Hi there! This was written for the Semi Official BTR One Shot Day 2013. It's 11:18pm here, and, thankfully, I'm not late! Things you need to know about this fic before you start reading: this is a dark fic. Carlos and Sylvia centered, which means that there is no Big Time Rush, nor kendall or Logan. There are, though, mentions of James a few times. Now, please read: I lost track of myself here. The plot sounds so incredibly beautiful to me, but I was so under pressure, seeing as I wrote it in just 5 hours, that I somewhat of lost the point of the fic. I know this, before you say. This being said, just so you guys know, I WILL rewrite this. I'm not very fond of the things I write (in fact, I avoid reading the things I write because I always think they are just a bunch of crap), but for some reason, I really love this Carlos here. I love this Sylvia. I love what I did here. I don't know how I did it, but I love it, so I WILL rewrite this. Don't know when, but I will. If you read all this huge and boring note, thank you very much, I really appreciate it. Please, let me know what you think about it, because I love the idea of it, but not how it came out. And if you have any idea or any tip for me about that, please, don't be shy! I promise I won't be "offended" or anything. Just leave a review or PM me, 'k? Ok! So you're now free to go and read, haha! Xx.
The only light in the room came from the TV screen. There, some old movie in Spanish was playing and 9 year old Carlos couldn't tear his eyes away from it. He just couldn't deny his eyes the prettiness of blood, bullets and tears in the screen.
His lips pulled it selves up in a twisted smile when the man's head in the picture fell from his neck, and he laughed when it rolled off and away, finally disappearing from the scene.
"Carlos!"
The shout of his name woke him from his sweet awaken nightmare, and he blinked in confusion, just to, upon recognizing the voice as his mom's, rush to change the channel.
"Por Díos, mijo!" The short Latin woman said with a strange voice, and it was a mix of anger and concern. "How many times did I tell you that you're not allowed to watch these movies?"
"I'm sorry, Ma."
She sighed. The now ever present emptiness in his voice scared her. She shook her head, sitting beside him and looking at the TV - now playing some old childish cartoon in Spanish, and it amazed her just how much the little boy loved their heritage. Most of the language he learned watching TV, and by now he's fluent in a language that isn't spoken in the country he was born in.
She pulled him to her lap, but he refused, instead laying his head on her thighs. She started to run her hands through his long dark locks, just how he liked it.
"What do you like in these movies you watch?"
He didn't look at her, seeming too focused on the cartoon he had watched a thousand times already. "Wine red."
"You- What? You like what?"
He seemed annoyed by the fact that she didn't understand him. Still, he answered as if it was simply and obvious: "That's blood's color, Ma. Wine red."
The sadness sank in Sylvia's beautiful hazel eyes, and it was beautiful, shining like only tears do when they're about to fall. She knew her boy – the only one she had – was damaged forever.
"Why are you sad, Ma?"
He asked out of the blue, again scaring her with his swift changes, and he was now watching her with the same passion he was watching the old Spanish gore movie.
"Are you missing Padrecito?" When she didn't answer, he spoke slowly. "Well, I am, too, but I'm sure he's happy. His blood was wine red, too, coming straight out of his belly, and he was in a puddle of it. How can one be unhappy with wine red blood, Ma?"
The sweet – but somewhat cruel and devilish (how could it be both?) – smile on his lips, again, scared her more than the statement itself. Then he got up the couch, turned the TV off, and opened the curtains, the weak sunlight filling the room in the middle of that cold December afternoon.
"I'm gonna go play with James, Ma." He announced and left.
Sylvia wanted to get up and get work done. She wanted to finish cleaning the house; she wanted to bake some of Carlos' favorite cookies; she wanted to go and forget. Just forget, even if for just a little while. She just wanted to get busy enough so she wouldn't remember all that, but, suddenly, she was just too heavy for herself; she couldn't get up.
The blood in her veins felt like iron, and she felt incapable of getting up, of lifting herself and walking away from her memories – mostly because she couldn't get away from herself; her memories were inside of her. They were a monster she couldn't run and hide from.
She sank deeper into the couch, closing her eyes and covering her face with her hands. Her dry eyes burnt and she just wanted to cry. Or burnt alive; sounded like a good option, too. Any kind of pain was better than that intangible pain she was feeling.
Then again, she was never a sweet woman. Not in a bad way, though. She just wasn't that kind of girl that you get by buying her roses; they weren't (still aren't) the way to get to her heart. She was never an easy crier, too. That's why her eyes burn now, and she damns herself for that.
In fact, not only she wasn't an easy crier, but she never did cry, and took pride on it. Right now, though, her only wish was to let out at least a few drops of the pouring rain that was going on and on inside of her.
It actually makes her damn uncomfortable. She didn't cry when her mother passed away. She didn't cry when her father passed away. She didn't cry when Carlos was about to die from that terrible pneumonia in the hospital bed when he was barely three months old. She didn't cry when she held her son tight, and they watched while García was being slowly cut in their old living room, five years ago, and the dark red blood poured from his stomach at a non-stopping pace. She didn't cry when he was being buried. She didn't cry at all. Never did.
But neither did Carlos, too.
Carlos was just too young for that. At age of four, he was just a little toddler, due to his problems with walking and all the physiotherapy he had to do. Carlos was too young to understand what was happening, and when the police came he smiled to the car he loved so much – the car his dad used to ride, the very same car he had already said he wanted to ride some day by himself.
And even being too young for that, a new thing was born inside of him, and his dad wasn't screaming while being stabbed- well, not stabbed. Just cut, while the sick man enjoyed his pain, slowly dancing the knife across his belly. But as said, if García wasn't screaming, why should little Carlos be scared? So he wasn't.
The only light in their living room came from the TV screen, and it was just enough for Carlos to see that beautiful, dark and thick blood, in an amazing shade of red he had never seen before. But he was just four years old and couldn't put a finger to it.
Several days later, when they moved away from that house and García never came back home, the boy started to settle down, and Sylvia just couldn't get it. He had seen it, obviously, but he was too young to actually understand.
But he never asked for his father, never asked about him.
Never asked where he was or if he would be coming back. Nothing. It seemingly that he had just accepted the fact that, in a way or another, his dad wouldn't show up if he asked him to. So he just kept on living his young little life.
Never spoke of his father, never talked about him again.
As time passed by, a lonely and depressed Sylvia watched while her son grew up, and watched as he changed so much to the point that, at his nine years old, she couldn't really tell if this is him, or if this is what he's becoming, or what. Sylvia just failed in life, really. She isn't a daughter, or a wife; she's not really even a mother. She's just there; stuck in the world because she still has that sense of responsibility she was raised to have.
Sometimes, while thinking about her (their) past, she feels her eyes watering, and smiles when thinking she is going to cry, but the tears never go down. Almost as if they are telling her that she owns nothing, and her life is so insignificant that tears are not allowed to her.
But thinking back she smiles (that's the only reasons she has to smile, really), and remembers with a stab in the back of that time when, even a sick little boy who couldn't walk, Carlos was a ball of energy and she had to quit work to care of him because no nanny had the patience to deal with his fire all the time.
He shinned no matter what he was doing, because he was a happy kid, fun, and loved all colors and flavors, and really, he was just happy.
All the more reasons for Sylvia to defend (to herself, of course. There is no one to debate over this with.) that, indeed, a big part of little Carlos died that night with his beloved dad.
Finally, she gave up on all that useless thinking she was doing upon hearing Carlos' voice in the distance saying "Jamz, come have dinner with me!", and she remember with a startle that, after all, she still had a son to feed. She didn't know how long she had been sank into her memories, but by the time she gave up on trying to count how long she stayed there, just sitting in the couch, the strength came from no fucking where, and she got up the couch, going to the kitchen, and then proceeded to quickly make both the dinner and the cookies she wanted to have done earlier.
When the boys showed up, she watched as they played during dinner, and had their small conversations, and, for a tiny moment there, she felt happy. Not empty, not indifferent, not worried about Carlos' future. She was happy, watching her son happy like that, and it was as if all their past never happened, and they were just the two of them – and now James.
James made Carlos smile a genuine smile, and that was all Sylvia could ask for. In fact, her own smile was genuine right now. She had forgotten what a bless it was to have a kid; she had forgotten what it felt like to love your son like it was the first time.
Later that night, after James left and they were both supposed to be asleep, in his room Carlos' eyes were wide open and he was just laying there, while Sylvia, in her own room, was just there, too afraid to asleep and too tired to stay awake.
The mixed emotions she felt that day kept her on the edge and now she couldn't sleep. Her mind was full with images of García being hurt, the blood coming out of his stomach like the nascent of a river with full force and never stopping. Then, like a TV, her mind would change the picture at its own accord, and in her head, images of Carlos laughing at the dinner table with his new friend would pop up, the boy smiling genuinely like he hadn't done in a long while.
She could kill herself right now, for she didn't like emotions flooding her.
Meanwhile, in his bedroom, Carlos had his eyes wide open. He wasn't sleepy, he didn't want the TV turned on, and he didn't want anything. He just wanted to stay there, lying quietly and thinking about everything.
Even though he never spoke it, he did miss his dad. He knew his dad wouldn't ever come back and he knew how that happened, but he didn't know why. If he could only ask one thing for the rest of his whole life, then that would be the question: why did Padrecito die.
At nine years of age, Carlos knew a lot of things he shouldn't know, he had seen a lot of things that he shouldn't have seen, a lot of things that were too much for his little age. Then again, life isn't fair in any way.
On that note, Carlos always thinks that, if he is to die someday, that it please be in an unfair way, just like his dad. He wants to watch the blood pour out of his own belly, and he wants to watch while it forms a river on the floor, and he wants to see it painting everything wine red.
Right now, his eyesight is blurred and he is seeing everything in a wine red shade, because he loves it so much. The enchantment he felt for the beautiful blood the first time he saw it is still the same. In that moment, he thought his dad was some special creature, that had that red liquid coming out of him, and at the time he associated the color with beet juice, because his mom gave it to him a lot. Now he knows best, and the exact shade of blood is wine red. His all time favorite color, even more than purple.
When the thought popped into his mind, he didn't know if he was awake or asleep (it was a kind of limbo, not fully awake but not fully asleep either), but he got up in a shot all the same. He smiled to himself because, God, it took him a really long time to think of it.
In all the movies he watched, all of the people were white. His dad was white, even though his name was García. His mom is the one with the dark skin, the same dark skin he had. So what if people with dark skin didn't have the beautiful and amazing wine red blood?
A chill ran down his spine with the thought, and he got up his bed, silently walking through the dark house until he got to the kitchen. His mom had this beautiful shining machete she uses to cook. He took it out of the cabinet and with a sweet, childish smile, he ran the blade through his left arm. It was like a caress; it was like James' fingers when the pretty, chubby boy hugged him when it was too cold and ran his hands through Carlos' scalp and arms to make sure he was warm. It was even better while he watched the blood run and start to make a puddle on the kitchen floor. A wine red puddle.
Then he started to laugh. He laughed loudly, happy, genuine. He had a huge grin on his face, and he couldn't stop laughing, he was just so happy!
The exposed teeth scared Sylvia more than the blood on the kitchen floor.
Then again, Carlos scared Sylvia more for the things he felt than for the things he did and say. When she heard the footsteps around the house, she wasn't sure, because she wasn't really awaken. But she wasn't asleep either, and the laughter coming from the kitchen startled her.
When Carlos acknowledged her presence there, he stared at her, still laughing, and through his open lips he managed to say:
"Look, Ma! My blood is wine red, too!"
Sylvia felt like passing out.
"I know, son. I know." She took a calming breathe. "Why don't you let Mama help you out and clean you and your clothes, and then clean the floor?"
And then she realized something was wrong when she noticed Carlos wasn't laughing anymore. The maniac grin had left his face, and now he was just staring at the puddle on the floor.
"Blood is really beautiful, isn't it, Ma?" Was the last thing he said before he fell, blood splashing everywhere.
"It is, son. It is." She answered to the dead-looking boy.
It took her a second to swallow things, and then she was calling 911. Everything happened too fast, and then she was in a hospital room, watching a now asleep (sedated) Carlos and looking at the stitches in the extension of his left arm, she already knew that would be a ugly scar.
She sighed, sitting on the couch and sipping the coffee she had bought for herself. In a couple of days, it'd be Christmas. They didn't have a family or a lot of friends. Again, they would spend Christmas like every other Christmas since García's passing: alone. Just the two of them by the fire, watching old movies and drinking hot cocoa.
When Sylvia opened her eyes, she realized she had fallen asleep. She didn't have nightmares, but it wasn't a good night of sleep. It was heavy, dark, and she slightly remembers having troubles to breath throughout the rest of the night. Then she realized a slow voice, humming the tone of something she knew all too well.
Avoiding any kind of thought about the song, she got up, and Carlos shut himself up. There were some clearly rules about that song. She smiled sadly when she got to his sight, and patted his knee.
"Are you feeling fine?"
"I'm ok."
"Great."
The silence was heavy. They were so dysfunctional. And to think that boy was only nine years old…
"Ma?"
"Yes?"
"Are you feeling fine?"
She smiled. "I'm ok."
"Great."
After a couple of seconds they laughed of themselves. Dysfunctional, but so, so equal to one another.
"I love you, Ma. Just in case you don't know that."
He said, with a shade of pink covering his dark cheeks. She wanted to cry right there and then. She just wanted her sweet, four year old Carlos back, so she could raise him properly to be the forever as sweet as he was when he was a kid.
His right index finger was running through the stitches in his left arm, and he looked intently as his left arm shook whenever the finger touched a specific part of it. She smiled. He was just that awkward.
"I love you, too, boy."
He looked up at her.
"I know. I just thought you didn't know I love you, because I'm a little weird. But I love you, Ma. And wine red. It's my favorite color."
From that point, she already knew she would have to deal with some shit in her future. Maybe things wouldn't turn out to be fine, and maybe she would lose her boy within another week because of his passion for his oh so loved wine red blood. But she could still try.
"Ma?"
"Yes?"
"Why was Padrecito killed?"
The darkness that took over his eyes scared her. Again, he always scared her for the things he showed to be feeling more than for the things he said and did.
Try as she might, Carlos was damaged and she knew it. But she would still try, because she loved him so much.
"I don't know, son."
He nodded at her.
"I'll find out some day. Promise."