Héctor

Héctor looks into the face of the boy above him. Miguel is fading into a skeleton, his round cheeks hollowing out into mere bones. His eyes remain though, wet with tears and absolutely pleading with him, as if Héctor has any control over what is happening. As the light of the sun brings his features into more prominence, the curse that was placed on the boy fades them away.

"Go home," Héctor breathes. Another spasm shakes his skeletal body as Imelda guides his hand, petal glowing between his fingers, towards the nearly dead child above him. If there is one positive thing that came out of this, he thinks, it is that he got to meet his great-great-grandson.

Miguel has time enough for one last word. "I promise, I won't let Coco forget you!"

The petal touches Miguel's arm. With a yelp of what could have been pain, or shock, or whatever, the boy above him disappears in a shower of golden petals. Even without a nose, the distinct smell of the cempasuchil surrounds him. It is one of the last things he remembers of that fateful morning, before darkness shut out his vision. It should be appropriate that the flores de muertos should be his send off into the unknown.

Because Héctor is fading. As sure as Miguel was close to death, Héctor is even closer to his own death. Only Héctor's death will be final.

Will it be painful? He wonders. Will it be as hard as his first death, which had been extremely painful as the poison had tainted his very core? It certainly doesn't feel painful. It doesn't feel much like anything. It reminds him of the heavy exhaustion that had weighed his limbs after a night of playing guitar with Ernesto in the mariachi plaza in the hopes of attracting stardom. The times when he'd barely have the energy to collapse onto the bed he shared with Imelda in their pequeña casa in Santa Cecilia. She would usually sit beside him, much like she is now, and run her fingers through his hair.

Imelda does this, her fingers gently de-tangling the mess on his skull. It's not the same. Her fingers are not as soft anymore. They are bone after all, and she's had a lifetime of shoemaking to alter her touch. And his hair is not the same as it was before. It was always messy, but now it is greasy, and straw-like to boot.

Yet the feeling of her fingers running through his hair is familiar. It feels good, so so good. It gives him energy where he'd been lacking it. In fact, it would feel like a good stretch to his muscles if Héctor had any. Strength rushes into him, returns to him, makes him stronger.

He blinks open his eyes and gasps. This is not familiarity lending him its strength. It is life, or whatever is left of his, flowing back into him. He bolts upright, taking a deep, filling breath. His hands still feel weak as he lifts them to his face, staring into his knuckles. At least they aren't shaking anymore.

Around him are cries of relief, and Imelda actually hugs him. He cherishes the feeling as more arms surround him, his family cheering at his revival. Miguel had kept his final promise.

…

Héctor sits in a hard, wooden seat. It rubs his bones the wrong way, almost painfully grinding as he adjusts his position in the chair. Tonight alone, he'd gone through more than his entire lifetime when he was actually alive. Figuring out that his death had not been some unfortunate circumstance, but was actually much darker than that… that took a lot of his mental energy. Even now, sitting in this uncomfortable wooden chair, the shock and betrayal he'd felt from the moment he learned the truth is just as strong as before. Not to mention that he'd nearly died again.

From behind him are footsteps, and then un policia crosses in front of Héctor and sits across from him. Héctor immediately recognizes this cop. He'd only just met him tonight.

"Héctor Rivera," he says in a gravelly voice, and he actually sounds tired. As if he'd had a long night. He is holding a clipboard that he dramatically drops onto the table with a sharp clatter. He stares at Héctor so intently that for a moment, Héctor wonders what kind of trouble he's in now.

When he speaks, though, he does not say what Héctor expects at all. "It took us almost an hour to get de la Cruz out from under that bell. Your wife's alebrije did a number on him." The cop leans forward. "Broke his shin, aye."

Héctor winces. During his first few weeks in the Land of the Dead, Héctor had discovered that bones were not so easily broken here. When they were, however, it was extremely painful. A tío, Manuel, of Shantytown had kindly bound Héctor's shin bone, and his ulna. Unfortunately, his rib was too awkward to bind using duct-tape.

El Oficial looks at him, cocking an eyebrow. "Her, uh, pet is as fierce as she is," he comments. There is a note to his voice, a hint towards something, Héctor does not know what, but he's not sure he likes it. "I can't believe she tolerated you for as long as she did. And now…"

At last, they are arriving at the point. The cop looks Héctor right in the eye and says it straight. "We cannot charge him for his crimes against you."

"What?" Héctor snaps, getting to his feet abruptly. "That man murdered me. And you're just going to let him go?"

"A crime he committed in life," the cop reminds him. "We have no jurisdiction there."

Héctor gesticulates wildly. "He attacked my family." He can't even believe it needs to be said.

The cop sighs wearily, balancing his head in his hand. "I don't make the rules, Héctor. I just follow them."

"And enforce them," Héctor mutters angrily.

Now the cop seems to be getting annoyed. "Sí. I enforce them. That's my job, Héctor."

He pulls the clipboard back to him, scribbling something with sharp scratches from a pen. "We can charge him for the attack on the living boy," the cop declares without looking up. "But that's it. He'll be locked up until he's deemed he's not a threat anymore."

The scribbling stops and he looks up at Héctor. His gaze is softer, more understanding than Héctor has ever seen it. "Go home, Héctor," he says. "You've had a hard night. Go rest."

Héctor doesn't want to accept what the cop has told him. But even he knows when to accept defeat. With a snort, he turns and storms out of the office. His hands are shaking again, but not from weakness this time. He pauses outside the door. Somewhere nearby, his familia is waiting for him; possibly even looking for him. It's all he's ever wanted, to be accepted by his family for the first time in a century. But at that moment, Héctor can't bring himself to round the corner to them.

He presses himself against the wall to stop the rattling in his bones. His hands press into his skull, as if to anchor the thoughts rampaging through his head. Ernesto, his best friend, had murdered him. That alone was bad enough. But even knowing that, knowing what his amigo had done to him did not prepare Héctor for the sting of betrayal he'd feel mere hours later, when Ernesto would throw Miguel off of the roof.

He can still hear Miguel's scream as he'd plunged to certain death. This betrayal… it had been different than being murdered. He had not known he had been murdered, not until three hours ago. But Miguel… Héctor was fond of the boy. His great-great-grandson. He had never even known he had a great-great-grandson, but now that he knows, Héctor feels a strong sense of protectiveness over the boy.

Watching Miguel get thrown over the roof's edge was like watching his own child get thrown over. Worse than if he himself had been thrown.

He feels a sickness turning his non-existent stomach into knots. He bends over, putting one hand over where his stomach should be. Is he going to be sick? Can he get sick?

"Héctor?"

Even after all these years, Imelda's voice reaches Héctor just the same. He looks at her and sees a tenderness there that he had not known since they'd had Coco. She'd gotten fiercer over the years. Bitterness turns his stomach again as he remembers the reason why she'd turned so angry.

As much as Héctor wants to confide in Imelda all of the hurt he feels, he knows he can't. There is still space between them, both figuratively and literally. She stands a meter away, her presence circling him, but not coming any closer. There's too much to hash out between them before he can share himself with her again.

So he answers the most obvious of her questions. "They're not going to charge him with the murder," he says.

Perhaps Imelda expected this. Perhaps she knew all along that Héctor's murder would go unpunished. Perhaps. But she still gets that look on her face, the one that puts Héctor back in his living body, just so he can crawl out of it to avoid her wrath.

"¡¿Qué?!" she snaps. "¿Estás jugando? They can not let him go unpunished!"

Héctor winces at her tone. He quickly reminds himself that this time she's not actually mad at him. "They're gonna get him for attacking Miguel!"

This is not enough. He knows it, and she knows it, and he knows she knows it. Her face twists, a gleam comes into her eyes. "I'll talk to him," she decides without a moment of hesitation. "Make him see sense."

She's about to stalk past him, but Héctor reaches out and grabs her arm at the last second. For a brief moment, there is a fire in her eyes as she looks at his hand touching her arm, but then it softens. Héctor shakes his head. "It's no use," he says. "La jura's mind is made up."

For a moment, her gaze seems to search hers. What answers does she find there? Does she know how much Héctor rejoices that she has not snatched her arm away from his touch? Does she know that he's still shaking, despite the newfound strength flowing through him, thanks to their great-great-grandson preserving his memory? Whatever she sees, it calms her. Héctor takes a deep breath as she slowly withdraws from his touch. It's enough, for now, and he willingly lets her go.

"Then I'll make sure that he is punished for what he's done," she says in a low voice.

Héctor is about to ask her what she means, but before he can, there is a chorus of shouts. The rest of his familia has rounded the corner at last, coming to join them. He examines them, and they him. Some of them are shifting awkwardly, as if they don't know what to do. It is Rosita, a plump woman in pink, who hugs Héctor first. Then Victoria, and Julio, and then the rest join in. They stand there, huddled together with Héctor at the center of it all. His heart swells.

Ernesto betrayed him. Tried to kill his memory and his familia. But he had not succeeded. In this moment, right now, it is all that Héctor needs.