Title: A Good Day to Live
Author: TheFinduilas
Main Character: Agent Sands
Supporting Character: Chicle Boy, additional OC's
Rating: PG-13 for strong language
Disclaimer: Sands & Chicle belong to Rodriguez & Co.
Chapter 1: A Good Day to Die
Summary: It's the Day of the Dead and Sands is dying.
The Kid proved to be strangely persistent.
Sands had told him to fuck off, in no uncertain terms, more times than he cared to count, but Chicle would just stand there, unmoving, saying in a small voice "No puedo", I can't.
See that, Kid? (See that!) Ramirez can leave blind Agents to die. Ramirez can fuck off when he's told to. So can El Mariachi and the Mariachiettes. So why can't you?
'No puedo.' Once again in that apologetic voice, filled with sorrow and hope. Sands thought that this time he could hear tears in it, as well.
What did a man have to do to be allowed to die in this place? It was the Day of the Fucking Dead, for God's sake! How much more appropriate could a death wish be?
But the same people who were decorating the town with skeletons (there was no accounting for taste!) wouldn't let him be one.
Just go away! No puedo.
'Just go, Chicle,' he insisted, facing The Kid as he removed his sunglasses, hoping the gory sight would finally scare the boy away.
There was silence. Good! Perhaps he was alone at last, free to die.
He realized he wasn't when he heard soft, shuffling footsteps walking towards him. What would you know: the kid had cojones. Instead of running, Chicle just sat down beside Sands, held his hand, and sobbed.
'Grandma will take care of you', was all the boy said, between sobs, as he looked into the disturbing twin wounds, and gently palmed Sands's face.
And it was then that Sands decided to wait until the next day to die.
Everything that followed became a blur. He remembered being led by The Kid, small fingers holding his left hand. His right hand felt walls, doorways, lampposts. Then he was in a house. There was an old woman talking, Chicle held him. Later there was a man. There were gasps, there was pain, there was gauze and tape. Pills. Oh there were a lot of those.
Then there was restless sleep.
When the following day dawned, it was indeed a good day to die.
But he didn't. "No puedes", you can't, Chicle told him. So he lived.
And he learned a lot that day.
He learned that eyes that didn't exist could hurt like a mother. That you could never take too many Codeine tablets. In fact, that there weren't enough Codeine tablets in the world to quench your pain.
He learned that your brain could scream the word "BLIND" for hours on end and not get tired. That the moment you heard a sound you'd turn your head expecting to see. That there was no worse feeling in the world than realizing you couldn't. That your brain would then restart its chant with the intensity doubled.
He learned that food had no taste when you couldn't see it. But worst of all, he learned that he had been lied to, all his life: you didn't get heightened senses when you lost your sight. You kept the same old senses you always had. Minus one.
The most important one.
The day after that (not a good day to die) was also very instructional. And so was the week that followed.
Wasn't it just dandy that you could learn something new and depressing every day of your life? Because it meant that no matter how deep your funk, it could only get worse tomorrow.