The silence soon became unbearable, and he stretched out a hand to turn the radio back up. The first notes of Tito & Tarantula's "Strange Face of Love" rang into the silence like a sudden epiphany, and El sat up in bed, crouched, hands around his knees, rocking gently back and forth to the rhythm of the song. He felt like crying, except he had never cried in his life. He was a man of action, not a man of regret, and as much grievance as his past existence had taught him, he had never once shed a tear. What good would it do to dwell on the past? The shadows in his mind were threatening to take over, and he rubbed his temples as if to force them to go away. They would never leave him though, and he knew it. Exasperated, he lay down again, pulling the blankets over him, and closed his eyes. Darkness creeped slowly into his vision, and he slept. But even within the darkness, there were shadows...
And blood. So much blood. El looked around. He was standing in the same street where he'd stood so many times before, this time surrounded by bodies, and by several grim-looking men with their weapons drawn. Twirling around, he caught a glimpse of each and every one of the dismembered corpses: there was Carolina, long dark hair stained with blood, eyes glazed over, one hand outstretched, with blood dripping from the fingers. There was his daughter, the sweet little girl, missing an arm and a leg, the fragile little body torn to pieces by some terrible force. Domino, stretched out on her back, bare arms haphazardly thrown about her, a single bullet wound to the stomach, oozing its liquid poison onto the ground, staining the light soil with darkness.
He swallowed hard, and passed his left hand over his forehead. It left a streak of something warm, something familiar, something that for a second blurred his vision. He wiped the substance out of his eyes, and forced himself to concentrate. Looking at his hand, he realized it, too, was bleeding. The scar, not a scar but an open wound, a hole shot straight through his hand, was shedding tears of dark red lava. He was becoming increasingly dizzy, the scenery floating in front of his eyes like the air on a gruesomly hot day, and suddenly, his feet were no longer firmly planted on the ground. He could feel himself falling, desperately grasping after someone, something, that was just beyond his reach...
El awoke with a start. Kicking the covers away from him, he sat up, and buried his head in his hands.
"Having nightmares again, are you? I told you sleeping was for sissies...We see enough horrors awake, you and I."
"Shut up."
El reached over to his case and flicked it open. He slowly stroked his guitar with two fingers, and carefully lifted it out of the case and onto his lap. For a long time, he just sat there, looking at the shiny finish, letting his hands roam up and down it, caressing it, almost as when comforting a lost child, or a long-lost lover. After exercising his left hand, which was throbbing slightly with a dull ache, he resumed position, and began to play. The soft notes filled the room, and El closed his eyes. His fingers knew their way across the strings, and for a moment, everything else was drowned out by the gentle cries and moans of his constant companion, filling him with the strangest emotion: the one of peace.
And blood. So much blood. El looked around. He was standing in the same street where he'd stood so many times before, this time surrounded by bodies, and by several grim-looking men with their weapons drawn. Twirling around, he caught a glimpse of each and every one of the dismembered corpses: there was Carolina, long dark hair stained with blood, eyes glazed over, one hand outstretched, with blood dripping from the fingers. There was his daughter, the sweet little girl, missing an arm and a leg, the fragile little body torn to pieces by some terrible force. Domino, stretched out on her back, bare arms haphazardly thrown about her, a single bullet wound to the stomach, oozing its liquid poison onto the ground, staining the light soil with darkness.
He swallowed hard, and passed his left hand over his forehead. It left a streak of something warm, something familiar, something that for a second blurred his vision. He wiped the substance out of his eyes, and forced himself to concentrate. Looking at his hand, he realized it, too, was bleeding. The scar, not a scar but an open wound, a hole shot straight through his hand, was shedding tears of dark red lava. He was becoming increasingly dizzy, the scenery floating in front of his eyes like the air on a gruesomly hot day, and suddenly, his feet were no longer firmly planted on the ground. He could feel himself falling, desperately grasping after someone, something, that was just beyond his reach...
El awoke with a start. Kicking the covers away from him, he sat up, and buried his head in his hands.
"Having nightmares again, are you? I told you sleeping was for sissies...We see enough horrors awake, you and I."
"Shut up."
El reached over to his case and flicked it open. He slowly stroked his guitar with two fingers, and carefully lifted it out of the case and onto his lap. For a long time, he just sat there, looking at the shiny finish, letting his hands roam up and down it, caressing it, almost as when comforting a lost child, or a long-lost lover. After exercising his left hand, which was throbbing slightly with a dull ache, he resumed position, and began to play. The soft notes filled the room, and El closed his eyes. His fingers knew their way across the strings, and for a moment, everything else was drowned out by the gentle cries and moans of his constant companion, filling him with the strangest emotion: the one of peace.