Chiclet sat, legs curled up close to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his knees. He rested with his side leaning on the rough wall, the right side of his face pressed up against the hot grainy rock, studying the figure next to him.
Sands had collapsed hours ago, seconds after the man with the dog had turned the corner and disappeared from sight. His knees had buckled and his limp body had slid down the wall quickly, landing on the hard ground with a soft thud. He hadn't moved since.
The young boy wondered if he was dead, prayed he wasn't, but didn't dare to touch him to find out. He had spend the past hours staring at the strange man and wondering what he was really doing. He had millions of unanswered questions building in his mind. Who was he? Why was he here? The man was obviously not Mexican. But Chiclet said nothing, holding his queries until the right moment, wondering if Sands knew he was with him.
------------------------------
Sands sat, back arched slightly, head resting on a wall. His legs were bent in front of him, both half asleep. His arms were thrown carelessly at his sides, palms up facing the sky. He felt too weak to move, to speak, to do anything but sit, unable to even change his awkward position.
He had heard Jorge's footsteps grow fainter and fainter until he could no longer hear them at all. The exact moment he realized he had gone Sands felt his legs go. He had the sudden sensation that his entire body had turned to jelly as he fell back and let it fall down the rocky wall, not having enough energy to care that his back was being scraped painfully.
He slumped for God knows how long, just listening. As listening was all he could really do. He heard it when people slowly opened their doors and crept out into the streets to explore the damage after the coup d'etat. He had heard their conversations in quickly spoken Spanish, his clouded mind understanding only every few words.
He knew Chiclet was there, he also knew he was watching him. Sands could hear the rustle of his pants as he moved his legs even the slightest, the faint ripping as the boy tore at gum packets out of nerves. Wondering whether he was alright Sands assumed, somewhat warmed at the thought of a being actually giving a shit. Even if it was some little kid from the Mexican streets.
Now he felt the burning of the sun against his left cheek slowly, slowly wean. The sun was setting, the day was ending, how long had he been here?
Soon the feeling of the sun was all gone and Sands' ears were met with the sounds of the people retreating back into their homes, shutting windows, finishing last minute chores. As part of his mind focused on the back and forth swish of a broom, another part wandered if he was ever going to move from this spot. Why would he? Its not like he had any where to go, anyone to see. Eventually even Chiclet would leave, riding his bicycle down the street, tires bouncing up and down over rises and potholes.
Sands had just decided that he was going to rot in this very spot, on some Godforsaken spit of sidewalk, in some broken city, in some loud and burning country when he felt hands grip themselves around his arm tightly and drag his sore and aching body up off the ground.
---------------------------
El sat, elbows to knees, hands folded, chin resting on top. The small chair he occupied was tall and stiff, which would make leaning back a very uncomfortable affair.
He breathed slowly as he watched the figure in the hospital bed.
He had come back for Sands.
Of course he had come back.
Was there ever any doubt in his mind that he'd eventually come back to him? Regretless of the man's shitty attitude, he was still a partner. A partner El didn't want to leave behind.
The boy was in the room too, standing at the head of the bed still watching over the man. He had followed El here, oblivious to El's advice that he should go home. The boy had just smiled an innocent little smile and walked faster. El didn't mind him too much now, he seemed to genuinely care. But why any boy would care about Sands so deeply was beyond him.
El ran a hand through his hair, and sighed, a deep breath mingling with the
stuffy hospital air as the door opened with a loud creak. Two men walked in.
---------------------------
Sands awoke with a start. Awoke? Had he fallen asleep?
He could no longer feel the wall scraping against the back of his skull. In its place was a gentle numbness, and a feeling he couldn't quite place. His arm twitched as he brought it slowly to his head.
A pillow, it was a fucking pillow.
Oh Christ, what had happened now? Walls, he expected, hard dirty floors, he expected. But pillows? Now those were like a kick in the nuts.
"--hospital"
Sands jerked forward at the sound. He had assumed he was alone, but now that he was more then half awake he could feel his ears start working again.
"I... don't need to go to any.. fucking Mexican hospital." he managed to spit out the first words he had spoken in ages.
He heard a laugh, sweet but sickening, like too much syrup on your pancakes. "You're already in one, hombre."
Sands' hands flew back to head, something was missing. "My glasses.. where.." he dragged his finger tips across his face and felt in their place tightly bound bandages wrapped all the way around, covering the holes in his head.
Another laugh, just as bittersweet "They're just bandages man, don't freak out or anything! Shit El, this guy is a fucking trip.."
El?
Sands had collapsed hours ago, seconds after the man with the dog had turned the corner and disappeared from sight. His knees had buckled and his limp body had slid down the wall quickly, landing on the hard ground with a soft thud. He hadn't moved since.
The young boy wondered if he was dead, prayed he wasn't, but didn't dare to touch him to find out. He had spend the past hours staring at the strange man and wondering what he was really doing. He had millions of unanswered questions building in his mind. Who was he? Why was he here? The man was obviously not Mexican. But Chiclet said nothing, holding his queries until the right moment, wondering if Sands knew he was with him.
------------------------------
Sands sat, back arched slightly, head resting on a wall. His legs were bent in front of him, both half asleep. His arms were thrown carelessly at his sides, palms up facing the sky. He felt too weak to move, to speak, to do anything but sit, unable to even change his awkward position.
He had heard Jorge's footsteps grow fainter and fainter until he could no longer hear them at all. The exact moment he realized he had gone Sands felt his legs go. He had the sudden sensation that his entire body had turned to jelly as he fell back and let it fall down the rocky wall, not having enough energy to care that his back was being scraped painfully.
He slumped for God knows how long, just listening. As listening was all he could really do. He heard it when people slowly opened their doors and crept out into the streets to explore the damage after the coup d'etat. He had heard their conversations in quickly spoken Spanish, his clouded mind understanding only every few words.
He knew Chiclet was there, he also knew he was watching him. Sands could hear the rustle of his pants as he moved his legs even the slightest, the faint ripping as the boy tore at gum packets out of nerves. Wondering whether he was alright Sands assumed, somewhat warmed at the thought of a being actually giving a shit. Even if it was some little kid from the Mexican streets.
Now he felt the burning of the sun against his left cheek slowly, slowly wean. The sun was setting, the day was ending, how long had he been here?
Soon the feeling of the sun was all gone and Sands' ears were met with the sounds of the people retreating back into their homes, shutting windows, finishing last minute chores. As part of his mind focused on the back and forth swish of a broom, another part wandered if he was ever going to move from this spot. Why would he? Its not like he had any where to go, anyone to see. Eventually even Chiclet would leave, riding his bicycle down the street, tires bouncing up and down over rises and potholes.
Sands had just decided that he was going to rot in this very spot, on some Godforsaken spit of sidewalk, in some broken city, in some loud and burning country when he felt hands grip themselves around his arm tightly and drag his sore and aching body up off the ground.
---------------------------
El sat, elbows to knees, hands folded, chin resting on top. The small chair he occupied was tall and stiff, which would make leaning back a very uncomfortable affair.
He breathed slowly as he watched the figure in the hospital bed.
He had come back for Sands.
Of course he had come back.
Was there ever any doubt in his mind that he'd eventually come back to him? Regretless of the man's shitty attitude, he was still a partner. A partner El didn't want to leave behind.
The boy was in the room too, standing at the head of the bed still watching over the man. He had followed El here, oblivious to El's advice that he should go home. The boy had just smiled an innocent little smile and walked faster. El didn't mind him too much now, he seemed to genuinely care. But why any boy would care about Sands so deeply was beyond him.
El ran a hand through his hair, and sighed, a deep breath mingling with the
stuffy hospital air as the door opened with a loud creak. Two men walked in.
---------------------------
Sands awoke with a start. Awoke? Had he fallen asleep?
He could no longer feel the wall scraping against the back of his skull. In its place was a gentle numbness, and a feeling he couldn't quite place. His arm twitched as he brought it slowly to his head.
A pillow, it was a fucking pillow.
Oh Christ, what had happened now? Walls, he expected, hard dirty floors, he expected. But pillows? Now those were like a kick in the nuts.
"--hospital"
Sands jerked forward at the sound. He had assumed he was alone, but now that he was more then half awake he could feel his ears start working again.
"I... don't need to go to any.. fucking Mexican hospital." he managed to spit out the first words he had spoken in ages.
He heard a laugh, sweet but sickening, like too much syrup on your pancakes. "You're already in one, hombre."
Sands' hands flew back to head, something was missing. "My glasses.. where.." he dragged his finger tips across his face and felt in their place tightly bound bandages wrapped all the way around, covering the holes in his head.
Another laugh, just as bittersweet "They're just bandages man, don't freak out or anything! Shit El, this guy is a fucking trip.."
El?