The Magnetism of Being Fractured

by poeticsinema

You don't see Alejandro live his life. You can't tell apart the ruse between the human and the wolf. But beneath it all - the violence, his rage, and his vengeance, there are parts from his past that still resides within him. In the privacy of his own company, there are parts that he allows himself to recognise.

3. The ferocity of memories

He has his shades drawn over his eyes. The metallic sheen of the frame catching the afternoon sun. It is unusually balmy in this cloudy city today.

A warm smile, and a, What can I get you?

A warm smile, and a, What can I get you?

A warm smile, and a, What can I get you?

When he reaches the front of the line, he discovers that there hadn't been a need to rehearse what he wants in his head.

"Cinnamon roll. Coffee, black - no sugar."

She has it prepared - a warm smile, and a, Here ya go.

Her voice is honeyed, like the morning. Sticky, like sugar - like blood - dripping in his memory. A meal prepared, ready for him to take to his table - the very one that overlooks the cobbled street. The one where he observes people running, cycling, living.

There is an order barking at the back of his head, tugging him by the collar, trying to drag him away. Further. Too close, he hears the growl of his own command, you are not a creature worth knowing.

But his feet stand rooted. There is a yearning - for the cinnamon roll, rich, sweet, delicate, to wash it down with his coffee, black, no sugar - for the gentle voice, honeyed like the rich, afternoon sun. He collects what has been prepared for him, allows her a nod - gratitude in silence, and moves into his familiar cove. Overlooking the cobbled street.

Running. Cycling.

Living.

He is like a gravity well. Everything that comes to him gets sucked in. The body of his wife. The terror of his daughter. Kate's eyes. Isabel's cries. All thrown - smothered - in the pool of his catastrophe.

I made a mistake in my life today
Everything I love gets lost in the drawers

"You like this song." His voice startles her.

She looks up from wiping down the table next to his.

The whirl of the ceiling fan becomes distant. The chatter of this worn down bakery drowns out. The clanking of plates, of metal, of glass suddenly silent. Suddenly it feels too humid. Suddenly it feels claustrophobic.

She blinks. She has dark eyes.

The noise returns.

"Y-yes?" It is unintentional that her response comes out as a question.

She doesn't know where to put her hands, nor where to avert her eyes. There is something about looking at the man before her - she has memorised the deep hazel that caves beneath his heavy brow bone, learned the lines beneath his tired eyes. Something like steel. Unwavering.

There is amusement that plays on his lips. His gaze drops to the rim of his coffee cup, tracing a gentle thumb across the dark stain the brew has created, "I hear it every time I'm here."

Her eyes fall onto the ring around his finger.

She nods, "The National."

His brows furrow. They are thick, untrimmed - like the fur of a wolf, she notes.

"The band."

Alejandro nods, "Never heard."

He allows a small smile to play on the edges of his lips, then turns his attention back to observing the streets.

He has eyes on him.