Triptych
Disclaimer: Robert Rodriguez owns it all.
Summary: Sands in Mexico
Rating: PG
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Mexico is:
Heat. Drilling down. Pounding on the top of his head. Blistering his skin.
Pain, deep and terrible, wounds in the body that was supposed to never get hurt, never grow old, never let him down.
Dust in his throat, getting stuck in the coppery blood, grit when he swallows. Not as tasty as spicy pork. He longs for a tequila with lime.
Blood, sticky and oozing. Tears of crimson. Which is odd, because he's never felt less like crying. He wants to laugh, actually. Because it's all just...too...goddamn funny.
Warm stone at his back, propping him up. An alley leading nowhere, space between buildings where people walk and talk and laugh and look at each other, and no one ever imagines it could ever change.
A hand on his arm, tugging at his sleeve, urging him up. Not going to take this lying down, are you?
No, he decides. He is not.
---------
Mexico is:
Cicadas at night, whirring and chirping.
A deep voice with a heavy accent. Sardonic laughter. Wry amusement that somehow does not quite hide the concern, and that is the most puzzling thing of all, why that voice should care.
Rhythmic jingle of chains, pacing back and forth. He wants to reach out and close his fist about them to still them forever, shut them up, he can't stand the damn racket!
Soft music. Guitar, in the night (he knows it is night because the cicadas are providing harmony). A love song, maybe, or a really slow version of La Cucaracha, he doesn't know. A song to sway along with, a song to gaze into the distance and remember the past.
Church bells, tolling the hour. This is how he tells time. He has hold of it now, it does not slip through his fingers anymore, like it did during the time of blood and dusty pain.
Questions, reminding him that he is alive and he does not have the luxury of hiding. What are you going to do now and where will you go and he does not answer, because he does not know the answers, and even if he did, the last person he would tell them to is the person doing the asking.
The dry click of an empty gun being fired. It clatters when it hits the wall and then falls to the floor.
He is not down for the count yet, he realizes.
----------
Mexico is:
Skin, sweaty, salty, sticky. Calloused fingers. Muscles bunching, nerves on fire.
Sullen silences punctuated by sneering.
A guitar, gently weeping. Music has a taste, he knows this now. Every note is unique. Some melt on his tongue. Others are sharp and bitter and make him wince.
Laughter, sometimes mocking, sometimes forced, never easy. The darkness laughs back, and when it does it bares its teeth, and those teeth can draw blood.
Murmuring voice in the night, reminding him that he exists, he has not gotten irrevocably lost. That some things can be found again, and not all change is bad.
Warm rain and warm, close night embrace.
He never knew before how cold he was, he thinks, until he came to Mexico.
END
Disclaimer: Robert Rodriguez owns it all.
Summary: Sands in Mexico
Rating: PG
-------------
Mexico is:
Heat. Drilling down. Pounding on the top of his head. Blistering his skin.
Pain, deep and terrible, wounds in the body that was supposed to never get hurt, never grow old, never let him down.
Dust in his throat, getting stuck in the coppery blood, grit when he swallows. Not as tasty as spicy pork. He longs for a tequila with lime.
Blood, sticky and oozing. Tears of crimson. Which is odd, because he's never felt less like crying. He wants to laugh, actually. Because it's all just...too...goddamn funny.
Warm stone at his back, propping him up. An alley leading nowhere, space between buildings where people walk and talk and laugh and look at each other, and no one ever imagines it could ever change.
A hand on his arm, tugging at his sleeve, urging him up. Not going to take this lying down, are you?
No, he decides. He is not.
---------
Mexico is:
Cicadas at night, whirring and chirping.
A deep voice with a heavy accent. Sardonic laughter. Wry amusement that somehow does not quite hide the concern, and that is the most puzzling thing of all, why that voice should care.
Rhythmic jingle of chains, pacing back and forth. He wants to reach out and close his fist about them to still them forever, shut them up, he can't stand the damn racket!
Soft music. Guitar, in the night (he knows it is night because the cicadas are providing harmony). A love song, maybe, or a really slow version of La Cucaracha, he doesn't know. A song to sway along with, a song to gaze into the distance and remember the past.
Church bells, tolling the hour. This is how he tells time. He has hold of it now, it does not slip through his fingers anymore, like it did during the time of blood and dusty pain.
Questions, reminding him that he is alive and he does not have the luxury of hiding. What are you going to do now and where will you go and he does not answer, because he does not know the answers, and even if he did, the last person he would tell them to is the person doing the asking.
The dry click of an empty gun being fired. It clatters when it hits the wall and then falls to the floor.
He is not down for the count yet, he realizes.
----------
Mexico is:
Skin, sweaty, salty, sticky. Calloused fingers. Muscles bunching, nerves on fire.
Sullen silences punctuated by sneering.
A guitar, gently weeping. Music has a taste, he knows this now. Every note is unique. Some melt on his tongue. Others are sharp and bitter and make him wince.
Laughter, sometimes mocking, sometimes forced, never easy. The darkness laughs back, and when it does it bares its teeth, and those teeth can draw blood.
Murmuring voice in the night, reminding him that he exists, he has not gotten irrevocably lost. That some things can be found again, and not all change is bad.
Warm rain and warm, close night embrace.
He never knew before how cold he was, he thinks, until he came to Mexico.
END