Breaking News (and a Mother's Heart)
Dante was late for dinner. Pilar Ramon rolled her eyes and put his plate in the fridge. He always came home, eventually, or at the very least called. He especially remembered to call, ever since a year ago when he'd gone off somewhere for a full night, day, and half the night again, with bandaged hands and a mysteriously blank hospital bill. Once assured that he was safe, and recovering, she had lectured both her boys for worrying her until her voice went hoarse. They had both seemed properly apologetic, but then Cisco had left again, calling only a few times, visiting even less. He'd never wanted what she wanted for him, so where was the surprise there?
Still she'd recognized STAR Labs on the news, the day a hole had torn open the sky. The phone had rung off the hook, her sister no doubt, shrieking that it was the End of Days. Pilar had not believed that, but had prayed quietly, gripping Dante's hand and hoping, hoping, hoping. Cisco had not come home, but he had called, hours later, to ask if they were all right. His voice had been hollow and broken, but there, and that was all she had needed. Her boys both were still here, and that was all the Miracle she had needed.
It was drawing on a year from that day, and the anniversary of fear still wormed its way into her heart, a heavy feeling in her gut. So many strange things in the last months, some like the worst demons from nightmares, others—well, she would never quite forget the sight of Central City's resident superhero, the first time he'd raced past her, near Christmas last year. She hadn't seen him of course, that fate was only for the reporters, and the people he fought, and the people he rescued, and asking for that was begging trouble, but still. She wondered then, as she did often, if his mother was proud of him, if his mother worried for him the nights he didn't call, the way she did for her remaining family.
She checked the clock—it was getting late, the sun already set and the streetlights beyond open windows flickering to life. No children played in the street, but then, things were a bit more dangerous than they had been, and anyway, most of the neighbor children were too old to play football in the cul-de-sac now, busy with papers and tests and practicing this or that. Her own boys certainly had left behind those days too soon—Dante fearful on injuring his hands, always needing to practice, practice, practice, Cisco because—well he'd been gone at 16, after all, college too young to leave the nest. As Pilar closed the blinds, and checked that the door was locked but the bolt not thrown, something they'd never needed to do in this safe, homey place until recently, she paused. Armando had always liked playing kickball and football and freeze tag. She wondered now, when he would have grown out of it, if he had had the time.
She sank onto the couch, forgoing elegance for exhaustion. It had been too long a day. Absently, she clicked on the small television, ready for one of her telenovelas. Cisco had watched this one with her, days she made him stay home from school with fever or during long, empty summers.
The program winked out, replaced by a white woman proclaiming breaking news, and Pilar crossed her arms, frowning. Another storm warning, perhaps, or news of something else that would be easily and quickly solved, she was sure. In this city, anything and everything seemed to be breaking news, but unless it was dire, she didn't see why they had to interrupt when a scrolling message at the bottom of the screen would do nicely. She made to turn off the television entirely when what she saw froze her blood. As the image registered, the phone began to ring.
She reached out a hand, watching—the police held her son. Dante wore a scowl and some kind of suit, and they were arresting him. No, No she knew her Dante, her child, he was no criminal. Santa Maria, she thought, crossing herself by old habit, straining to see, to understand. The phone stopped, then started to ring again. It had to be some kind of mistake. But he hadn't come home, he hadn't called, and that was his face—but no. Pilar's heart turned over. There was nothing of her son in those eyes, but what other explanation was there? As she stared, half standing, hand pressed to her mouth, blue lightning crackled.
Dios Mio, no. no.
Everyone had seen that lightning and the Thing it surrounded, the thing the papers called 'Zoom,' too silly a name for such evil. She had seen the news, when he'd dragged the Flash by the throat, body broken. He stood there, too still for a heartbeat, and then moved. Pilar screamed, rocketing to her feet, as he plunged a hand through – through—her Dante's chest. Any prayers she might have started drained from her, she felt like brittle glass, blank with disbelief and fear. Dios en el Cielo, Maria–Por favor. No.
And then the demon-creature spoke, and for the first time since she had left her mother's house and come to this country, she wished that she could not understand English. She hoped she was wrong, that she had misheard, but knew that she had not. "Even bigger disappointment than your brother," the voice ground out. If Pilar had been glass before, on the verge of shattering, she shattered now. Francisco, the monster had meant Francisco. Was he dead, too? Murdered by this monster, this creature with a face from Hell? She crumpled on the floor, weeping openly, unable to draw in air as her lungs burned and her heart felt like it was shearing apart inside her.
The phone rang, shrill and persistent, but too distant. She could not move.
All, she thought, brokenly, touching the ring on her finger, tears turning the family portrait, the last family portrait from twenty years ago to a watercolor smear. I've lost them all. Oh, God, oh God. Dios te salve, Maria. Llena eres de gracia: El Seńor es contigo. She slid into the familiar thoughts of the repeated prayer, too numb for anything else. Nothing else mattered, not now, not anymore. All of them, all of them gone. Dead. Pilar might have wished for vengeance, for some power of her own to go and end this all, but for now, she could not. Grief settled over her, a funeral shroud, a heavy embrace. It could not be true, it could not be true, they could not all be taken from her in this way, not after everything. Not when she hadn't gotten to kiss their cheeks and remind them she loved them. Not when she hadn't gotten to say goodbye.
The tv remained on, but she did not hear anything over the sound of her own blood pounding, her own breath catching in her throat, sobs wracking her body to the extent that she thought she might vomit. If neighbors had seen, had heard, they might have run over, but the door was locked. Any knocking, just like the phone, went unanswered. Pilar wept as she hadn't in nearly two decades, beside the wreckage of a car and two mangled bodies, until she simply could not any longer, too drained and weak, shock numbing her fingers.
It was not the sound of a key sliding into the lock that pulled her from her stupor, not the sound of the door opening or the light clicking on, too faint to hear. It was not even the sudden stillness as someone unplugged the phone. What pulled her back to the surface of her self was, instead, a voice, calling out a name she thought she might never hear again.
"Mama?" No—No, she had seen him die, the light bleeding out from his eyes—but she looked, anyway. Dante stood, framed in the doorway, Cisco just behind him, worn and haunted and haggard.
"Alive?" Pilar managed, trying to stagger upright. Warm, steady hands lifted her, and she pulled both boys into an embrace. "Gracias a Dios, Gracias a Dios, mijos," she murmured. She would not question this miracle as she held her boys, her sons, home and safe. She did not let go.
If I'm having feels, you're having feels.
I regret nothing