NOTE: This chapter was posted at the same time as chapter 4.

READ CHAPTER 4 FIRST

Chapter 5: Night in Mexico City part 2

He couldn't move.

For an unknown time he lay there, shivering, his whole body aching and numb.

He tried to lift himself, and shuddered as a wave of pain hit him, and he became aware of the bruises all over his body from the kicks and punches. For a moment he paused, waiting for the sharpness to fade, and then tried to rise to his knees but couldn't. A new fear crossed his mind like a shadow. He couldn't move.

A ragged sob escaped his throat. He wanted the pain to stop, but he knew this was deeper than physical pain, something that had punctured his soul and may never heal. His body had been damaged, but it was worse, worse than that…

He didn't want anyone to see him like that, broken and bloody and helpless.

He didn't want anyone to see him…

God, he couldn't move.

Someone touched his shoulder and he flinched, cowering in on himself, terrified the men had returned. But it was a girl who spoke in a tiny, trembling voice.

"Señor," she whispered. "Senor, are you all right? I-I can help. I…I'm so sorry."

"Wha… who?" he muttered, still tensed, but slowly breathing again.

"I'm sorry," she said again, her voice cracking. "God, I'm so sorry." He could feel her hands shaking as she undid the ropes around his numb hands.

Why was she sorry? He closed his eyes and found his mind stuttering and slow. Then it made sense. She must have been the girl they had been attacking.

"Are you ok?" he asked, the words strangely slurred.

"I-I'm fine. God, what they did to you…"

Something like ice crawled through him. The shame that had covered him like a heavy fog was suddenly sharp and real. Had she seen the whole thing? Did she know what they had done?

Soon the rope around his wrists fell slack, and his hands were free. Slowly he brought them to his chest, curling around himself as he massaged the dents, barely able to move his fingers. He rolled his shoulders, feeling them creak, and wiped his cheek. Then, the shame growing more and more, he slowly pulled his pants up, his fingers shaking as he re-tied the laces, struggling not to cry aloud. But even then he didn't stand, and was only vaguely aware of the girl moving around to his front, then flinched again when she lay a hand on his shoulder.

"We have to go," she said urgently, her voice low. "Can you stand?"

"Yes."

No, he couldn't.

He pulled himself to his knees and then stumbled, his legs shaking, uncooperating. The girl pulled his arm around her shoulder and hoisted him up with surprising strength. She led them through a side door around the corner that was shockingly close by, only a matter of steps. Is that where she had fled to? Both were silent as she shut the door behind them with a tiny click of a lock. Héctor looked down the hallway for anyone else but it was pitch-black, silent. The girl led him through the darkness, apparently knowing her way well enough.

He wondered where they were going, but was too afraid to speak and break the silence, broken only by the patter of footsteps and the rustle of clothes. As they passed a series of doors he realized he couldn't return to his room; couldn't bear to have Ernesto see him like that. But apparently the girl had a plan, for she led him along a hallway, then up a creaky flight of stairs, then up another. Finally they came to a door, sneaking inside before the girl got out from under his arm, closing the latch with a trembling clatter, as if the men might be right behind them. Then she stopped, breathing heavily, and also sounding very close to tears.

"Where… where are we?" he asked, standing perfectly still in the darkness.

"My room. M-my bedroom," she muttered, embarrassed. "Or it's mine when there's not too many guests at the hotel, otherwise we rent it out. It was the only place I could think of."

"Thank you," he whispered, stunned at how tired he felt, his heartbeat going from a quickstep to a stutter.

"Wait, wait, I…" she said in a voice of dawning recognition, and turned to look at him. "I know you. You… you're the mariachi, aren't you?"

He squinted at her in the dark, but couldn't see well enough, and her voice wasn't familiar. Perhaps his confusion was apparent, because she went on.

"You performed last night, right?" she said, the words suddenly spilling out. "I heard you, that why I thought I recognized your voice. I- this is my family's hotel, so I heard when you sang and played the guitar."

"Oh..." he blinked, unsure what to say.

"I… I really liked your music," she said, then sniffed again.

"That's… that's good," he murmured, closing his eyes and felt himself sway. The girl was at his side again, catching him as his legs threatened to buckle. God, he was pathetic.

He felt too dirty to be laid on a bed, but she set him down anyway. At first he tried to sit but a humiliating pain shot through him, making him flinch before lying instead on his side, curling up and feeling like a young, stupid kid.

Ashamed. Filthy.

Then she spoke, just over a whisper. "I'm sorry."

He closed his eyes, letting his head sink onto the bed, the rough fabric mercifully cool beneath his cheek. "It's all right. I'm… I'm glad you're safe."

Then he realized how dry his throat was. "Do you… have any water?"

She moved to the other side of the room and brought him back a cup, passed from one shaking hand to another, and he drank it all. After that she sat down against the wall, barely visible in the darkness.

Another stretch of silence, broken by the tiny, tiny sound of her fiddling with the hem of her skirt.

"My name is Maris," she said finally.

"Héctor," he breathed out.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"No," he said, tired of speaking.

He lay curled up on the thin bed, unmoving as the girl sat there, neither one speaking. So much time passed he assumed she had fallen asleep, figuring that surely it was almost dawn, although the air was still black as blindness.

Everything became distorted, his mind growing sluggish as his body ached. Time must have stilled. It was the only explanation. The little room became the entirety of existence, and he and the girl the only living souls within. It was terrifying, and unsettling, and lonely.

Imelda's face came into his mind and he shuddered, pulled tighter in on himself, and forced it away. He didn't want her amidst his thoughts, afraid that the idea of her and home and Coco would become dirty by association. If he didn't think of them, they could be kept safe and clean. How… how could he ever look her in the eyes again? How could he ever call himself a man? A husband? A father?

It was as if a stranger lived in his body. Somebody not himself.

Perhaps he slept, although he wasn't aware of it. He just knew that sooner than it should have been, there was faint light outside the shuttered window. Apparently time had not stopped, and the world kept going, even though everything seemed wrong, like existence had been doused in a dirty shade of gray, or brown. Like ash, or dust, or smoke on the breeze that you might not see but would choke you when you least expect it.

But no, it wasn't the world that had turned gray and dirty, it was him.

In the night he had changed, and he could never go back to who he had been.

With a deep sigh he raised himself up before doubling over again at the stabbing pain in his stomach from where he had been kicked. He prodded it, felt the growing bruise. Again he sat up, slower. The girl, Maris, was still there against the wall, fast asleep over her knees, her arms tucked against herself like a little bird.

He kept quiet as he tried to stand up, but everything was sore, and there was a pain in one spot too deep to mention, and he wondered if he was bleeding. Eventually he stood, leaning heavily against the wall for support as he struggled to breathe normally. He desperately wanted to lay back down. Or just disappear. That would be fine.

There was a small intake of breath that wasn't his, and he saw that Maris had woken, rising to her feet and looking concerned.

"I have to go," he said, his voice ragged. "It's almost morning."

"Are you… are you all right? Do you not want a doctor?"

"No. No doctor. I need to get back before I'm missed." He paused, afraid to look at her. "Please, please don't tell this to anyone."

"No. Upon my soul, I won't say a word. I promise."

He nodded and pulled away from the wall, steadying himself. She reached forward to catch him then drew back, holding her hands to her chest, and didn't move as he stepped past. But before he opened the door, he turned and finally got a good look at the girl. Small, with a narrow face, dark hair in a wispy braid down her back, and large brown eyes looking miserably at him. Just a kid.

He gave her a smile, hoping it might be some comfort. "Thank you for helping me."

She stiffened, shaking her head quickly. "No, I-I should be thanking you. You saved me. And, God… and because of it…"

"Ah, no, no, no, don't think like that," he said softly, turning fully towards her. "It wasn't your fault. I'm just glad they didn't hurt you, too. And… and at least I wasn't alone afterwards."

He found himself reassured by his own words, and stepped closer to her with an outstretched hand. "Maybe we'll meet again. It was Maris, wasn't it?"

She sniffed, nodding and brushing at her eye before a sob escaped and she buried her face in her hands, muffling her cries, her shoulders shuddering. His hand dropped to his side, and could only watch as she stood before him in the dark little room and sobbed.

"I'm sorry," she choked. "God, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…"

"Hey, it's ok." He put his hands on her shoulders, lowering himself to face her. "It's ok."

She looked at him, her face screwed up, tears damp on her cheeks. She opened her mouth to say something, but instead threw her arms around him, burying her face against his chest.

For a moment he was too stunned to move, could feel her shaking against him as she murmured apologies over and over against his heart. A shuddering gasp left him as a lump settled in his throat. He meant to comfort her, to say that things would be ok. But the words wouldn't come.

It wasn't ok. He wasn't ok. What they did to him…

He felt disgusting, untouchable… yet still she held him, clinging to him as if afraid to let go. There was a moment of surprise when a tear slid down his own cheek, his eyes burning.

Slowly, carefully, he put his arms around her. She only pulled him closer, and he bent his head into her shoulder. He didn't know who was comforting who, but for that moment, he let himself be weak. His own body shook with sobs, biting his lip as tears dripped down his face. He cried for the pain deep, deep within his bones at what had happened. At the humiliation and the terror. At whatever innocence he had lost that night.

For an unknown time, they simply held each other and cried.

Then, slowly, they pulled away, neither meeting the other's eyes. Maris silently went to a nightstand and brought him a wet cloth that he used to wipe his face of the tears and dirt, before handing to her and watched her swipe under her eyes. But both of them had noticeably relaxed, and he felt like he might be able to walk again. Like he could breathe.

"I should go," he whispered.

She nodded, then took his hand in both of hers, rubbing over his knuckles as she gave a little hiccup.

"I won't forget you," she whispered and brought his hand to her lips. It was strangely moving, and he almost laughed. Instead, he just smiled before leaning down and kissing her forehead. She really was just a kid.

From elsewhere in the building they heard footsteps and muffled conversation, and both knew their time was up. Morning was rising fast, and he had to leave, especially before anyone found him in her bedroom. Absolutely no good would come of them being discovered.

She opened the door, peeking quickly before ushering him out and leading him down the hallway, which was a great help considering he had no idea where he was. They crept through the somber building, avoiding an old woman carrying armfuls of laundry and a young boy striding quickly past. Héctor wished he wore something other than his underclothes, but it couldn't be helped. Fortunately they were able to make their way to his room undetected. He lay a hand on the door, feeling the cool solidness of it, as if to assure himself it was real.

The night was over.

He turned toward the girl with a warm smile, feeling almost normal. "This is where we leave, then. Adios, Maris."

She managed a small smile in return, nodding. "Adios, Héctor."

He watched her walk away and disappear around the corner. Despite all that had happened, he couldn't regret what he had done. With a quick, silent prayer for her safety and happiness, he entered the little room and saw Ernesto still in bed. Héctor let out a faint sigh, thinking his disappearance had gone unnoticed. But then Ernesto propped himself up and looked blearily at him.

"Where the hell've you been?"

"Ah… nowhere. Just wanted to get some fresh air."

"Idiota," Ernesto huffed, falling back onto the pillow. "Fresh air, my ass. Bet you were off with some girl. Heh, it'd do you some good."

Héctor sighed again, a great weariness pressing on his shoulders. Instead of replying, or stepping too close in the early morning light, he went to the side of the room and looked at himself in the speckled mirror. It was remarkable how normal he looked. Except for the eyes that stared back at him; those were different. There were dark shadows beneath them, faint traces of tears, and very small marks upon his gaunt cheeks, scratches buried among the faint stubble. Besides that, he looked the same.

He placed a hand to his stomach, prodded at the edges of the interwoven bruises, and tried to mentally count off the other signs of pain. Some on his legs, his knees; a long tenderness running down his forearm, and a sensitive spot on his lower ribs that hurt when he breathed too deep. Then he lifted his hands up and pulled back the sleeves, uncovering his wrists. There. Proof of what had happened. That it had been more than a dream. Both his wrists bore purple-blue marks where they had been tied, made worse by how much he had strained and pulled against them.

But those marks would fade, given time. The bruises would seep into his skin and disappear, and he would pretend it never happened. Maybe one day the pain would disappear, too.

He ran his thumb along his inner wrist, contemplating, and then moved to the window to look out at the new day. There, he only saw a dense gray fog, cold and clammy, and blocking the sky. The grayness seemed everywhere. Inside him. Within his very bones.

Ernesto rolled over in bed with a huff, and he looked over to him, his best friend, his almost brother, and felt strangely calm. Ernesto couldn't know what had happened. No one could. Especially Imelda. There was a great pang in his chest at the thought of her, a fierce longing to be with her. That feeling conflicted harshly with never wanting to be touched. As if he might infect her; as if she might shudder away from his embrace.

What could he do? Where could he go from there?

He had very nearly died that night. Might have never seen his wife or daughter again. The thought chilled him. To never again be able to hold Imelda in his arms, or sing to Coco. Never set foot in his home. How much longer he could bear this damn trip? Was this worth it?

No, he thought with a grimace.

He had to go home.

Author Notes:

He never did make it home.