He played for a long time, until the moon had shifted so that he could see the shadows move across the wall in front of him. His own body, outlined and filled in with black marker, loomed above him like some threatening figure from one of the tales his mother used to read him as a child. She had told him about ghosts and monsters, and yet he had never been afraid, knowing he was safe with his mother, father, and older brother all watching over him. He had never slept as soundly as he did after having been told one of her stories. Sometimes, when she was sick or tired, his brother sat on the edge of his bed, telling him the stories he remembered from his early childhood. Hazel eyes gleaming with excitement, the child had curled up in bed, clutching his teddy bear with one hand, the other hand curled into a fist in his mouth, listening to the older boy regaling him with his tales, wishing he would never have to stop.
El had seen plenty of pictures of these moments, and the thought of how the relationship with his older brother had ended was enough to make him curl that same fist, and bite those same knuckles until they bled. The life of a brother in return for the life of a lover - a lover who had her life taken away from her just a few short years later. The people he loved seemed to always be snatched away from him. It was dangerous to love. Too dangerous. Love had made him careless when he should have been cautious, blind when it should have made him see.
"Jesus, The...look at you, fucking wallowing in self-pity. We're in Mexico, for fuck's sake! Just go out and get yourself a girl. There's plenty of tail to go around in this country, I'm telling ya. What's your problem, fancypants? Are they not good enough for you?"
"Noone's good enough." El let his hands rise to his forehead, rubbing the creases and marks, then ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it back from his face. He paused at the sensation of warmth against his neck, and then shook his head to get rid of a sudden rush of emotions he thought had abandoned him long ago.
"Aw hell. You know, I'm just going to say this once: if you don't watch out you're going to end up an old man, with only that goddamn piece of shit to keep you company."
Without turning his head, El's eyes drifted to his guitar. The slender instrument had been a gift from his father, who had spent countless hours teaching him how to play. El had always wanted to be a Mariachi, a wandering guitar player, taking the occasional jobs in bars all over the country, never settling down, moving from place to place. He needed the sense of freedom it gave him, and besides, there was no home for him anyway. He was restless, rootless, cut adrift, like a ship in the night, taken by currents he had failed to see in time, and swept away to places he had never dreamed he'd be visiting, even in his worst nightmares. And there had been a number over the years: he couldn't recall when he'd last had a night of undisturbed sleep.
Life's bitter irony had made him a killer, a widower, a grieving father who feared the past more than any future. A man with a heart like a piece of burning coal, smouldering inside his chest, consuming everything, feeding off of itself, and slowly falling apart into nothingness. A man always walking in a shadow, a man with no life, no hope, and no foreseeable future. A dead man, ashes scattering as he roamed the streets, chains jingling, the morbid announcement of approaching death. Shackled to this age and place and existence, biding his time, waiting patiently to appear at Hell's Gates and spit the Devil himself in the face.
"You and me both, El."
He sat motionless, staring into the emptiness in front of him, eyes flashing with a long-forgotten fire. With a last flicker of light, the candle on the dresser suddenly went out, and he was left in complete darkness. As usual, the memories haunting him grew stronger and more compelling, feeding off the night and the black seeping bitterness that had once been his heart. Head still in his hands, he tumbled back into shadow.
El had seen plenty of pictures of these moments, and the thought of how the relationship with his older brother had ended was enough to make him curl that same fist, and bite those same knuckles until they bled. The life of a brother in return for the life of a lover - a lover who had her life taken away from her just a few short years later. The people he loved seemed to always be snatched away from him. It was dangerous to love. Too dangerous. Love had made him careless when he should have been cautious, blind when it should have made him see.
"Jesus, The...look at you, fucking wallowing in self-pity. We're in Mexico, for fuck's sake! Just go out and get yourself a girl. There's plenty of tail to go around in this country, I'm telling ya. What's your problem, fancypants? Are they not good enough for you?"
"Noone's good enough." El let his hands rise to his forehead, rubbing the creases and marks, then ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it back from his face. He paused at the sensation of warmth against his neck, and then shook his head to get rid of a sudden rush of emotions he thought had abandoned him long ago.
"Aw hell. You know, I'm just going to say this once: if you don't watch out you're going to end up an old man, with only that goddamn piece of shit to keep you company."
Without turning his head, El's eyes drifted to his guitar. The slender instrument had been a gift from his father, who had spent countless hours teaching him how to play. El had always wanted to be a Mariachi, a wandering guitar player, taking the occasional jobs in bars all over the country, never settling down, moving from place to place. He needed the sense of freedom it gave him, and besides, there was no home for him anyway. He was restless, rootless, cut adrift, like a ship in the night, taken by currents he had failed to see in time, and swept away to places he had never dreamed he'd be visiting, even in his worst nightmares. And there had been a number over the years: he couldn't recall when he'd last had a night of undisturbed sleep.
Life's bitter irony had made him a killer, a widower, a grieving father who feared the past more than any future. A man with a heart like a piece of burning coal, smouldering inside his chest, consuming everything, feeding off of itself, and slowly falling apart into nothingness. A man always walking in a shadow, a man with no life, no hope, and no foreseeable future. A dead man, ashes scattering as he roamed the streets, chains jingling, the morbid announcement of approaching death. Shackled to this age and place and existence, biding his time, waiting patiently to appear at Hell's Gates and spit the Devil himself in the face.
"You and me both, El."
He sat motionless, staring into the emptiness in front of him, eyes flashing with a long-forgotten fire. With a last flicker of light, the candle on the dresser suddenly went out, and he was left in complete darkness. As usual, the memories haunting him grew stronger and more compelling, feeding off the night and the black seeping bitterness that had once been his heart. Head still in his hands, he tumbled back into shadow.