it, because Iām just going to fall back asleep anyway. On the edge of nineteen, I shouldnāt be sleeping the way a toddler does.
āGet 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. Iām used to it; theyāve practiced being quiet around the house. Luca doesnāt like to disturb me for the most part. Not that Iāve ever minded. Recently, however, heās gotten really p a r t i c u l a r about keeping out of my business. Or rather, making sure I donāt 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 thatās it - thereās no rest for myself, nor the wicked, I guess. Weāre 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 Godās instrument, where my parents once stood and cooed in the doorway. Iām so tired. But the work is never over. Whether theyāre here, or overseas, or scrubbing steel whisks up and down the robust oak of La Basilicaās ground level. Iāve taken up the ladder. Not as easy as they made it look.
In spite of the bible, regrettably, thereās no glory in the morning. I hate it. Iām not happy to see the old circular clockās hour hand creeping on to 7AM. T h i s should be an original sin.
Gratitude should shine out of most peopleās rear end when they wake up. Blessed to see another day. But Iām a little less than thrilled to hear the pantry being assaulted, and even less to see the sun. What can I say? Sorry, Iāve 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 bedroomās 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 donāt care much as long as I can see just what in the world is going on beneath me.
Banisterās whiney against my waist, again I rub my eyes like a tyke and strain my ears. Itās the only noise in this place that doesnāt 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¦
āHeās gonna bleed,ā I hear Damon mention in that immune vernacular they only teach in medical schools.
āCome on, come on,ā Luca exhausts, āCĆ”llate la boca, Damon. Justā¦ Fucking put pressure or something!ā
āGet it out of me!ā Who is that?ā¦
āGet 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. Itās sudden. My worst fears jump between horror movie plots and bad water in Mexico and Iām wondering just how wild the night got for the boys below. They have no idea Iām here. Itās as if I donāt exist at all. Thereās glass between us, and I havenāt bothered to look down because Iāve 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. Itās 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 someoneās foot. I can feel everyone looking up. Ohā¦ Shā¦t.
Lord forgive me.
Now theyāre above me. I canāt tell how many there are, really. Staring into me, shocked that Iām here like I havenāt lived in this house since conception. Same as my brother. But Iām just some sad bug, flattened on a slide. Thatās how it feels. āNico,ā heās 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 heās since outgrown. It rears its pesky head when heās in a pickle. āIām gonnaā hack the stuff at the church today why donāt you take the day off? Hey or uh,ā he gives something hefty a pull. Something unconscious.
āHey Neek what about that memorial park you wanted to volunteer at?ā Damon crops up. How he remembers things Iāve only muttered while walking by, I have no idea. Heās quick. Quicker than Luca, that way. Heās saving Lucaās behind, the vice and the versa. Childhood friendship evolved into brotherhood. We love him here, we always have. But whereās that other voice I heard?? And what is Luca going to do at La Basilica on a Saturday? Yeahā¦ Right.
I donāt ask questions. I donāt say a n y t h i n g. I just open my eyes, full as theyāll 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 wonāt 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, Iāve got a big one of my own. The wicked and the pious are all one breed. I donāt ask any questions. Judgment isnāt for me, itās for God
āIf you need my help, Luca,ā I fidget, nearly breaking my thumb nails on the baluster. Iāve never seen that much blood. My knuckles turn white, āD..Damon? I can help.ā What could I help? Is someone going to die? I feel sick. Iāve got to help, but Friday isnāt just yesterday. Heās my private sin. Heās 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. Iāve 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? Itās too big for my body, like a spirit pregnant without means to deliver.
There go I before the grace of Godā¦
āNo, Nico, itās fine. We got it.ā Iām not sure which one of them said it. But itās 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, Iām 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 doesnāt understand.
Heās 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. Theyāre so very beautiful and charming, arenāt 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 doesnāt 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 heāll say. I know heās waking up, Knapp from his nap. Iām 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, āPlease be quiet,ā I whisper and angle my elbows. Clutch the sink, āPlease 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, Iām swallowing a lump in my throat. It bobs in my chest. I donāt think heās 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. āWeāre not going to the church today.ā Declaration from my usual multiple choice. He wonāt 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 doesnāt think Iām worth it. Iām 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 itās a mess from being choked by a pillow. Plush and youād want to touch it whether it fell from heaven or grew out of Fridayās head. So blond itās white. Heās 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 heās thinking. When heās displeased on his illusory throne. Iām 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. Iām not the first Catholic in his arsenal, even if he didnāt tell me that. I can tell thereās a tickle of nostalgia he gets when heās close to me. Itās his cross to bear. Not mine. Iām no Eve. My mama didnāt raise no fool.
I love him, because Iām supposed to.
Heās 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.
āFriday, please stop looking at me like that.ā Iām out of breath still from the contents of my stomach clogging my wind pipe. āWeāll do something fun,ā Iām masking the chaos worse than my brother, and Friday is thinking, āYour 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 donāt even know happened. I imagine, this is how anyone feels even casually interacting with Friday. It gets him off. So now, heās looking more pleased than judgmental. Fit for a thorn crown rather than his jewels if you ask me. Conceit is a sin. I havenāt gotten him to repent.
Yet, thereās an understanding between us. He softens and scrapes me with his inquiry but doesnāt step a foot onto the tile. āItās okay.ā I tell him. āTheyāre so distracted they probably wouldnāt even notice you, today.ā Iām just as tired as he is on a good day, which is not at all normal. even he knows that. āIāve been thinking.ā Try to distract from the obvious.
āI could just make you up a room at the church instead of here. Itās less risky and you wonāt be forced to be around me so much. As much, really.ā Careful about my words. I wouldnāt want it to look the wrong way. Like I'm maybe covering up a homicide.
Fridayās expression shifts before she even finishes speaking, a here and gone irritation strong enough to promise a Biblical Plague. Displeased. /Displaced/. Heās taken up residence in the back of her mind more than in her home, a vice grip on her spinal cortex. Sheās as aware that heās 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 doesnāt always match her words, but he canāt get any closer to see the distinction. Thereās a threshold he canāt cross - /leave space for Jesus/. One day, heāll 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./ āForced,ā he repeats, southern lift softening his tone from the knife that it could be. āIs 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 thatās been taunting me over a course of weeks. I wonder whoās the serpent and whoās the charmer. If itās time to deliver bad news, or good. He plucks at me like fine ivory looped on maple wood. From what I can tell, Iām not quite singing the song he wants to hear. He tightens the strings and brings that bow across me slow and steady, āDarlinā.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 donāt think heās 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 heād 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 Iād never grow into any shape, much less a womanās. The girl in the glass has augmented since high school, and sometimes I donāt know how to face her like this. A virgin who feels guilty even buying a lace bra because itās the last one in her size. Grasping a cross and dithering on the other side of sepia opticals. I donāt ask questions, let alone question God and what heās given me. āWell if you had another choice you wouldnāt be here.ā
Feebly smiling I might as well lay like a rug, but I donāt tend to get walked on easily. I only have too much patience. A surplus for Friday. Because heās meant to be good, as Iām first to Sunday. I know that test pilot sort of timbre he uses when talks. Signifies that Iām walking a rope that could fray or be pulled to balance me out. Drop me or clock my piece of mind a little longer, Iām getting a little better at playing the game of wit with Mr. Knapp.
But as nice of a distraction as it is to whatās 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, Iām 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. āDonāt look so sour, Viernes, es porque me importa. I donāt know how much more I can do for you here. I could take better care at the church.ā And itāll look a lot less suspicious when Luca finds out about you. Fully.
Iāve 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 isnāt 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 heās ever come across. A good Catholic, a /true/ Catholic, has no need for secrets or deceptions. Sheās an open book, a vibrant promise. Which means that now, the way sheās dancing around him, up all the balls of her toes to keep from causing damage, sheās carefully misplacing weight not just on his bomb, but someone else's.
He canāt smell blood, but that doesnāt mean it isnāt there. The curiosity for her thinly veiled antics causes his own raging storm to calm. The truth is. Itās too early. Heās still more tired than her. Thereās a ring on his thumb, forgotten silver from a forgotten time, and he spins it now while he thinks. Considers.
Sheās 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 seeās her play, but he thinks itās okay. āItās fine,ā he says, and if he clips the letters a little, well, itās only /because he cares/. āIāve always liked church." -- Written for Friday as played by CharlotteV
Good thing, too.
Because Iām trying to figure out how I would gently reject him over again if he got closer than a few feet. Thereās been a couple walls between us - and if we creep up on a month of borrowed time on my brotherās timepiece, we might just be pushing it. Sometimes I donāt sleep at night knowing Fridayās there. Worse, knowing heās 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 Tijuanaās eventide kisses it just right. It weighs on me when Iām at the pew.
He was so close. If Iād 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 didnāt try again, just strangled a motion of his Adamās 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 Iām back to the present world, Friday is watching me from my window sill. Unimpressed by my methods. Soon weāre to La Basilica and heās 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 brotherās 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. Thereās 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. āCome on Nico what the fuck!ā Luca almost whines, āI told you to take the day off.ā Instinctively I drag myself to my feet disorderly, pin myself in front of Friday. Itās the first time weāve ever touched, and thereās a gun in my brotherās hand.
Heās too pensive to notice the peculiar timing. Or that my āapprenticeā 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. āJust open up the basement,ā Jack blurts, and I can tell that Damon AND Luca think about socking him cold another time, āI need some fucking Percs and Iāll be fine in a few hours to work.ā
I didnāt 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. āDonāt worry,ā he grunts and yanks up a hidden subsurface, āIām gonnaā have this filled over the summer.ā What he didnāt 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 familyās pride and joy.
ļ¼°ļ¼²ļ¼„ļ¼³ļ¼„ļ¼®ļ¼“ ļ¼¤ļ¼”ļ¼¹
Fiestas Patronales de San Salvador, August 3rd, 2017
third person POV
One of the traveling clerics favored leather to traditional cottons, and Nico didnāt knock him for it as much as Luca did. He was good in his word and following of the Lord. But, so much wasnāt enough for men like Luca. Nico shoved him off the walkway when he wanted to start again, whispering, āYou leave Father Xanthi alone and mind your business Luca. Heās 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 heād rather ten minions fall before him the way followers went before God. Even if heād 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 itās 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 didnāt try to succeed over any of the undergroundās 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. Theyād be eating good. So where was that Blue, and where was Jack?ā¦
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. Sheād 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 didnāt 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, āHi. Isa. Nico, Iām the ownerās daughter. We met a couple days ago. I havenāt heard from you since I set you up with a cot, are you enjoying your time?ā