Runner
Author's notes: I was supposed to be doing my Teacher's Day prose but somehow ended up writing this. And it has been censored, my dear Laiqualaurelote. All swearwords are in Spanish. You don't believe me, hm? Well, if you don't take my word for it, read on querido, read on.
He runs from memories. Can't really remember when he started. He runs from dreams, drinking more coffee than tequila just to jerk awake in the pale silhouette of the sun, cheeks wet with loss.
He moves through Mexico, wondering, touching, listening, like a newborn child who has never known the world. As a matter of fact, he never has. Always there, watching things fall around him and laughing at the pandemonium. He tries to remember what colour chaos was and realises he doesn't know.
He plays his guitar, watching over Mexico. He is the Guardian, the pistolero, the Mariachi. He plays, then wonders who he plays for.
He listens, it's haunting and sad. Triste. The other laughs at his attempt, not unkindly. He laughs in response, almost horrified that he does.
They drink tequila in the hotel room. Cigarette smoke entwines in the shadows, crooking and spiralling.
"Play a song."
"What song?"
"Any goddamn song. I don't care."
The guitar starts to hum, a voice rising in response. It ends, too soon, the guitar purring softly to a stop.
"Nada sigue siendo siempre igual."
"What? You know I don't understand your backward, vete a la mierda para arriba language that well."
"You swear well enough in it."
"Ha, shut up, pendejo."
"See?"
"I resent that."
"Oh, sorry."
Cigarette smoke on peeling cream wallpaper. The bedsprings squeak as someone shifts his position, sending wisps of smoke to the ceiling.
"What did it mean?"
"What did what mean?"
"That sentence you said."
"Nothing ever remains the same."
"Oh. I like that one."
"Why?"
"Because it's true."
There is silence once more. A cigarette falls to the floor and is ground into a pile of nicotine and ash.
"Bed already?"
"No, lying down enables me to think properly."
Another cigarette falls to its death on the flooring, crushed beneath merciless boots.
"Good night."
"Same to you."
Silence fills the room. Then, the soft clinking of chains and the snapping-shut of a guitar case.
When he wakes up later, he realises that El is gone. There is the slight twinge of pain at the loss and the surprise that there even was a twinge in the first place. He should be glad. But he isn't. Slowly, he moves around the hotel room to the other bed and stands next to it for a moment, thinking. He moves next to the balcony and lets the sunlight play on his skin. For a moment, he hears a guitar, playing. Then, it's gone.
He leaves the hotel soon after. The bill has already been paid. He walks through the town once more, but it doesn't feel the same. Not anymore.
