Hi! Thanks for taking the time to click on this, and hopefully it will be worth your while.

In this, I put Jorge as the older sibling (5) and Anita as the younger (1).

Carmelo, Jorge, and Anita © Jorge Gutierrez.

The intensity of the ring radiated through the audience, but not with excitement: Fear, the heel realization that the bull in the ring had fought (and won) before gripped almost all. Somewhere, someone had slipped in their duties and allowed a seasoned bull to fight again. Those in the stands could only watch as the matador Carmelo Sanchez attempted to face the beast. The man's lack of a cape multiplied the difficulty of the task indefinitely.

Jorge Sanchez, on the other hand, had the utmost confidence in his father. The five year old had seen Carmelo face three… no, four different bulls. It was his tactic, what made his fights more "interesting," to let them go longer; Jorge knew he could make it. But then again, something also seemed different than usual. The fight dragged on and Carmelo had almost been hit already. The bull kept charging him head-on. The only reason the bullfighter had not been gored yet was the sword the always kept out, which he held by the broad side, as the only way to block the bull's curved horns. As the bull fell back, the edge of the sword slipped from Carmelo's palm, leaving a fine slice of bright red.

It was then that Jorge began to grow worried. He looked down at the watch his late mother gave him: it showed the large hand at nine and the small hand at one. The match had started when the large hand was on twelve. Jorge looked back into the ring. Carmelo's face and hair were drenched, and a mix of sweat and blood dripped from the hilt of his sword. He breathed heavily and with his right hand, he rubbed the sweat from his eyes.

The bull, too, was less fresh than at the beginning of the fight: its horns sagged to its eye level, its hooves dragged along the sand, and its weight seemed too heavy for it. Each time it would rush for Carmelo, then stagger back to a corner of the ring. The only thing that had not faded was the rage in the bull's eyes. It skulked for a moment in the same corner, perhaps to catch its breath.

Carmelo allowed his sword to fall. His eyes scanned the stands, but never really focused on anything. He glanced down to the sideline, where Jorge stood on the wooden fence, wide eyed, shouting something.

"Not now, Mi'o, please," Carmelo said in an almost exasperated tone; everything sounded foreign, as if in a dream. Jorge kept shouting.

After a second, a feeling of horror washed over him. Simultaneously, Carmelo both understood Jorge's cries and heard a tremendous rumbling on his right. He turned to notice the bull, in a last effort, charging towards him, now close- closer- can't escape. The bullfighter raised his sword quickly, but only managed to graze the beast's shoulder. For his sword to save him, it was too late. He became deaf to the world, except for the cracking and crunching of bones; he no longer felt the heat of them mid-day sun, only a sickening chill as the bull removed its bladelike horn from his side. A gushing stream of blood greeted him when he threw his hand to his side. He was only vaguely aware of the rush of other men, swords drawn, and of the swift demise the bull faced. He sank to his knees.

Jorge never remembered screaming before this, and never after. Though someone tried to restrain him, behind the fence, where it was safe, Jorge broke free, darted under the fence, and ran towards Carmelo's side (front, really). He glanced at the wound and turned his head away. It looked fake. The boy did not want to believe what he just saw. He thought that maybe he would look back, and the whole scene would have just been a mistake. Jorge didn't want to look again, but when a pair of rough hands pulled him out of the way, he glared up sharply, then darted through the gathering crowd. On Carmelo's left side, a man began to pull him up. Jorge ran to the right and tried to do the same thing.

"Papa," Jorge cried, pulling Carmelo's arm, "We have to go home!" Carmelo looked to him, eyes losing focus. Someone had taken Jorge's place and managed to bring the bullfighter to his feet. He nodded, somehow taking supported steps. Jorge would always wonder how his father managed to get home.

An unusually loud knock brought Luisa Sanchez to the door with her niece, Anita, on her hip. She looked up at the clock: it was incredibly late for her brother-in-law to be getting home. She set Anita down, nestled into her crib, wiped her hands on her apron, then opened the door. Instantly Jorge ran and hugged her, inches from sobbing. The boy mumbled something into her skirt.

"Jorge Sanchez! What is the meaning of th- Ay!" she shrieked. Blanched and sagging between two men stood Carmelo; a thick stream of blood trailed from a gaping wound in his side. Luisa pulled the door open as far is it could go.

"Come in… Quickly!" she ordered worriedly. The two men with Carmelo followed her through the dim entry hall, through the courtyard, and into the normally airy master bedroom. Now the air stood stagnant behind blinds closed to the summer sun. They lay Carmelo on the double bed that was always just an inch too short. He exhaled heavily.

The men excused themselves and went on their way, a good deal more sober than twenty minutes prior. As Luisa rushed to find something to clean the wound with, Jorge appeared in the doorway holding Anita awkwardly in his arms. He looked in, unsure whether to go in or not; he dodged out of the way when Luisa returned with a rag, a bowl of water, and a bottle of alcohol. She mixed the liquids carefully.

Jorge peered around the door frame. Aunt Luisa wrung the old rag out over the now pink stained bowl of water and alcohol. She took a strip of white cloth, folded it, and placed it over the hole in Carmelo's side; she stood up and scanned her work, trying to assure herself that there was no more to be done. She pressed a clean hand against her mouth and breathed in quickly, a small sob catching in her throat. Luisa then left to fill the bowl with clean water.

Clutching to his sister like an oversized stuffed animal, Jorge snuck into the room and to the foot of the bed. Carefully, he set the baby on the ground and glanced through the footboard which reminded Jorge of a fence. He just stood there, silent. A voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Come where I can see you, mi'jo," Carmelo said. Shocked, Jorge made his way around the bed. He brought Anita with him.

"But how did you-" Jorge wondered to himself. Carmelo's laugh quickly turned into a fit of coughing. "I'm not as blind as you may think," he replied, sounding as well as he could. The color of his voice changed; its rough fullness had faded, left it raspy and grey. Jorge turned away. The remark had not been an accusation, but he still felt guilty. Minutes passed and Jorge could not face his father. Not with those tears in his eyes. It was un-Sanchez-like. He couldn't see and Anita wouldn't understand. Suddenly he felt a shaky hand on his upper arm.

"Jorge," Carmelo said, "Look at me." Jorge seemed frozen in time, as if he couldn't move if he wanted to. He sniffed loudly.

"Jorge look at me," Carmelo repeated. Jorge whipped around as the hand slipped. Jorge watched him take a shaky shallow breath.

"Anita, Jorge," he whispered, "I love you too much."

One minute there, the next gone. The evening sun penetrated through the shutters and dyed everything a warm orange. But the heat didn't reach everything. Jorge felt a cold, sinking feeling in his stomach that crept up and filled his chest. Anita didn't understand the silence. She cried for a Papa who wouldn't come.

Thanks for reading!

~Flutepiccy