Debris

by kumulonimbus

"His past was Medusa, she finally understood; it could turn him into stone the minute he dared look back." Erron Black crosses paths with a woman that will jeopardize his future by awakening his past. As he gravitates helplessly towards his long-lost yesteryears, he shall find himself trapped between this woman seeking his help and the dangerous rebel-seekers trying to get to them.

13. Elegy

He landed on his butt, ashamed, feeling like a vulnerable and anguished child. He rolled his eyes in discontent as his eyelids discovered how those unpitying pupils challenging him now seemed incredibly bigger from the daunting, cold ground - he was making an effort trying to be nice and attentive but it seemed rudeness was all he would be getting in return. Those reckless arms that had pushed him away were now distant harbors observing him from an invisible, unreachable pedestal. Those corrosive and impersonal eyes damaging him like piercing daggers were eager to be challenged by his untamable ways once again. Those menacing eyes were lighthouses on fire, he thought.

Erron Black took a deep breath as the sound of his uneven respiration enveloped him, detaching him briefly from the world itself – it resounded all around him like a mad tune on a sickening loop. He swallowed, as his craving gaze tried to reach for those eyes deconstructing him brutally: he knew better, after all.

He stood up slowly and brushed his buttocks with his sweaty, nervous hands. He was ready to give it another go, like a wrathful bull seeing red.

"I said move aside, you son of a bitch!" – that maddened voice scolded him again, the final elocution was enough to make him shudder like a toddler.

Those arms had indeed rejected him again. The sound of that vicious voice, now echoing louder than before, was massaging his troubled ears with the cruelest of words.

Son of a bitch.

Ever since he could remember, he had had a problem with those words, especially when used together, especially when referring to his mother. He knew it was a mere figure of speech; a hurting illusion created by the imaginary of entire societies separating the good from the bad, the pristine from the mundane, the acceptable from the unacceptable yet those words felt like a fatal spear impaling him every time.

Even though he had never doubted the obvious fact stating that he was smart enough not to get confused by the literacy of such unfortunate wording, a part of him had always had a hard time separating the actual meaning behind those heavy words from the assumption of what they all thought about his mother. He had learned to live among such scummy people yet those words had always taken its toll on him.

"I got this covered, kid. Thanks for the help, though," the experienced saloon bartender said as he helped the boy up.

Erron frowned virulently, as he watched good old Jacob's quiet, unnerving expression talking the man down with the prestige of a professional – The bartender simply walked up to the choleric Mr. Nathaniel Taggart and invited the banker, as politely and amicably as humanly possible, to come back inside the saloon for yet another drink. Jacob's clever ways were displayed with such simplicity and poise that it made it seem as if dealing with any of those so-called men of substance was no more than a children's game: putting up with drunken patrons was not that hard after all; a still-bewildered Erron concluded as he recalled the amazingly simple instructions the bartender had given him a long time ago: As long as the saloon is open, if they want another drink, you just keep 'em coming, boy.

The man was grieving, they all knew that. Rumor had it that Nathaniel hadn't always been such a messed up man. He had just lost his wife and now he was trying desperately to find solace in the comfort of strangers. He had become the newest addition to the saloon's sacred family of loyal patrons. But things were disastrous every time he was around – the man didn't know when to stop, he was a complete amateur – he was an upper class, aristocratic banker trying to fit in among farmers and working-class neighbors. He had never even bothered to learn their names and now he was trying to sympathize with them; longing for empathy and understanding by exposing miserably the most private pillars of his sorrow.

In their eyes, he was just another hypocrite, high-class parasite desperately seeking everyone's attention.

The pouring rain was gradually gluing his clothes to his barely experienced skin; the cold shower raining from the sky was soothing for his senses, slowly calming him down. The fourteen-year-old took a deep breath as the bartender and the troubled Mr. Taggart reentered the saloon. As their figures disappeared, a brand new one captivated the boy still standing in the middle of that godforsaken street. Her apparition, sublime and unprecedented, felt like tasting a fresh drop of water after walking endlessly through a merciless desert.

The girl, deliciously wrapped up in a navy blue cape, was standing near the saloon's front porch, trying to find shelter from the rain. He had never seen her before yet he envisioned himself seeing her for all eternity.

She let out a soft groan as she noticed the young boy staring awkwardly at her. She was clearly mad at her father and not only because her old man had just made a scene in the middle of the street: the engulfing reproach contained in her gaze had deeper roots; it was unmistakably revealing that the girl was angry at her old man for spending so much time drinking himself to oblivion and for warming up his bed with countless strangers right after losing his wife.

Grief – Erron pondered silently, funny how it can make people go crazy.

She walked up to the door right after her tormented father, the devil was driving her. She stood in the door frame then placed her hands at the sides of her waist and yelled: "Don't you think you've had enough? You could save yourself the embarrassment, old man." Erron couldn't help but notice her rictus aggravated and serious, and that tender image of such a young lady already acting as a thoughtful adult, swimming courageously in an unstable sea of contrived responsibilities, was enough to let a small grin curl up his lips – it wasn't the first time that an angry daughter or wife would try their best to get their men back home yet there was something special about her. Something he was already cherishing, his heart filled with unparalleled anticipation.

Something quite unique.

"Mind your own business, child," the banker said coldly, without even looking at his formidable daughter. He couldn't risk wasting any more time now that he was already too amused in the company of three saloon girls willingly trying to share a table with him. The girl let out a sigh full of frustration and retreated to the sheltering front porch, helplessly cursing under her breath.

She sat on the little wooden stair made by only three narrow treads at the entrance of the saloon; her shivering hands were resting on her lap as her fingers toyed unceasingly with each other. Cold and uneasy; Black thought, never a good combination. After taking a short pause to regain his composure and find his incipient sense of bravery, Erron finally followed her. He sat down by her side as his curious eyes deconstructed her pristine image: her skin was pale and there were freckles scattered all across her cheeks. She had big, blue eyes that provided quite the beautiful vanishing point for a visage framed by long and wavy auburn - almost orange - hair. Of Irish descent, he concluded instantly. She stopped toying with her own fingers as the creases of her large cape covered her hands; his presence was now being acknowledged by those big blue eyes staring at him for the first time:

"In all honesty… he wants to sleep with the singer; not the fat one that only sings when no-one's around to listen," the girl began, interrupting his contemplative reverie, "the cute one."

The young boy couldn't disguise his surprise: of all the things she could have said, that one, in particular, carried a peculiar sting. His bewildered eyes were in perfect concordance with his half-open mouth. The most obvious of truths was being released through his wide-eyed gaze and the rigid lines of his face were exposing that uncomfortable feeling that only that assumption could bring.

"She's my mother," he revealed, completely in shock after learning about the banker's impure intentions.

The unexpected revelation was jaw-dropping for the girl who was now unable to look away, trying to find the missing resemblance between that boy sitting right next to her and the glorious, diaphanous singer she had seen some time ago.

"For real? Is she?" The girl finally managed to ask, still skeptical and incredulous. "No offense," she added in a heartbeat, realizing that her words had the potential required to upset that boy, her eyes were now softening the severity in her tone as her left hand found its way to his shoulder.

She tapped it gently, conciliatorily, then quickly hid her cold hand under the cape again.

"None taken," the boy shrugged, as his lips were helplessly curling themselves up again, "they all say I don't look anything like her."

The girl smirked, timidly, as her eyes started to trace invisible lines linking the son with the mother. There was something distinctive about his eyes; that dark and inexplicably cold shade of brown that looked so much like coffee – but that wasn't it. There was something else about his facial features – she had seen it before. The singer, she recalled after a brief moment of contemplation as she nodded silently to herself, narrowing her eyes as an attempt to create the simulated illusion of having those seemingly different faces juxtaposed inside her mind.

Perhaps he was the singer's child after all; the girl considered after taking her time to finally find some matching features between those faces. Some of the singer's expressions were there, very much alive in that face of his; inside those eyes staring right back at her now.

"I'm Erron, by the way," he introduced himself as he outstretched his hand, eager to shake hers. There was no true need for confirmation: he knew that girl was Amanda Taggart's daughter, the resemblance was unmistakable - she looked exactly like her recently deceased mother.

"Amanda," the girl replied immediately as their clumsy fingers met in a polite gesture of recognizing the other for the first time. He offered her a sumptuous half-smile, even though involuntarily, as he nodded:

"Well, nice to meet you, Mandy."

Time itself stopped as Amanda's beautiful visage got partially clouded by a thick halo of sadness. "Amanda. Never Mandy," the girl corrected him abruptly. There had only been one Mandy – her mother, and she was already gone. No one, not even her homonymous only daughter was allowed to take her place now, no matter if that intransitive, ghostly place only consisted in the seemingly naïve, inoffensive appropriation of the late woman's innocuous Mandy.

Erron felt a shiver running down his spine as his own cold sweat, combined with his still-wet clothes, started to contaminate his skin with goosebumps: there was a wall inside those eyes staring right back at him and no matter how tall, he was willing to climb it.

"He's been waiting for your mother to show up, seems he's running out of luck," Amanda said calmly, trying to soften her voice as she realized that the sweet boy sitting right next to her was not responsible for her predicament. He didn't know, after all. How was he supposed to know?

"She hasn't performed this week yet, she hasn't been feeling alright lately," Erron explained patiently, suddenly at ease again. Those mood swings of hers were inexplicably powerful, he thought – they could drag him down or lift him up and he would just follow them, helpless, like a solitary leaf succumbing to the sometimes periling, sometimes soothing winds of change.

The same halo of sorrow that had clouded her face before had set on his pensive visage now. Amanda reached out for him and cupped his hands with her own; the magical bond of empathy was finally shining through. The first symptoms of cirrhosis were already showing, and they were certainly about to unleash the cruel process of consuming Erron's talented mother in no time. Little by little, the decease would begin to restrain her, ultimately corrupting everything in its way. Yet the first symptoms hadn't been that much of an alarm for them – they all thought the woman was tired, or maybe just food poisoned; it was going to take a few more months for them to face the inevitable truth: Erron's mother was going to die; she would soon be joining Amanda's mother in an irreversible fate and those doomed women's children, the future orphans of that tragic turn of events, wouldn't even have each other during that difficult time.

The warmth of her hands felt soothing and genuine. Erron smiled, as the spark in her eyes helped him get over that uncertain, futuristic solitude he had been anticipating for quite some time now.

"Anyway, my mother doesn't do that," the boy shook his head fervently as he finally let go of Amanda's hands. He wasn't a stranger to his mother's reputation nor was it the first time that someone was suggesting his incredibly talented mother could do so much more than just perform in front of an audience yet the boy still refused to believe in those rumors.

"Do what?" Amanda asked naively.

"Sleep with men," Erron answered, simply.

"And how do you think you were conceived?" The girl inquired smartly, surprising him with an obvious reasoning. Such simplistic train of thought startled him abruptly, and soon he found himself struggling to find a proper, clever answer.

"She slept with one man," the boy retorted after a while, resolute. He was not a virgin anymore, Jessica and her nocturnal lessons had suffocated the little ingenuity that was left in him. He knew what he was talking about. He was no stranger to that life yet that fact wasn't enough for him to see his own mother that way. Even though his precarious manhood had already been summoned by Jessica's tantalizing methods; the young Texan boy was still a defenseless pawn to his own twisted innocence when it came to his mother.

"One man," Amanda started to think out loud, "and just once," the girl laughed softly, unable to hide the ridiculousness of that nearly impossible scenario. Her gesture was light, pure, though her tone was grumpily mimicking his. "You're funny," she let out softly and now her smile was broad and livid, there was a life afire captured inside that spirit of hers. She was a vision; his vision – the vision of a world so unbearably alive it could drag him inside that carousel-like whirlpool of perfect moments when words are no longer a burden to carry.

His laughter mirrored hers for a brief moment as their cheerful voices boasted innocently through the Arroya night. That first encounter, forever treasured inside the mercenary's dearest memories, would be enough for the boy to finally understand that there was more to life than getting lost in someone else's body. That initial communion, magical and everlasting, was a promise of a brighter, better future for the two of them though little they knew back then about the difficult road they were about to embark themselves upon.

"Amanda, home," the drunken banker interrupted them as the girl's old man exited the place. Nathaniel was leaving the saloon again, this time, finally calling it a night. Amanda gazed back at Erron, her embarrassment was barely concealed behind long eyelashes and pinkish cheeks as the girl struggled to find an understanding inside that boy's noble eyes. Erron nodded, as he stood up slowly and offered her his hand – she took it, as she grinned back at him tenderly, acknowledging the incipient gentleman already existing inside that lovely kid she had just met.

"Amanda," the banker's threatening look was persistent even though the man was clearly having a hard time trying to stay on his unbalanced feet. "Home. Now."

The girl obeyed quietly as she nodded one more time, rather awkwardly, and walked towards her father. As the drunken widower and his magnificent auburn-haired daughter disappeared in the misty atmosphere reigning through the rainy night, a young and barely experienced Erron Black stood still in the front porch. His untamable eyes kept on blinking unceasingly, as if taking her picture.

His eyes were the shutter of an invisible camera; allowing his mind to recreate that lovely visage of hers. With each one of those pictures taken by simply blinking his eyes, he would construct her delicate figure made by light and shadow - yet the real chiaroscuro of his life had only just begun.

---

Arc II

Chapter XIII

Elegy

(Eight Short Stories About a Girl Called Amanda, in a Town Called Arroya)

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"Being with you and not being with you is the only way I have to measure time."

― Jorge Luis Borges

"If you remember me, then I don't care if everyone else forgets."

― Haruki Murakami

"No matter how much suffering you went through, you never wanted to let go of those memories."

— Haruki Murakami

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I – A Lovely Green Hair Ribbon

---

November 7th, 1857

"You should go," Jessica said as she rose from the bed, her naked curves were rapidly welcoming the midday chill in a house that had been locked up for far too long – the secrecy of the closed blinds and locked doors was secluding the forbidden couple from the dangers of the world outside that room. The fourteen-year-old still scattered around the messy bedsheets watched her in silence, admiring her familiar yet always desired figure.

"Erron, you really have to go now." She repeated as she looked over her shoulder to find the boy staring sheepishly at her. Her voice was almost pleading him to get dressed and leave the place. He knew the deal; after all, there was no need for lingering around any longer.

Erron nodded, understanding her potential predicament and taking it as his own, as he sat on Jessica's bed. The woman was putting on her white underskirt as the boy, still absorbed by her mundane sense of beauty, got up slowly and began the mandatory task of searching for his clothes in a room he knew too damn well to pretend he was clueless about the whereabouts of his belongings. Sex during the daytime was a rare, occasional delight for the peculiar lovers and so it was treasured; even cherished by the both of them. The living embodiment of a tabula rasa that had lived in the shape of that trembling twelve-year-old child in the larder was no more. Thanks to her experienced body, he was now an evolved lover. Her hunger and his hunger were the same reciprocal need and now adjectives such as attentive, gentle and caring were finally good enough to describe his development as a completed man, fully in control of his amorous endeavors.

"Can I ask you something?" Erron inquired as he put on his trousers, jumping clumsily on one foot.

"It's almost lunch break," she turned around to face the boy and explained, even though she knew the kid was no stranger to that frightening statement, "Adrian should be home any minute now, Erron." Jessica went on as she dismissed him absentmindedly; then she stood in front of the mirror and began brushing her long, wavy blond hair: she had no time to deal with his doubts and questions. Not now.

"Please," the boy begged with puppy eyes.

"Alright," the woman agreed with evident apathy as she turned around once more to face the inquisitive young man that would not leave her house. "What is it? Is it about that girl?"

That girl, the one that had invaded all his thoughts and speeches since that rainy night, that girl he hadn't seen in over a month – yes, that girl. She was well acquainted with anyone but him apparently. Everybody knew her. Even Jessica knew her.

"How come you know Amanda?" He demanded quickly, mildly surprised.

"Erron…" Jessica sighed with a certain tenderness, "thank God you're a handsome, good-looking boy," the woman bleated helplessly as she approached the fourteen-year-old and caressed his still-naked, bony shoulders. "Boy, it's cities like this one," she began, "these small towns have a whole system, you know, to prevent girls like her from meeting little rascals like you," Jessica chided, "take her father, for example: the man's a banker. Yours," she stopped abruptly, not wanting to hurt the perplexed young boy now staring right back at her. "Perhaps that's not a good comparison," she thought out loud after a moment as she lit up a cigar. "Let's see, her mother was an angel. Amanda Taggart was a caring wife and mother, everybody knew the woman, everybody loved her. Your mother… now, don't get me wrong, kid. I love Jo – but the best thing I have to say about her… well, she's a very talented singer."

She's an alcoholic that hates your guts.

Jessica's hands were moving frantically now, making all sorts of pompous signs to further illustrate her words: "The Taggart house is big and beautiful - it's a home, Erron. Your house is the back room of a decadent building somewhere in between a saloon and a brothel." She raised a definitive eyebrow, sensing the argument reaching its end quite prematurely. "Need I say more?"

Erron shook his head. Of course, he was well aware of his own precarious situation; he knew all those things yet he didn't care in the slightest: he wasn't looking for easy comparisons or obvious examples, he was seeking help.

"But if you were me, what would you do?" He asked, grinning shyly at her, looking for some tacit comradeship.

"I won't sugar coat it for you, boy - I'd watch her pass by." She answered gravely.

Her hips kept moving as she walked towards the door, indicating the boy that it was time to leave, no more excuses, no more delays. The cadence of her body and its pace felt like waves in a restless ocean as she turned around to face him one last time: "Forget about Amanda, Erron. She will make you suffer, whether you like it or not. Shake yourself out of all this while you still can. She's no good for you." Jessica said as she trapped the cigar, mercilessly, between her tight lips.

"What makes you so sure?" Erron asked with narrowed eyes as he was about to leave. That woman's touch, now tucking his hair behind his ears, was making him feel as if he had been swimming through fire.

"Because she's a good girl, Erron," Jessica answered, simply, her voice was somewhat condescending now. "and good girls do not hook up with boys like you."

Erron lowered his head as he let out a soft sigh – his lover's words were branding him like scorched metal, damaging his skin for good.

As he left Jessica's house, Adrian's figure became clearly visible right around the corner. The boy hurried up instinctively, even when he knew he was already out of sight and made his way back to the saloon; his mind was racing with a million thoughts and considerations regarding Jessica's rather discouragingly, eloquent words – the certainty she had imprinted on such seemingly asserted premonitions surfaced abruptly to corrupt his shadowed tranquility: deep down he knew his secret lover had a point, but what if the woman was completely, absolutely right?

Still, no matter how many nights he would stay awake, his mind drifting away trying to find Amanda's lovely visage among his most precious memories, truth was that the girl was nowhere to be found.

Arroya wasn't that big of a town, after all, he thought – only 200 inhabitants, most of them farmers. Erron knew he would get to see Amanda again someday, it was just an inevitable matter of time, yet a whole month had passed and her absence was indelibly imprinted on her own rhetorical presence. The precarious city was centered around the courthouse and the town square; such neuralgic places he had wandered endlessly during that dry month in the useless search for that petite young lady that had caught his eye. But she was nowhere to be seen and her sepia-colored memory, contemplated through the unbearable distance brought by time itself alone, was getting bigger and bigger with each passing day.

He entered the saloon and sat on a stool behind the bar where he stayed until the very notion of time began to fade. Midday welcomed a soporific afternoon and then evening rolled into just another night - yet he stayed there, almost motionless, sketching her adored face with a pencil on a million ruined napkins, trying his best to exercise his memories of her – her precious smile, her solemn frown, her wide-eyed gaze so full of surprise; her every gesture was now archived in his private collection of stolen images. A shadow towered over the boy but he didn't notice,

"Jacob, my friend, is she singing tonight?" A familiar voice startled him.

Mr. Nathaniel Taggart was standing right in front of him, asking about his mother just like every night – ashamed, like a pagan caught during some sublime act of twisted faith, the boy tried to hide the napkins with his own bony elbows as Jacob, the bartender, smiled and nodded at Amanda's father, noticing the young boy blushing and sweating nervously right next to him.

"She's getting ready to perform," Jacob said, trying to get Erron off the hook. "Same table, same drink?"

Mr. Taggart nodded quietly as his avid eyes watched Jacob already getting an unopened bottle of wine and signaling some of the saloon girls to accompany the man to his table. Erron stayed there, the napkins barely concealed underneath his trembling elbows and forearms, his blank expression was unreadable yet the man still standing in front of him tapped his fingers on the wooden bar and said:

"You got her nose wrong, son," the man winked, but it was a gesture Erron couldn't just place: was it condescending? Was it expressing unspoken complicity? Or was it simply just another amusement for the troubled widower?

Erron blushed again as he observed the delighted Mr. Taggart grinning softly at him – the mockery of the gesture was palpable now, yet Nathaniel's serene elocution was enough for the boy to hesitate whether he should ask the father about the magnificent daughter or not. The boy frowned, unsure yet quite restless. He stood up; finally, ready to approach the man when a heavy burden started to pin him down to the stool he had just abandoned only seconds ago.

"Don't," Jacob murmured quite solemnly, anticipating Erron's thoughts. The bartender eyed the boy sternly and placed his big hands on Erron's still shivering shoulders. "There's no need to," he explained, as one of his hands signaled the boy that there was someone else waiting by the door. The old bartender smiled, satisfied, as he said: "Come on in, darling, don't be shy. It's getting late for a lovely young lady like you to wait outside," Jacob's fatherly voice was soothing. He patted Erron's shoulder gently, reassuring the boy that there was no need for him to face the father. The daughter had appeared; finally, and her sole presence was enough for Erron's pensive frown to melt into a smile.

The girl stepped inside the saloon and approached the bar timidly as her father was escorted to his table by three of the saloon's girls. She acknowledged the bartender with a simple nod and said, in a serious tone:

"Did you see the state he was in last night?" She pointed an explicitly judgmental index finger at her own father who was now sitting with four saloon girls, one of them, giggling cheerfully on her old man's lap. "Well, I'm not waiting around anymore. If things get messy, I'm taking him home." Her gaze had been hardened by intolerance: she was visibly tired of putting up with his shit. Her eyes found Erron, as the boy stayed paralyzed behind the bar. His incredulous eyes could not believe the miraculous apparition they were witnessing. He had imagined that moment for so long; he had rehearsed that second encounter so many times inside his mind that now that it was finally happening, he was clueless about what to do.

Amanda's face, incandescent and illuminated by the boy's unmeasurable, silent worship, offered him a tender smile as the gallant boy invited the girl of his dreams to sit beside him behind the bar. Amanda accepted as Erron helped her. He placed another stool beside his and signaled the girl to sit. She was wearing a green dress, barely visible from behind the brown suede cape placed upon her shoulders. There were two lovely matching green hair ribbons embellishing her auburn ponytail.

"Hi," she greeted the boy with a half-smile as she sat down.

Erron stretched one of his arms, willing to shake her delicate hand once again but the girl looked away all of a sudden, embarrassed, as her sight discovered the raw yet quite detailed sketches the boy had been hiding under his elbow. The fourteen-year-old boy blushed helplessly, as he started fidgeting under a thick halo of nerve-wracking, gratuitous exposure.

The bartender chuckled as he sensed the uncomfortable situation repressing the youngsters. No matter how many things he had taught Erron it was clear that the "How to stay calm when the girl you like is right next to you" lesson would be next on the list.

Amanda's eyes wandered the place, trying to find an anchor that would help her get rid of that awkward tension separating her ashamed self from Erron. As her sight traveled, oblivious, cruising through all those foreign faces of saloon girls and patrons, she looked at her father and their mirrored, bridged gazes felt so heavy she couldn't help but to look down, the disapproval in her father's eyes was enough to make her see that she was unwelcome. Ashamed by Erron's silent admiration and tormented by her own father's public rejection, the girl felt like sinking in an unfathomable, restless ocean of contrived emotions.

"Can I offer you a drink, sweetheart?" Jacob said as he approached her, noticing the girl was having a hard time.

"I don't drink." She said tenderly.

"I can offer you water, then," the bartender insisted.

"That would be fine," Amanda replied sweetly.

Jacob's gaze traveled from Amanda to Erron, then the bartender stood behind the boy and leaned closer, his face now occupying the empty space between their still-blushing faces: "From one Black to another," he was looking at Amanda now, but even though the girl was clearly listening to his every word the old man paid no mind and went on anyway, "she's a keeper, boy." Jacob winked and smiled as he patted their shoulders gently; satisfied with his benevolent intromission, then he headed towards the other end of the bar where more patrons were waiting for him.

Erron's cheekbones were aflame; he shifted on his stool involuntarily as Amanda grinned shyly at him. Silence enveloped them awkwardly until the girl finally found the courage to speak again:

"From one Black to another? Is he your father?" She asked, curious, as she poured herself a glass of water.

"No, he is not," the boy said in a low tone as he shook his head vigorously, trying to provide his rather simplistic answer with a little more certainty.

"Right, he's too old to be your father. Then… is he your grandfather, maybe?" Amanda raised an inquisitive eyebrow, eager to unveil the young boy's mystery.

"No." His darkened gaze found hers. Erron didn't want to talk about his father – and not only because the story held the required intensity to definitely scare her away but because going back there still represented that laconic act of submitting himself to a never-ending source of unprecedented suffering. Amanda read his saddened expression like an open book and drank her water in silence; her lips were subtly incarcerating her questions and doubts.

A familiar figure eyed the boy from the other side of the bar. Erron was trying so hard not to get swallowed by the tourbillon of his own story that he didn't notice the woman approaching them – she rested her forearms on the table and asked:

"Where's your mother? She should be performing by now."

Erron shrugged as his eyes found Jessica's staring incredulously in Amanda's direction: "Why don't you go to your room, check on her, see if she's alright?" the woman suggested rather mischievously. It was true that Josephine was late again, but deep down the boy knew there was something more – he knew Jessica like the back of his hand: she was quite territorial, she was not that altruistic. The woman grinned, as she realized that the boy was not going to abandon his place beside Amanda: to him, her true intentions would always shine through her thoughtful façade of loving concern.

"I'm sure she'll be here any minute now," Erron replied, making it clear that he was not going to give her the opportunity to be alone with his precious Amanda.

"I'm sure she will," Jessica smirked, then the woman returned her full attention to the blue-eyed girl sitting right next to her secret lover – "Aren't you going to introduce us?" she asked the boy, with her viper-like eyes still glued to the Taggart girl. Of course, she knew who that girl was yet she wasn't going to waste the opportunity to embarrass Erron while trying to prove her point: he wasn't good enough for Amanda. He belonged there, in that filthy redoubt somewhere in between a saloon and a brothel having sex with a married woman that didn't need the attention nor the passionate loving he could offer - but the amusement; the superiority of positioning herself in the zenith of a carnal, coaxing empowerment had the potential she craved: she had manufactured that boy; she had made him the man he had become – she was the indomitable goddess ruling his universe, and she wasn't going to give him up without a fight.

"Jess, Mr. Harrison is looking for you, the same table as usual – seems like Mary's giving him a hard time again," Jacob interrupted, saving the boy from the impending embarrassment waiting for him. The bartender placed his arm over Jessica's shoulder as he walked her to the assigned table. The woman protested, visibly unhappy with the old man's intromission.

"She's gonna make him suffer, Jake," Erron and Amanda heard her say as she walked away. Erron narrowed his eyes as his mind began to struggle, trying to understand Jessica's erratic behavior.

"It's good to know your friends are concerned about your wellbeing," Amanda let out shyly, as she started to play childishly with her own fingers.

"I suppose so," the confused boy confessed as he looked down, still feeling intrigued by Jessica's changing attitude.

Was it because Amanda was younger than her? Prettier than her, perhaps? Was it because he had positively chosen the girl instead of just being dragged down into a mad, uncontrollable whirlpool of desire and secrecy? Or was it because the girl didn't have that ulterior need of feeling superior, of feeling in control? Was it because she was afraid that, in case things progressed as he hoped and desired with Amanda, he would ultimately abandon her, burying her lascivious presence under a thick halo of mutual correspondence with somebody else, somebody that could unmistakably be seen as his equal?

Erron raised his stranded eyes to find Josephine already on stage, almost ready to perform. The sight of his talented mother taking over the scene was enough to warm him up inside: he had always treasured those brief instants. While performing, his mother would search for him through the faceless crowd, she would look at him with her sparkling eyes full of love and complicity; the bridge between them would be one of a taciturn yet certain nature – it was only then, during those glorious moments shared by the artist in the spotlight and her neglected offspring witnessing her breath-taking transformation from afar, when the look on her face would welcome him as the son that he was. She hated him most of the time, of that he had no doubts. But she loved him during those brief twenty minutes of unique, silent bonding.

He was no stranger to that tiring dichotomy he had been forced to live with. But he loved her anyway - deeply. And no matter how hard it was to coexist with that woman during his days, their nights were an absolutely different reality.

"She's very talented." Amanda sentenced, observing the boy as he got carried away by Jo's beautiful, melodic voice. The timid witness sitting right by his side smiled wholeheartedly at Erron as her cold hands traveled the distance separating them and cupped his fingers with her own, her gentle touch becoming a quiet bond between the two of them.

"Do you have any talents?" She asked.

"I hunt toads," the boy began, shyly, still enraptured by his mother's magic, "but I don't know if that counts as a talent."

"I don't think it does," Amanda chuckled as she shook her head delicately.

"Hey, Jo," Mr. Taggart yelled as he stood up, interrupting the song, "how about an exchange?" He was drunk again, and the saloon girls sharing the table with him were covering their faces with their sweaty hands, too embarrassed to face Jo's incredulous expression. "Your child can have my child," he continued as he glanced over the petrified children eyeing him suspiciously from the bar, "as long as I have you, your filthy son can drill my daughter as much as he wants," he concluded, raising his glass to celebrate an invisible, unwelcomed toast.

Erron opened his mouth to try and defend both Jo's and Amanda's wounded honor but he wasn't the only one feeling that it was high time someone put the rude, scummy man in his place - the unjustifiable Mr. Taggart had a lesson to learn:

"We're trying to listen, you moron," another patron yelled back, his loud and masculine voice cruised violently across the room. Mr. Harrison, the short-tempered farmer had finally expressed his discomfort.

"Fuck me," Mr. Taggart retorted carelessly before going back to Josephine, "you're one fine woman, Jo," he went on, his voice louder than before - he was tracing an invisible silhouette with his shaky hands when a visibly altered Mr. Harrison walked up to his table and ordered the girls to leave.

Another annoyed patron stood up as well and made his way to Mr. Taggart's table – without saying a single word, his curled up first baptized yet another bar brawl. Amanda's father, surrounded, was at the receiving end once again, but this time, not only Josephine was feeling embarrassed and angry: Amanda's eyes, glued to his battered father, were praying for the unnecessary and totally avoidable nightmare to be over. Erron struggled silently as he watched his mother's discontent and Amanda's shameful disapproval. Nathaniel Taggart was a piece of work, he concluded, yet those women in distress were compelling him to act on their behalf, to do something; anything, to make it all go away.

Instinctively, Erron jumped over the bar and made his way to the center of the fight, dodging bare-knuckle brawlers, airborne kicks and flying chairs – God, it was home. The kid dashed as he put his arms around Nathaniel's shoulders, sheltering him from the incoming punch aiming for one of the man's temples. Mr. Taggart ducked under Erron's clumsy grasp but the boy, stunned by all the bumping and pushing around him, wasn't fast enough to dodge the unstoppable force of the raging fist – he landed on his butt, his legs were clumsily scattered among broken wooden chairs. Josephine urged herself back to the center of the stage and clapped her hands together as loudly as humanly possible as an attempt to catch everyone's attention but to no avail: no-one seemed to notice her now, no-one cared enough to look at her now that the thrilling sense brought by all that bottled up violence was enrapturing every single man in that room. The woman sighed, as her eyes found Amanda's bewildered yet somehow determined expression: his son's new friend was jumping over the bar as well now, trying to reach for her father. Her tiny figure moved across the saloon quite easier than her son; there was no need for the girl to dodge any incoming attacks - she was precise enough for her pace to guide her safely through the chaos. Once she was in front of Nathaniel, the young lady slapped her father's face with such fury that everyone around them stopped altogether – their motionless bodies were now paralyzed by the girl's unparalleled determination.

"We're leaving," Amanda ordered as she pushed her father towards the door. Then she turned around and searched for Jo, with eyes so wildly belligerent that any other patron wouldn't have dared stand in her way. "I'm sorry," The girl muttered, feeling ashamed that her troublesome father had been the sole manufacturer of such an embarrassing moment.

Erron stood up, still feeling dazed and dizzy thanks to the punch that had shaken every vertebra in his slender neck, and left the saloon as well. He ran as fast as he could to accompany the Taggarts on their awkward way back home: he wanted to make sure they weren't being followed by any offended patrons in need of a more extensive retribution.

"Are you alright?" Amanda asked with genuine concern as she turned around to face her nearly out of breath friend, "you'll wake up with a black eye tomorrow."

"It's alright; it's not my first rodeo." Erron sentenced as he put his arms underneath Nathaniel's armpits to help the girl carry the weight of her wasted father. The smell of blood and alcohol was truly nauseating; even for the saloon boy.

The kid walked them home in complete silence, noticing Amanda's temper about to explode every time the girl would dare look at her own father. The few blocks separating the Taggart house from the saloon felt like an eternity for the three of them, the air was growing thicker and thicker with every step until she gulped, and took a deep breath:

"This is us," Amanda said calmly when they reached the door. Her features seemed more relaxed now as if the walk had indeed helped the girl to successfully complete the titanic task of shushing her demons. Nathaniel entered his house without saying a single word, too ashamed by now to acknowledge the youngsters' determination. Amanda observed her father in silence as he clumsily went upstairs, then turned around to meet Erron's gaze – her fingers traveled the boy's swollen cheek, delicately tracing with her digits the bruised zone as if anticipating the damaged area that would soon be unmistakably visible. He shifted under her touch but not in pain – he wanted her whole palm to explore his face; the much needed and well-deserved appreciation was intoxicating for him.

"Thank you," the girl said with teared up eyes about to rain. That sad sight pained him deeply, as he understood her concern and her worry: not only was his father making unnecessary, gratuitous scenes – the man's erratic behavior was also evidently self-destructive, and she had already lost her mother; she couldn't afford to lose her father as well. Erron broke the awkward distance separating their bodies as he embraced her waist with his long and bony arms; then leaned in and placed his lips upon hers, breathing in her captivating essence for the first time. The kiss was brief but intensely real. Perhaps her flavor was more real than anything he had ever tasted.

As their lips parted tenderly, he began to notice the confusion in her eyes - her mouth, though, was grinning unceasingly at him: it was clear now that the girl wasn't expecting to be kissed yet not all things unexpected were bad, even in the Old West. Her smile made him smile, as he said good night and started the walk the path that would lead him back to his house. As he entered the now-empty saloon, he contemplated the scene with the eager eyes of an avant-garde lover: the chaotic image of a saloon nearly ruined was colliding surreally against the perfect moment he had just experienced. As he moved across the room, he found a lovely green hair ribbon resting carelessly on the floor – she must have lost it during the brawl, he concluded, as he kneeled down, took the souvenir and placed it in his pocket.

---

II – A Rusted, Medium-Sized Knife

---

March 24th, 1858

"Just what in the world is taking him so long? He himself had said it, in and out: give the money, sign the contract - piece of cake." Jessica asked Jo, with her eager eyes glued to the door. Everyone was there, waiting for good old Jacob to return; anxiety was taking its toll in the faces of those who belonged in the saloon's little, selected family. Erron was there as well, sitting behind the bar as usual. Jessica and his mother were both sitting on the edge of the stage; their careless legs were barely touching the ground as their feet hovered back and fro. The rest of the saloon girls was scattered in several groups around the tables; friendships and rivalries easily displayed to the trained eye.

Jacob finally entered the saloon after a while, carrying that precious piece of paper that was meant to change everybody's lives: Mr. Lind, the octogenarian saloon owner had decided it was time to sell the place and retire and so good old Jacob, fearing for the uncertain fate of his beloved ones, had made the ulterior sacrifice - giving up his life savings in order to buy the place. The triumphant march of the brand new bartender and owner of The Wise Bird Saloon was intoxicating; its grace was enveloping everyone. Jacob placed himself behind the bar, tousled Erron's hair frantically and said, in an invigorating tone:

"I know this is a special occasion; one that surely deserves to be celebrated. But we still have to work, we got bills to pay and now, my friends," he paused, as his solemn gaze reached for every face in the room, "it's on us. Everything that happens in this place, and everything that happens to this place, is on us. Hope you're all up to the task."

Everyone nodded in silent agreement, assimilating the true tenor behind Ol' Jake's words: they were indeed a family; they would have to work together now, jointly, to help the old man who had just saved their asses from bankruptcy. It was a two-way street, after all. The need was mutual, but it needed to be positively reciprocated.

"Don't forget that even though this place is ours now, everything will stay the same," Jacob concluded his eloquent speech. Yet the minute Erron nailed the "Under new management" sign to the porch pole, everything had already changed.

That night the music played louder than ever, the drinks seemed tastier, the dance almost perfectly synchronized to the sickening, rhythmic beat. The countless glasses, airborne, cheered for every toast that cruised from table to table throughout the night. The girls were busier than ever, entertaining several patrons at a time and introducing themselves to those wandering, curious eyes of brand new patrons who were visiting the place for the first time. The effervescence of the moment reached its peak when Josephine went on stage, looking more beautiful than ever in that crimson dress she would only wear on very few special occasions. She smiled at the excited crowd; the simplicity of her gesture alone was taking over the scene once again:

"I would like to borrow a moment of your time, I promise I won't be long," she began, with a tender grin. "Most of you don't know what's going on, but I bet you have surely realized by now that this is a special evening for us – let me tell you why. That man over there; the one you all know, our dear Jacob," she indicated as her eyes found the old man pouring drinks behind the bar. Jacob smiled tenderly in return; the delicacy of the gesture was softening a visage marked by wrinkles and creases, "well, he bought this place today. He has always been a special man for both my son and me, but today… he really saved us all." Jo explained as she raised her glass, her eyes still glued to the old man, "This one's for you, my dear friend."

The sweetness of his mother's undisclosed appreciation for Jake made Erron smile uncontrollably. There were moments, like that one, when that cold-hearted woman would make him remember why he loved her so much. The young boy raised a glass as well to join in the tumultuous toast that Jo was offering in Jacob's honor. Mr. Nathaniel Taggart was there, too, with his glass already in the air, cheering and celebrating Jacob just like everybody else. As soon as all glasses were emptied, the music resumed and Josephine started to sing. Erron was tapping his fingers on the bar, getting carried away by the infectious rhythm when a familiar hand surprised him, delicate and resolute at the same time, asking joyfully for a dance.

"You know I never was a dancer, Jess. Ever." The boy sentenced as his grin found its equal in Jessica's exultant smile.

"Oh, come on, just one dance," she begged, "don't be shy. I've seen you humming this tune before, it's your favorite one, I know," the eyes of the connoisseur were already towering over him.

The boy shook his head, unable to comply. He could do most things – but he could not dance.

He wasn't a dancer; the rhythmical aptitudes required for him to move his body accordingly to the sound of the beat had simply skipped him. He didn't have it in him, and so, he didn't like dancing: it was a torturous punishment for the boy.

Jessica cocked her head in disbelief, "Really? You won't dance with me? Your loss…" she said absentmindedly as she walked away slowly, her hips already moving to the infectious sounds created by Josephine and her band. The patrons came and went unceasingly and so, a collection of empty bottles began to pile up at the side of the bar. After a while, Erron decided to store them back in the larder and bring more unopened bottles to help Jacob throughout the busy night. He grabbed seven empty bottles of wine and made his way through the crowd, pushing some of the patrons slightly as he went but none of them seemed to care to say anything to the clumsy boy; they all were dancing and drinking to oblivion with the girls, their mischievous smiles were talking about all sorts of repressed cravings and desires.

Once he had made his way to the larder, Erron opened the old, battered wooden door with a little push of his shoulder; the bottles were clicking against each other as he tried his best to keep their fragile balance within his busy forearms.

"Let me help you with that, boy," Jessica said as she held the door open for him.

"Thank you, Jess," he said attentively.

The young boy stepped inside the larder then kneeled down and placed the empty bottles on the bottom shelve while Jessica stayed behind him, choosing new, unopened bottles from the ones displayed on the third and fourth shelves.

"Moonshine, maybe?" She asked, unsure about the drink.

"No, I don't think so. Tonight's a special night so… no Moonshine." The boy helped her – Jessica then reassumed the search for the perfect beverage as her fingertips began to tap on the Porto bottles reserved on the fifth shelve.

"So how are things between you and Amanda?" She asked with genuine curiosity as she abandoned the Porto where it was and moved closer to the boy, her left hand was already traveling up and down the length of his back. He turned around, as his amazed eyes started to show the first signs of that treasured lust between the two of them. Cause and effect; action and reaction – for them it was that simple.

"Things are fine," Erron answered simply as his lips rushed to meet Jessica's, his unstoppable tongue was clashing against hers. "I like it when you wear blue," he whispered through a deep breath, momentarily breaking the kiss only to make it stronger. The certainty and the urgency that only her body could provide was a feeling that he just couldn't outrun, ignore or deny: his desire was still strong, unaltered; even now that he had Amanda. His naughty, frantic hands found their way under the woman's skirt, making her tremble. Her skin was already reacting to his evolved touch. As Erron grabbed her by the waist and sat her down on the little wooden table placed by the only window in the small room, Jessica quickly unbuttoned the boy's trousers, his remarkable manhood was ready, she knew.

The experienced woman enveloped Erron's waist with her legs as her hands got busy removing frantically the capricious layers of her skirt that were trying to get in their way - the boy began to push and thrust then, the first drops of sweat were already forming in his temples, all that carnal tension between them was finally being released: there was no need to pretend anymore - she was there, within his reach once again and the feeling was more than simply overwhelming.

"Erron…" Jessica said suddenly, the usual elocution was never taken for granted by the busy boy – the sound of his own name propelled by her lips and ricocheting through the room was enough to make him even crazier.

"Erron…" She repeated as she tapped his shoulder with her fingertips but the boy didn't listen; he was finding his pleasure, dangerously headed beyond all warnings. Twice, she had said his name twice, the feeling was consuming, the need was uncontrollable.

"Erron…"

He should have listened.

"Erron," Jessica tried for the fourth time – her voice had changed, irrevocably, "Amanda's here."

The boy, petrified and already hearing his own heartbeat resounding insanely inside his dazed ears, lowered his head as horror began to consume him. Jessica sighed, embarrassed, as her hands pushed him away. After a brief moment filled with the utmost uncomfortable silence, Erron finally gathered all his strength and courage and turned around slowly, not caring in the slightest about his nakedness being shamelessly exposed, to find Amanda standing horrified by the door. Those eyes, cold and menacing, were killing him mercilessly.

"Amanda…" the troubled boy began, unsure of what to say next. He could have begged for forgiveness, he knew, but that consuming gaze of hers; those flickering devilish eyes would have never found the required grace to fully exonerate him. He took a step forward and covered his manhood with his trembling hands.

"Don't come any closer." Amanda sentenced, aggravated.

"But… 'Manda, you don't understand," the boy said as his clumsy fingers were desperately trying to hold on to his fallen pants.

"My father tried to warn me about you a thousand times but I chose not to listen," Amanda recalled, her sullen tone was now darker than before. Erron rushed his way towards her, his arms already reaching for the angry girl standing motionless in front of him – Amanda blinked, involuntarily, as she moved away – she kneeled down and took the medium-sized knife that was placed among the wheels of cheese and bread displayed in the second shelve. Erron took yet another step forward. His left hand, cruising mid-air, was trying to emulate that beloved bridge between them that he had demolished with his own irrepressible, sinful instincts.

"I said don't come any closer," she threatened him coldly with the knife as she stood up again, stoically; the metallic tip was aimed ruthlessly in his direction. The lovely girl was no more, all that was left of her was her incredibly beautiful face but even so, her unparalleled beauty was not enough to mitigate the demon inside, corrupting her to her very core.

"This is not what it looks like, Amanda – I can explain," Jessica tried to intervene, sensing the danger.

"You don't get to have a say in this," Amanda retorted as her cold gaze found Jessica's, the knife was now shining cruelly in the older woman's direction. "How old is she anyway?" The angry girl asked Erron with such sadistic disdain and cruel repulsion that the sole interrogation was enough for the young boy to quiver under those distant big, blue eyes of hers.

"I asked how old is she, Erron," Amanda repeated as her venomous sight continued deconstructing the half-naked woman still sitting on the table.

"Twenty-eight," Jessica replied as she lowered her head.

"Then you're a child molester," Amanda sentenced coldly; revulsion and repugnance were taking over her already altered face. "And you…" she said as she went back to Erron, "I cannot even begin," the girl tried her best to tame the storm gathering inside but it was useless: she broke down and cried, choking her unspoken words with an anguish that ran so deep she couldn't control it. As she braced herself she finally dropped the knife, helplessly surrendering to that sadness engulfing her – then she covered her face with her hands and ran off, leaving the tormented lovers alone. Both Jessica and Erron sighed in unison, confused and disrupted, as an unbearably uncomfortable silence enveloped them. The small larder had never seemed so big.

They dressed up in silence and left the larder after a while, parting ways almost immediately: Jessica went upstairs and the boy made his way back to the bar.

"Well, that's not the face I was expecting," Jacob confessed after seeing Erron's laconic expression.

"Tell me what happened. What was she doing in the larder?" The boy interrogated the old man as he sat on a stool.

"She came looking for her father, I couldn't help myself and I told her the big news, she seemed happy." Jacob narrated as the boy lit up a cigar. "I assured her that Nathaniel was fine, and he was fine, for once in his life he was actually behaving. So she asked about you - she was looking for you; I assumed you'd be in the larder rearranging the bottles. Now what happened back there, boy? Did you fight?"

Did you fight?

If only.

There was nothing to be said; nothing to be explained. The boy was trapped inside his own web of lies and intrigues.

"Did you two fight?" Jacob insisted.

Erron didn't answer. The guilt and the shame he was feeling were too much of a burden for the kid to face such a righteous man as Jacob. Besides, no one knew about the forbidden love affair between him and Jessica. Opening up his mouth had the potential to turn an already ruined night into an endless nightmare.

He sat in silence, pensive, as the dull grey smoke clouded his saddened façade. Across the crowded room, Nathaniel Taggart's menacing eyes were scorching the boy's already damaged self-esteem like an indomitable fire that could not be contained. It was clear that the old man could sense that something was wrong.

Erron exhaled, as good old Jacob finally left him alone, understanding that the boy was not looking for a conversation. However, the much-needed solitude the bartender had provided him with was not enough to quiet the voices gathering inside his head.

---

III – A Derringer Pistol

---

April 28th, 1858

Humid subtropical my ass, Erron thought as he sat down on the front porch. Jessica followed him, sitting down on the little wooden stairs a couple of steps behind the boy. Erron searched his pockets for a pack of smokes but gave up within seconds, helplessly:

"I'm out," he declared as his eyes looked up to the skies above: not a single cloud was there to ruin the most perfect blue displayed all above Arroya. The cold wind enveloping them was tempting enough for the former saloon girl and the rascal to consider, no matter how briefly, the inviting chance of entering the saloon.

They exchanged tired glances and nodded quietly with unspoken concomitance: no way.

Yet he wanted a cigarette; hell – he certainly deserved one.

And so did Jessica.

"Let me see if Jacob has some cigars hidden by the bar," the woman said as she disappeared behind the door hoping for her memory to be right: she was well-aware of Ol' Jake's tricks and habits – and hiding places for his most protected earthly treasures: booze and cigars. She would laugh, every now and then, watching the old man's distrusting attitude towards those who dared ask for one of his cigars: they all lived in a saloon, for god's sake, the situation was ridiculous. In a matter of mere seconds, Jessica was outside again; she had been fast enough not to be seen. She outstretched her arm as she offered the little red box to the young man still sitting on the porch. Erron took a cigar and lit it quickly; his hands were acting like protective houses for the flame to endure the merciless chill endangering its incipient warmth. He blew out an uneven puff of smoke that soon got lost in the wind – only the smell persisted, as it got mixed with Jessica's tobacco, intoxicating and much needed.

Is that…?

The woman eyed the boy but she said nothing. She chose not to startle him, unsure about that figure she had seen walking towards them. She was so tired she couldn't tell if that body was real or if it was just another mirage playing tricks on her in that godforsaken desert. Only when she recognized the young lady heading towards the saloon she asked:

"Do you want me to go?"

Quickly getting the message, Erron's eyes tried to focus on that unclear female figure that was walking towards them. As the shape got closer, the feeling began to shake him from within.

Amanda.

He looked over his shoulder and shook his head, instantly rejecting Jessica's offer. No matter how angry the girl could be, Jessica was his friend – she was more than that: she was family, and now he needed her by his side.

Amanda's short, tight steps were revealing such an acute fury the girl could simply not contain nor dominate no matter how hard she tried. Erron let out a tired sigh as he got ready for yet another confrontation: more than a month had passed and he had tried to get her back – God, he had tried - but now he was exhausted, he neither had the time nor the energy to deal with a jealous daddy's girl.

"Thanks, but no thanks," Amanda spat coldly the minute she saw Erron. She stood right in front of him, her infuriated shadow was towering over the seemingly careless boy, then she handed him a brown package – the indifferent young man inspected it carefully with narrowed eyes and then raised his eyebrows in mild surprise.

"What is this?" He demanded to know, as he returned the package to the still angered girl.

"It's a dress, you moron - and a very expensive one. I thought it was from you," she explained, mad and confused. "I thought of it as a peace offering, you know? Since it's my fifteenth birthday."

Right.

Her birthday.

He had been so busy lately with his mother's delicate health that he hadn't even had the chance or the spirit to celebrate his own birthday, only two days earlier than hers. He shook his head once again, as Jessica shrugged in her place, equally confused.

"I'm gonna change, I don't want to ruin my church clothes," Jessica said, throwing away her cigar absentmindedly. The truth was that she was eager to leave; the situation was far too uncomfortable for her to swim peacefully through it. Amanda's restless waves of anger and disapproval were clashing violently against Erron's silent tide. The woman stood up and went inside the saloon, leaving the youngsters alone for the first time ever since the larder incident. That unexpected intimacy felt foreign for the still puzzled yet indifferent Erron; he had never been alone during his countless attempts to get her back – he had had Jacob, he had had the girls and even his own mother during those futile nights behind the bar. Amanda would come over, he would say "I'm sorry", she would reject him, and the boy would reassume his chores, pretending to be fine. The first week had been torturous, the second one had been rather discouraging; the third week had felt alien; as if he was constantly reliving a sickening déjà vu – but the fourth week, the last one, had been a known charade for nearly everyone – they all would just follow the flow, and anticipate the repeated outcome automatically, already detached from all actual hope.

"You look like shit," Amanda began as soon as they were alone. The line of his jaw was rigid with tension yet it looked almost as if the boy was about to touch the edges of oblivion with his empty, blackened eyes.

"And here I thought I was wearing my finest clothes," he retorted sarcastically as his expression hardened. "I was up all night; my mother is not feeling alright again. Jessica and I went to church this morning, I'm not a great believer myself but she is – we attended mass, just came back." The boy explained, serious.

"You brought a hooker to church?" Amanda asked, her disgust was vivid.

"She's not a hooker," Erron stated coldly, "and she brought me." He got up slowly, resting the weight of his tired bones against the nearest porch post. He could not believe his ears: he had told her that his mother was not feeling alright again yet the only thing she had heard; the only thing that had successfully caught that damn girl's attention, the only thing that had been powerful enough to reach her selective ears and cause a reaction inside her brain was that he and Jessica had attended mass together.

"I don't need you to tell me what she is; I know exactly what she is," Amanda retorted bitterly. Her words weren't the ones that could easily be found in a moral sermon like the one they had just heard in church yet they were vindictive enough to make him see that the image she had witnessed in the larder was still fresh, hauntingly fresh inside her mind.

He moved closer, the shadows on his face were secluding that tenderness that had once defined him.

"I assume you still think she's a child molester," Erron said as he crossed his arms over his chest.

She nodded in silence. Twenty-eight against fourteen wasn't right. No matter if the younger party had given their consent – it was wrong.

"You know what?" Erron asked as his fiery temper started to get the best of him, blinding him, making it impossible for him to acknowledge the decisive opportunity Amanda had given him with her unexpected visit. "I'm too wasted to deal with your shit right now. So why don't you just run back home, and tell your daddy that the woman he wants to drill is not gonna sing tonight? Maybe she won't be singing tomorrow, either. And the day after tomorrow. Perhaps she won't be singing in a month, or it could be for a whole year. Maybe she won't sing again, ever, who knows?" He was the one towering over her now as his stoic index finger tapped the girl disdainfully in the middle of her chest. "Go home and tell your father that he should have fucked her while he still had the chance."

Her teared up eyes deconstructed him for a moment, trying to understand why she had suddenly become the sole container of all his repressed anguish. She didn't get it – he had done everything in his power to get closer to her then he had slept with another woman – and, apparently, in some corner of his twisted reasoning, she wasn't entitled to her opinion. He had cheated on her and she wasn't allowed to be furious about it. Of course, it pained her to hear about Jo's deteriorating health yet it wasn't enough to pretend they were okay – their problems and Jo's problems were completely different things.

He had tried to get her back and now that she was finally ready to see him again as her beloved boy he was willing to throw it all away. And for what? For Jessica? Was he choosing Jessica over her? Why? So he could just run to the arms of his absurdly older lover? Was he so desperate, so blinded, so stupidly needy?

Her father had warned her on countless occasions.

And she should have listened.

She slapped him hard in the face as the first unleashed tears started to stream down her visage. Then she turned around, cursing him and herself, and went back home.

---

Nights without Josephine were heartbreakingly different.

Such incomplete evenings would always paint a completely different picture for each and every one of the troubled souls and the indifferent spirits hovering all around the quieted saloon.

The singer's painful absence, intrinsically and immensely mystified in a darkened agora of uncertainty and sadness, would provide a completely different panorama for all the members of The Wise Bird family. The lacking mysticism that only Josephine could easily imprint on everyone with her sole presence, while gone, would bury every soul into a dark, deep well of contorted faces and a cheap sense of profane mundanity weighting heavily on their shoulders. Not only did that incomparable woman know how to deliver an excellent performance: she was something more than just an entertainer. Josephine's effortless yet thorough ways were an echo whispering honeyed words in their worn out ears; the superiority of the artist and the intimacy created by that miraculous craft of hers were like the white dove that crowns the perfect magic trick.

But without her, everything was different.

A sepia-colored aura would envelop the place and all of its circumstantial or permanent residents. Lackluster, Jessica had once said about those defying nights, defining their gloomy nature with the wisdom of an expert.

And she was right. She was painfully right.

Madeline was not the same thing; Amanda had pointed it out herself before: they all wanted the cute one, not the fat one that only sings when no-one's around to listen. Poor old Madeline would always try her best to give a good, rather decent performance but the shoes she was meant to fill were just way too big for the forty-one years old, mother of four, chubby Arkansawyer. The woman would try to do everything in her power to mitigate Jo's absence, her efforts would be palpable – yet it seemed they all had been doomed beforehand, like a never-ending curse working its black magic on the struggling replacement.

Erron looked around to find a silent saloon, seemingly lifeless, almost at the very verge of giving up.

In the end, it was yet another night without Josephine's melodic pleasantries for everyone, but not for him. Each one of those obscure nights was like a dagger damaging his already wounded, fragile states. The son sighed, as the headache and the tiredness of his stressed muscles began to grasp their advantage, taking over his weary body.

Jessica made her way behind the bar and exhibited the impeccable silver tray she was carrying to both Jacob and Erron. Water, soup, bread, and butter: everything was untouched. Loss of appetite was one more symptom to add to the extensive list of signs that, in time, would paint the picture more clearly for them. Yet right now, her uncertain health was like a restless tidal wave; sometimes it would be calmed and easy but some other times it would be furious, subjugating the woman's body to the confines of her bed. Fatigue and the yellowing of the singer's skin were also there, for her loved ones to speculate freely about the causes of such cruel disease.

Amanda's strange apparition brought him back to reality or, at least, it brought him back to a different reality. The girl was wearing a big, blue scarf that covered most of her face and neck. Erron found that suspicious and so the boy walked up to her; his racing mind was already plotting the undeniable story behind her sudden purism: her eyes were telling him that her attitude had nothing to do with the disapproval she had expressed about his rendezvous with Jessica; she was not protesting, she wasn't trying to catch his attention. It was her birthday after all, so shouldn't she be celebrating? Her dull expression, far from being festive, was a silent cry for help.

It was true that they weren't in the best of terms - but that didn't mean he didn't care for that girl: he cared, deeply.

"What happened?" He asked, trying to conceal his genuine worry with disinterested indifference.

The girl shook her head; her foolish pride was the only thing preventing the words from leaving her mouth.

She wasn't going to let him in so easily, after all.

"I'm looking for my father," she began – her soft voice was chocked, it was pointless to hide all that repressed anguish behind the scarf. "It's time to go home."

Erron narrowed his eyes; he neither had the time nor the patience to pretend he was willing to let it go: he sensed something was wrong. He outstretched his left arm and removed the scarf that was covering her face: five fingers were marked on her right cheek – the reddened punishment had branded her, exhibiting signs of non-existent guilt for everyone to judge her.

Choleric, and driven by the devil, the boy made his way to Nathaniel's table and signaled the saloon girls to leave. They rolled their eyes, already anticipating the brawl that was about to start. Erron eyed the girls with disapproving disdain but they didn't understand, he knew. They had no clue about the true nature of the events about to happen and their poor judgment would never suffice.

"What happened?" The boy demanded. "Why did you slap her?"

Nathaniel sighed, feeling insulted and exasperated, and visibly shaken by the little rascal's impertinence, then said: "She told me she came here to talk some sense into you; she wanted to believe the dress was from you." he began; his challenging eyes were piercing the young boy staring judgmentally at him. "I warned her about you many times. I told her not to come; I don't want her anywhere near you, you scumbag, I know your kind… But she disobeyed, yet again. I told her a good-for-nothing like you could have never afforded such fine couture. But as usual, she didn't listen. Long story short, she came back home crying her eyes out because of you, again, and I simply said, I told you so." The mockery of his tone was enough to make the boy insane. It was true that he had never had his own father around to raise him and teach him how to treat a woman right – yet old Jacob with his delicate, sensible manners had been the greatest mentor he could have asked for. Nathaniel didn't have the right; he couldn't control Amanda like that – she was his daughter, that much was true, yet she wasn't his property.

"So you slapped her in the face?" Erron frowned, disapprovingly. His eyes were already showing all the violence that the boy had been bottling up.

"She's my daughter. She disobeyed." Nathaniel retorted simply, looking like an emotionless Viking, trying to justify his abusive behavior in the simplest of ways. "Mind your own business, kid," he tried to dismiss the boy with disdainful superiority.

Nathaniel Taggart's archaic notions of patriarchy, intricately combined with a perverse fondness for impunity given his social status, were surprisingly indulging for the heated boy.

As ire found its way inside of him, alongside the intoxicating need for extricating all possible apprehension regarding that man and all of his unjustifiable manners, the boy eventually realized that the unfair father had unexpectedly provided him with a proper way to vent off steam: not only he would avenge Amanda's wounded pride; he would also use that man as his personal catalyst. The impending ghost of his mother's decease would also be there, coexisting with the abusing father. The abusing father and his own abandoner father would then melt into a metaphor of solitude and incompletion. The way that cocky man used to talk to his mother, disrespectfully surpassing every barrier of acceptable social traditions and conventions would also be added to the mix of reasons why that man was going to be on the receiving end of all his suppressed anger. Last but not least, the boy's own stupidity would be present as well, that month he had spent away from Amanda because of his own impossibility to say no to Jessica would be the corollary for such deep-rooted emotions, now about to explode like a supernova.

Without saying a single word, a fifteen-year-old Black went upstairs, to the room he used to share with his mother. The woman was asleep just as he had expected so she didn't notice him there, rummaging through her belongings. He searched through her clothes for that little black box he knew Jo had concealed in the bottom of her wardrobe just in case: he opened the box and took her derringer pistol, then he made his way back to the saloon – he had made up his mind; he knew what should be done.

Erron took a deep breath and stood in front of a rather jovial Mr. Taggart:

"Outside," the boy challenged Amanda's father in a very simple way yet it was effective enough for the man to notice that the kid wasn't bluffing. Nathaniel placed his own revolver on the table then, and shook his head sarcastically:

"Come on, boy. Just give me a break," Nathaniel's eyes traveled from his weapon to the boy standing stoically in front of his table, "don't be stupid, kid. My bullet would not only kill you; it will also blow my chances with your mother. I may be a drunken asshole, but I know my limits," the old man paused, as he raised an eyebrow: "Do you know yours?"

Like a furious bull seeing red being mockingly waved in front of him, Erron charged against Amanda's cynical father – the table and the chairs surrounding the man were the sparkling signals that everyone had been waiting for to start yet another bar brawl. Now that the guns were out of reach, he would fight that man to submission; he would subjugate his very essence with his bare hands. Nathaniel fell down to the ground and the avid boy kneeled down on his chest: he punched him in the face several times, not even the sight of blood was enough to make him stop; not now that his fists were finally releasing the tension that had been wearing him out.

Courageously making her way through flying chairs and airborne legs and fists, a frightened yet brave Amanda kicked the fallen guns out of their reach and grabbed Erron by the hand – nobody really liked Nathaniel, she knew, so the girl was positive her old man was about to find a new rival to continue the fight in no time. The auburn-haired girl walked Erron outside and closed the door behind them. She broke down and cried again but this time, instead of acting cold and indifferent, the battered boy embraced her tightly, understanding that he was not the only one in need of an emotional release.

That was the moment he knew, the moment he was certain: that gracious yet fragile body of hers belonged there, in his arms.

He moved closer, as he ran his fingers through her messy hair. Cheek by cheek as they were, his lips found hers again; the much-needed baptism of her kiss was the healing potion he had been searching for so long. The girl grinned shyly as their lips parted: the embrace had been so tight she hadn't noticed his lips were on hers at first. Now that didn't matter: while devouring each other there was no need to worry about anything – her tormenting father was no more than a broken ghost that could not reach her now.

Not if he was around.

She broke the kiss again and stared deeply into those coffee-colored eyes that were fighting their usual coldness with an untamable fire: she cupped his face with her hands and whispered:

"You and Jessica – that's over."

The boy smiled, his simple gesture was finally admitting that there was no true need for him to hold on to another body now. He had her, he would wait for her.

As his lips met hers again, the yelling and the sounds of bottles breaking inside the saloon were music to their sweetened ears. The shadows dancing chaotically in the windows, clearly visible from where they were standing, were projecting quite the picturesque scene for the never-ending bar brawl that was still very much alive inside The Wise Bird. The sound of the girls' high heeled boots running madly, impacting against the wooden floor was intoxicating. Madelaine's useless attempts were just another missing note in the glorious scale composed of violence and alcohol. Did they even know what they were fighting about anymore? Did they even have a reason? The kids didn't mind.

It was true that Erron himself had been the one spark causing the fire, but now their reality was a very different one and all that yelling, all the cursing and screaming they were hearing seemed joyfully alien to them.

Behind that door the whole world could have caved in, they both knew.

The walls could have crumbled; the floor could have cracked open, unleashing the lava and the brimstone that follows after the inevitable hellfire's havoc.

None of those terrifying outcomes mattered anymore.

---

IV – A Brown Box of Cartridges, Half-Empty

---

December 23rd, 1858

Debts were piling up, irremediably. No matter how good or noble their intentions were, they all knew they wouldn't be able to pay all those bills in time - the creditors needed money, real money, they wouldn't settle for just a bunch of good intentions and promises filled with hopes of a better, more stable and inspirational future.

So good old Jacob had gathered all the saloon workers and employees for a meeting; his most intimate constellation of people would have to work together now to plan a future strategy that would, hopefully, buy them some time before the collectors would come knocking. They had a low budget to take care of and with that in mind; they had decided to take on some auxiliary steps in order to maintain a better balance between the poor incomes and the exaggerated outcomes. One of the first things they had all agreed upon was to start producing their own bread instead of purchasing it from a third party. Starting effectively on January 2nd, the saloon would have its own bakery - that's why the fifteen-year-old future mercenary was in the larder that evening: he was in charge of the inventory.

"Jake, please - no more flour!" He stuck his head out of the larder's door and yelled with the bitten pencil trapped against his teeth.

"You can never have enough flour if you're going to bake your own bread," Amanda remarked cleverly as she kneeled down to rearrange the dozens of sacks that were still unopened.

"Sixty-two unopened sacks of flour seems like a lot to me," the boy said with self-indulgence, shrugging innocently. "Perhaps these sacks will do for now, as a head start." Erron went on as he kneeled down as well, his hands busy with packages and bottles. "Jake will know better, I guess… 'manda, pass me the Porto bottles, the dark ones on the table." He asked absentmindedly, completely absorbed in the task that Ol' Jacob had trusted him with. Finally, he was being given some responsibility other than pour an obscene amount of glasses only to be asked to try his best and persuade those drunken patrons to head back home only minutes later.

The girl took a step forward and froze. Her feet, paralyzed, were pinned down to the ground: not only she was visiting the larder for the first time since the infamous Jessica incident - she had found them having sex on that very same table she was supposed to be approaching by now. The image was painfully vivid. The woman was still there, passionately expressing her pleasure right before her eyes. She could still picture her half-naked body succumbing to the ecstasy that Erron was offering, his undivided attention had crowned that body and the specter of their physical unity still persisted before Amanda's reminiscing eyes, lingering, hovering before her like a recurrent nightmare that would not leave her be.

Damn it, Erron thought as he realized her struggling mind had effectively retreated her into the remote depths of that dark corner again: she was no good at hiding that awkwardness; that beautiful face of hers was so hurtfully expressive that the slightest change in the atmosphere would be enough to make all her colors shine through. The variations for each emotion would be reflected in her features; it seemed as if she was unable to feel simple things. He had considered that notion a long time ago: hers were intricate patterns of feelings; the matrix of her emotions had thousands of layers and he had yet to see the majority of them.

Nine months had passed since she had caught them in that godforsaken larder yet the memory clearly remained untouched in the scenario of her mind. He had noticed the way Amanda's facial features would harden every time Jessica was around. The sting persisted, it clearly bothered her. A simple tap on the shoulder, a minuscule smile would be enough for her eyes to darken; her jawline would become an immobile, rigid horizon for her troubled face. He had tried to explain to her that Jessica was a friend; even more than that – she was family. His words would only start the fire again, but could he really blame her for stating out the obvious?

"That's just sick," she would retort every time; the image of lovers and relatives all mixed up and blended into the same act was nauseating for the girl and deep down, he knew she was right.

The turning point when perversion played its card was a mystery for the puzzled boy still searching for a satisfactory answer. How come that woman had traveled the distance from being aunt Jessy to his forbidden lover?

It was more than just macabre; way more than simply sinister.

It was unacceptably Dantesque.

Trying to swim in their muddy waters by just recurring to the simplicity of the most obvious shelter was fruitless: yes, he was a kid; and he was eager to explore his sexuality. But she… it was wrong, even an inexperienced, silly twelve-year-old could have sensed that.

Maybe the reason was even simpler. Maybe Jo had a point for punishing his soul with such miserable bitterness. Maybe he was, indeed, nothing more than his father's son.

The flesh of his flesh.

The sin of his sins.

"I need a moment," Amanda let out softly as she left the larder. She glued her back to the wall and took a deep breath. Erron followed her immediately, unsure of what to say but acknowledging her turmoil as his own for the first time since the incident. He hadn't allowed himself the time to think about the events of that tragic night yet it was easy to perceive the transgression, the unforgivable violation of the one thing that should have remained untouched: family.

He knew Jessica wasn't a real relative yet the shame of the almost incestuous pairing was still there, floating around some distant corner of his mind. Perhaps he was his father's son, after all. The flesh of his flesh, the sin of his sins.

He put his arms around his love and there they stayed for a moment, deeply engulfed in silence. Only the squealing of footsteps coming from the old wooden ladder startled them, as they both stretched their necks to see who was there: Nathaniel Taggart and Josephine, hand in hand like enamored teenagers, were heading upstairs. They were giggling; the sound of his mother's quiet and condescending laughter was a bomb exploding inside his soured ears. Amanda tried to hold on to him but the fuse had already been ignited: now he was on fire and the larder was the involuntary victim he had chosen to unleash his uncontainable fury.

He kicked the door and punched the walls and the shelves. The bottles breaking in unison in response to his outburst were mimicking the sounds of a maddened, out of tune xylophone. The tiny pieces of colored glass were everywhere – some of them had even reached him, successfully cutting his forearms and hands: those would be the first cuts to be displayed on his skin, and they were yet to be accompanied by a gruesome variety of lacerations that would ultimately become his personal journal, opened and exhibited for anyone to read. The landmarks of his own life, imitating the milestones at the side of the road, would then cover his arms and the rest of his skin: each scar would have a story to tell, each one of their narrations would speak of a path filled with pain and sorrow.

Amanda stayed outside, frightened but stoic, trying to get the jammed door to open. Erron placed his hands on the upper shelve and finally bent over, the muscles of his back were aching after the unexpected release of adrenaline. Outside, the quivering sound of Amanda's voice was far from soothing: it was a fatuous flame consuming him; she was a victim as well as he was, that vicious man had accomplished that one thing they had thought he could never achieve: to sleep with Josephine.

The man was way out of line again but that wasn't the only thing that was bothering the young future mercenary.

"In all honesty… he wants to sleep with the singer; not the fat one that only sings when no-one's around to listen - the cute one."

The memory of their first encounter was branded inside of him. Such treasured moments were now seen through a different optic, the painful meaning behind Amanda's seemingly naïve assumptions was finally solidifying into a palpable actuality.

"Anyway, my mother doesn't do that," the boy had said, innocently, as he finally let go of Amanda's hands. He wasn't a stranger to his mother's reputation back then nor was it the first time someone was suggesting that Jo could do so much more than just perform in front of an audience yet the boy still had refused to believe in those rumors.

Not anymore.

"Do what?" Amanda had asked back then as if already anticipating the obvious answer.

"Sleep with men." Erron had clarified.

"And how do you think you were conceived?" The girl had enquired smartly, opening the door to a horrifying story he would never tell her. His precarious sense of pride wouldn't allow him, and his mother's reputation was at stake.

"She slept with one man," the boy had then retorted, resolute. Even though his precarious manhood had already been summoned by Jessica's tantalizing methods; the young Texan boy was still a defenseless pawn to his own innocence when it came to his mother.

Not anymore.

"One man." Amanda had pointed out the obvious. "And just once." Seeing things in retrospective, it seemed as if she had known something he had not.

"You're funny." She had laughed.

Not anymore.

He cursed through clenched teeth as he recalled his own words back then, the day he met Amanda: the truth was now obviously painful. Not only he was the son of his father, flesh of his flesh and sin of his sins.

He was the son of a bitch.

He was the unwanted offspring of a whore and a coffee-eyed devil. No wonder he had such darkness dwelling deep inside of him, he concluded bitterly.

His darkened eyes found Jacob's box of cartridges resting carelessly among the untouched wheels of cheese: it was more than a simple idea; it was the evolved version of that original idea that had set on his mind the night he found Nathaniel's fingers cruelly marked on Amanda's cheek – now it was an imperative, urgent need.

He hesitated for a moment as his fingers played with the cartridges – he had had his fair share of training under old Jacob's supervision, he knew how to use a gun – he had murdered countless bottles and cans, he knew - but that was different. Aiming for an actual living target; ending someone, taking a life – there was no true training for that.

And there would be no turning back.

Once the trigger had been pulled, once the life had been taken away from its rightful owner his own life, as he had known it, was also going to be over.

It was true that it wasn't the first time that such an obscure consideration was tempting enough for the restless boy to envision himself pulling the trigger on Nathaniel Taggart: god, he had had enough of him; he knew the man had it coming. But that bastard was also Amanda's father, and the look on her face would bury him in a deadly grave far worse than the one he was procuring for her father.

That look, he knew, would have the potential to shatter him into a million pieces. The painful regret inside her eyes would be worse than prison.

And there would be no turning back for that either.

With one last push from her shoulder, the girl finally opened the damaged door – her arms flew to find him, enveloping him in a tight embrace. He caressed her hands as the girl whispered comforting words in his ear. He couldn't do it: that girl inside his arms was the reason why. He shifted slightly to face her; the love in her look was real – he couldn't lose her again because of his untamed ways, no, not again; he would have to learn to be patient. He grinned tenderly as the girl broke the embrace and tugged her hair behind her reddened ears.

Erron turned around once more, he was facing the shelve again now as his fingers tapped on every wheel of cheese displayed before his eyes.

"You know, sixty-two unopened sacks of flour seems like a lot to me too," Amanda began, trying to change the subject, "maybe you should tell Jacob that he doesn't need to buy any more flour, at least, for now."

Erron nodded in silence, as his troubled ears began to hear the first moans of pleasure coming from his mother's bedchamber. He closed his eyes and exhaled, his curled up fists were resting on the battered shelve in front of him.

He took two wheels of cheese and some butter – then his fingers stopped mid-air as if considering the obvious. The maddened boy looked over his shoulder: Amanda was busy rearranging the Porto bottles placed on that table. He grabbed the brown box of cartridges and concealed it between the cheeses: the temptation embodied by the ammunition was too strong for his angered senses yet he knew he couldn't do it. That girl, bravely facing her own demons now in the simple task of rearranging the Porto bottles was the living proof of that. She had overcome her own ghosts. Now it was high time he learned how to overcome his.

Perhaps he was indeed the cursed offspring of a whore and a devil. But he was the one in charge of his own emotions and decisions.

"I'll be right back," he said, as he exited the larder.

---

V – A Butterfield Revolver

---

February 25th, 1859

He was a child of violence; their echoed voices would haunt him during the nights. The certainty of their dull accusation would persist beyond his nightmares; his own origins had been stained with the despicable ink of subjugation. His body would turn and toss in bed every night, as he would crave that easier beginning that seemed elusive and distant – the dirty white curtains would dance around the window as his coffee-colored eyes would watch their blissful pace: no matter how torturing his nights were, the old attic had become his private sanctuary now.

"We cannot share a room anymore, you are fifteen now – it's just not alright for us to have our beds separated by only a few inches," Jo had stated several months ago, "it's time you moved your stuff to the old attic."

The saloon's attic was the place he had feared the most during his childhood. The eerie atmosphere and the constant sense of abandonment seemed torturous and menacing for the kid to say the least. Yet now, seen through the eyes of a grown-up boy, the place didn't look so bad, actually. It was as cold as the wild tundra during the winter and hotter than the sun itself during the summertime but, at least, it provided him with some well-deserved, much-needed privacy.

That afternoon, as he turned and tossed in bed as usual while longing for some slumber after a busy night behind the bar, the kid sensed that something was wrong downstairs – the voices and sounds coming from the saloon were different; some of those sounds he had never heard before. He got up slowly and went downstairs; his bare feet were trying to be as stealthy as possible. The young Erron Black glued his back to the wall and watched the scene in silence: his worst fears had been confirmed. The impatient creditors had indeed sent their bloodhounds dogs to collect their precious money. It was time to pay; only the little money they had to offer wasn't good enough.

The boy narrowed his eyes as an attempt to focus his tired sight and there he found them; those familiar faces were now the image of fear itself: Jacob, Josephine, and Jessica were sitting down behind the bar; their trembling hands were desperately trying to calm down the ruthless weapons threatening to end their lives.

The boy cursed under his breath – he hadn't expected those bastards to be so rude to his loved ones. His gaze darkened, as the beast inside of him started to show.

He was a child of rape; he was the son of abuse itself.

A demon with dark eyes like coffee had raped her.

She was only thirteen.

Raped, you said? You must have done something to get yourself raped. - That's what her parents had told her.

The headache.

The struggle.

The shame.

She couldn't take it anymore; her own parents were judging her mercilessly. She was the silent victim yet no-one seemed to notice her turmoil - so she packed her bags and left her house. She never looked back. She never returned.

Around the same time, Jessica had run away from her house as well. Both girls met on the road: their unfortunate beginnings were now deeply rooted by their instant friendship and mutual trust. They had entered the saloon looking for a job but they ended up with so much more than that: they had found a nurturing family willing to take care of them.

Good Ol' Jacob and his wife took the girls in, Jo and Jess were barely fourteen years old back then.

The then-bartender and his wife Agnes had already lost a daughter a few years prior to the girls' unexpected arrival; those lovely runaways, showing up out of the blue in such a miraculous way were meant to fill the void in their hearts and that was exactly what they did: they filled the hollowed emptiness that was consuming both the bartender and his wife and the feeling was reciprocated by the improvised, renewed parents.

Josephine was with child – the outcome of all that violence would not leave her alone; there will be, always and constant, an unwanted child to remind her of the hell she had been forced to visit. She considered the tempting chance of interrupting the undesired pregnancy but she wasn't brave enough. The sudden thought had invaded her many times during those nine months of carrying the offspring of that demon – yet she never had the courage to actually do something about it.

So she ended up giving birth to that unwanted coffee-eyed boy on April 26th, 1843. Those eyes were still chasing after her – they would haunt her, they would be the torturers in the night, haunting the woman during her darkest nightmares.

Eight years after taking them in Agnes passed; the mother and the daughter had been finally reunited.

Jacob had raised them as sisters. They felt like sisters.

For a brief period of his childhood, the boy had even called her aunt Jessy.

But things had progressed differently for those girls. Josephine was the brains, Jessica was the muscle – they all knew that.

Jacob, seeing Josephine's talent, encouraged her to sing. The old man had inadvertently provided the girl with the chance she had been looking for to finally detach herself from mankind: Jo sheltered herself in her craft; she was finally secluded under a thick halo of mysteriousness - the distance of the artist.

Things had progressed quite differently for Jessica.

Being a saloon girl had granted her many interesting acquaintances - one of them later turned out to be her husband. Mr. Adrian Blanxart, a Spaniard notary from Virginia City had visited the saloon one night; the man was longing to have a drink or two before going back home but he never left. He couldn't leave. Jessica had offered him a weekend to remember but to simply remember it was not an option for the infatuated man. So he married her. He accepted her for who she really was. Lord, I know you're no librarian – the man had stated on several occasions.

Yet he wanted exclusivity.

He had said many times that he wanted her to quit her job as a saloon girl but she couldn't just abandon her family. So she stayed. She worked fewer hours so she could have her fair share of quality time at home with her husband. Even old Jacob had helped her: that treasured silhouette of hers wasn't in the crossfire anymore; she had been promoted - Jessica was now in charge of all the saloon girls.

Now both of them were the brains. It was time for the fresher meat to become the muscle.

Jacob bought the saloon eventually. Erron's symbolic, fictitious grandfather had been the one by the boy's side all along. That loving man had taught him how to read, write, swim, ride a horse, and fire a weapon – he had even taught him about the theory of sex - Jessica herself had shown him the more practical side of it.

Life was finally turning around for all of them – all but Josephine.

Jessica had become an educated lady with friends in high places but Jo never had such luck. She secluded herself in the confines of her own solitude and the boy hated her for that, her ambivalent, ambidextrous affection always seemed ready to harm him – guess being raped at age thirteen changes your perception of love, Jessica had said time and again, trying to justify Josephine's erratic behavior.

But the bond between the mother and the unwanted son was one of a weird nature.

She was a very talented lady, and her son loved her for that – the nurturing feelings in his mother's eyes so full of love while staring at him from the stage were still one of his most treasured memories. But she was also an alcoholic and her son hated her for that. Whatever fate was waiting for that woman, she had brought it upon herself, the boy had sadly concluded many times.

Theirs was a tragic bond: without a father, he had been abandoned by his mother and not – she never truly behaved like a mother; she despised that child yet a part of her loved him at the same time.

But now all those familiar faces were in danger.

Their stories, forever entangled with his own incipient story, weighted heavily on his young shoulders. He had been raised among garter straps and high heels; the saloon life was the only life he had known up until that moment - he knew their faces like the back of his hand; each change on those visages had a different meaning: danger, disapproval, exhaustion, sadness, happiness, thrill…

Danger.

Now it was danger.

Erron took a deep breath, already acknowledging what he was about to do.

He went inside Jacob's bedchamber and grabbed the man's old Butterfield revolver. The gun was loaded – now he needed a good strategy. He went back to the attic and got dressed, concealing the weapon under the black poncho that was now warming up his shoulders and torso. Then went downstairs, kneeled down and slowly made his way to the saloon crouching among tables and chairs – he moved carefully until he found himself behind the bar and hid between Jessica's legs. The opportunity would present itself, in time, he concluded.

He just had to be patient.

Jessica shifted her legs, uncomfortably, as her skin recognized the unexpected visitor hiding underneath her stool. She was nervous – he could tell. Like reading an open book, one of the collectors noticed the woman's uneasy fidgeting and decided to lean in to find out what was truly going on behind that bar.

The rush of adrenaline was stimulating for the boy – there was no time for patience; the opportunity had presented itself, certain and urgent.

The boy rose up quickly from behind the bar and fired his weapon: the bullet was certain; it perforated the curious man's chest, killing him instantly. The actual diversion it had provoked - the shock of the surprising celerity shown by Erron's lethal action was all that old Jacob had been needing since the moment those men had set foot on The Wise Bird: the bartender grabbed a bottle of wine and smashed it against the second collector's skull. The man closed his eyes as his body collapsed, falling down to the ground. The third vicious collector, finding himself outnumbered, tried to run away fearing for his life but a determined Erron executed the coward by piercing his lungs with a fatal bullet.

Another transgression – another line had been crossed.

Josephine and Jessica remained behind the bar for a moment, completely in shock. Their trembling hands were intertwined in panic. The sight of death was overwhelming – blood was everywhere, the gruesome corpses lingering heavily on the saloon floor were all they could see.

With a silent nod that expressed much more than simple appreciation for the bravery the kid had professed, the old man had no choice but to acknowledge that quality he had seen in that boy before, while they were still practicing with mere cans and bottles. Jacob had seen that quality of his, waiting to be properly shaped and ultimately released. That kid had just crossed the line separating the good from the bad; he had just become an assassin yet he wasn't overwhelmed in the slightest by his own actions. Jacob's silence was saying more than enough.

That kid had a talent for sin; he knew he had it in him.

That kid had the potential to become a monster – perhaps he was already a monster. The cruelty of death and the heavy weight of such a determining decision like taking a life didn't seem enough to reach him. Those cold, coffee eyes were more worried about cleaning up the place than succumbing to the realization that he had indeed become a murderer.

He was the son of a coffee-eyed demon, after all – the inherited cruelty suddenly seemed quite natural – the boy clearly held the power to kill someone in cold blood and not feel the slightest touch of regret or guilt.

Erron and Old Jacob buried the bodies on the backyard while the women stayed inside and cleaned up the bloody scene. They couldn't afford to raise any suspicions now – the saloon had to open its doors for its loyal patrons to have a good night just like every other night. They vowed never to say a word about the disturbing events of that afternoon: the four of them swore they would take their secret to the grave. People would search for those men, they would ask their questions and they would, in time, forget all about those missing collectors. New collectors would be summoned then, to replace the old ones, and they would deal with them as well, if necessary.

The mother, the then-aunt that had later become his secret lover and his fictitious grandfather all stared at the boy to check if he was alright – the neutrality of his quiet, unnerving expression was enough to make them shudder.

Two hours later The Wise Bird opened its doors – by the time the black night had come to wrap the Arroya landscape with its obsidian blanket, the place was already filled with grinning girls and amused patrons, just as if nothing had happened.

Jacob's eyes remained glued to that kid's cold, indifferent stare: even now, while sitting right next to his beloved Amanda, the impersonality encysted deep within those coffee eyes was clearly recreating that kid's figure, tracing the outline of the shadowed marksman he was going to be in the not-so-distant future.

Just like every other night, Amanda's father was there as well. The man was enjoying the company of three saloon girls but they weren't alone – another man was there too, making cheerful conversation with everyone sitting by that table. After a while, Mr. Nathaniel Taggart excused himself to the ladies and approached the bar with his new found friend – both men looked intensely at Amanda, almost as if pretending Erron wasn't there at all. With a smile curling up his upper lip, Nathaniel said:

"Amanda, my darling - meet my good friend, Mr. William Farindon."

---

VI – Two Train Tickets

---

July 18th, 1859

He couldn't resist it. As weak as he was, she had the power to make him feel amazingly strong.

The rewarding sensations aroused by that familiar warmth of hers were just overwhelming. Her body was a wild bonfire calling him on time and time again. One last time, he had pleaded, succumbing helplessly to his animalistic needs and she had accepted it, giving in once again to his every demand. She had said yes, her most licentious side had been the one in control of her decisions. It was wrong; he could feel the lustful nature of the recurrent sin they were undoubtedly committing as her digits would stigmatize his skin with her constantly afire touch. He wanted to melt underneath her grasp; he was eager to long for air and to be suffocated again by that consuming mouth of hers. She got on her knees and enveloped him with her experienced mouth – that woman surely was a sinister devil corrupting him once again yet he had no choice but to comply, surrendering his free-will to the capricious desires of her untamable heart.

"Thought you said 'never again', boy," she teased him as she got up slowly, causing the boy to arch his back involuntarily; his whole body was still quivering against the bed-side table.

He smirked darkly as he got dressed and walked towards the door – he knew how things were, there was no time left to pretend he was on a social visit now. He had to go.

"This was the last time." Erron let out as certainly as possible as he buttoned up his trousers. There was something definitive about his tone but it made her smile anyway: he had sounded equally definitive many times before and yet here he was again, pleading for her touch to take him to paradise one more time.

"She's making you wait, isn't she?" Jessica asked as she lit up a cigar and checked the time.

Erron nodded as he let out a sigh full of frustration. Those five months had turned into a living hell for the enamored young lover. Mr. Farindon was interested in Amanda; he had even offered her an engagement ring. The girl didn't want to marry the middle-aged barber, she thought she was way too young to get married, let alone have children. Erron was furious about it yet he could understand Mr. Taggart's sudden desperation: the girl looked exactly like her dead mother; a simple glance was enough for the man to succumb to that never-ending source of sadness that had trapped him mercilessly since his wife's tragic passing.

But he couldn't understand why Amanda had agreed on spending so much time with Mr. Farindon. What was she trying to prove? She would spend her days with the barber and her nights with Erron behind the bar. But things changed progressively, as Arroya's old and extremely gossipy ladies started to spread the rumors of a potential engagement and, being an established aristocrat, Amanda's father was really concerned about his daughter's reputation: a saloon was not the place for such a delicate flower to bloom, the man had concluded. The girl still protested, but a part of her obeyed, quietly, almost as if being dragged down into that unstoppable, imposed union.

Desperate, Erron had knocked on their door – he got on one knee and asked for her hand in marriage.

"You got nothing to offer, boy," Nathaniel had bitterly answered that evening. Behind her father's comfortable shadow, Amanda had simply lowered her head.

Now the boy didn't even know if he still had a girlfriend or not. They had barely seen each other during the last couple of months.

"It's going to be worth the wait, trust me," Jessica said reassuringly, trying to help the distressed kid through that difficult time he was bravely facing. She walked him to the door and embraced him tightly, the teacher was finally letting go of her disciple. She knew there was nothing he could do about Amanda's impending engagement and such sad truth was heartbreaking, even for her.

Even though she had learned how to crave his body, she had always known his heart belonged to someone else. And it was right. She was a married woman, after all. There was only so much that she could offer that boy and having someone by his side, someone he loved and trusted, someone to help and ease the pain caused by his mother's fragile health had seemed like a blessing. Now the tables had turned and his eyes were embracing that darkness she had previously feared: he needed his Amanda, he could never face such an agonizing, tormenting future all on his own.

Jessica opened the door and Erron felt the inevitable fear of the unknown taking over him: letting go of Jessica suddenly seemed terrifying for his convulsed and troubled senses. He turned around and kissed the woman fiercely, his trembling hands quickly cupped her face as Jessica reciprocated the boy's wild farewell. Perhaps he was right and that was the end of their romantic rendezvous - maybe they would never see each other that way again and the feeling was both relieving and frightening at the same time. But Adrian's unexpected arrival interrupted the fiery kiss. The man grabbed Erron by his hair and kicked him out of the house. The boy stayed, encompassed by the deepest regret he had ever experienced, at the other side of the door pushing it insistently, kicking it with all his strength but it was frustratingly pointless. He screamed his lungs out, begging for Adrian to let him in: he didn't care about himself, but he worried deeply about Jessica. Helpless, the sixteen-year-old cowboy glued his ear to the front door and tried to listen: the perturbing sounds of angered yells and inextinguishable sobs were accompanied by the violent shatter of glasses and the alarming, distinctive roar of furniture being moved around rather violently. His curled up fists seemed pointless now that he had been confined to the wrong side of the door. Erron closed his eyes and lowered his head – he should have been more cautious, he should have known better.

After a moment all those sounds coming from the inside of the house had quieted and all that remained there, for the young boy to listen, was a frightening silence; a deep, agonizing silence only accompanied by an echoed, sullen sobbing that would haunt the boy for the years to come.

He cursed under his breath and left that place, feeling completely numb and nauseated. The walk back to the saloon was filled with remorse and fear: his most banal instincts had betrayed him again but now he hadn't just broken a promise to Amanda – he had put Jessica in danger and that was a fact that had already translated itself into action.

He stopped altogether, seemingly paralyzed in the middle of the street. Josephine and Jacob would be waiting for him – their faces… their eyes… there was no escaping from such sacrosanct beacons of light; not now that the thick, contaminating darkness had taken over him. The boy made up his mind and took a detour, trying to avoid the ones that were surely going to notice his shaken visage. Their questions, like unbearable burdens, had the potential to break him inside, to damage that part of himself he had been so desperately trying to save after murdering those men – The confused boy took a deep breath and walked on by, trying to get lost in those familiar streets.

As he walked by Amanda's house, the unexpected gathering caught his eye.

There were people coming in and out of the Taggart house; their fine, fancy clothes were speaking about a special occasion, a celebration of some sort, perhaps. Stranded and bewildered, Erron made his way through the crowd and saw his beloved girl holding another man's arm: Mr. William Farindon's arm. They both were slowly marching downstairs, glancing wholeheartedly at the people observing them with such inexplicable tenderness the boy soon found himself having a hard time trying to process that unfortunate scene he had involuntarily witnessed. He found it hard to believe: she was finally ready to give him up. The shiny golden ring on her finger was like a siren awakening his utmost fears - she was engaged now, engaged to somebody else. She had accepted that unthinkable possibility: she was going to marry the barber.

He frowned, helpless, as he hid his weary existence behind a chubby man clapping his hands as a cheerful salute meant to celebrate the now official couple. Still unseen by the eyes that actually mattered, the tormented boy decided to leave that damned place, the clouds of chaos raining over him were already too dense for him: he wasn't sure about Jessica's fate and now Amanda's destiny had been sealed by the girl's infuriating, insulting lack of resolve. Out in the street again, his still-shivering fingers got a hold of the revolver resting heavily in his pocket – after the incident in the saloon he had grown used to carrying a weapon with him most of the time, just in case. The tenacity that had engulfed him was simply too much to handle: Amanda had chosen her fate, but Jessica hadn't had that much of a chance.

Determined, the boy went back to his lover's house and knocked on the door insistently – but no-one answered.

Worried by the obvious, Erron hid by the privet and waited – someone had to come or leave that house sooner or later, he knew. Adrian's figure became clear after a short while. The man left the house and started to walk down the street, headed in the saloon's direction. Erron followed the notary and hit him in the back of his head with the revolver's handle. Stunned, the Spaniard began to fall down slowly but the young boy's intrepid arms caught him before the motionless bag of flesh and bones could kiss the ground. He dragged Adrian's unconscious body through the small space between the fence and the back door and executed the man in cold blood out in the backyard. Payback felt good, after all. It was a vicious, intoxicating flavor that would soon consume his palate.

Once he had wiped the tiny drops of blood that had spilled across his laconic face, the boy tried to peer through the windows, still longing to find Jessica in there but the only things he managed to see were the chaotic remains inside each room. Jessica was gone and Amanda was engaged to another man; his whole world was tumbling down again. He had to do something; start over, reject the hand he had been dealt and start his own winning streak.

Black searched his pockets until he found his old leather wallet: there they were; the two train tickets Old Jacob had ordered him to purchase just a couple days ago. The old man wanted to go to Dallas to visit some potential investors willing to help The Wise Bird in the near future – and he wanted to take the boy with him so he could see first-hand how a man was supposed to carry out a successful negotiation. Jacob had his faith in that troubled kid; he wanted the boy to take over the saloon after the bartender's inevitable retirement. Erron knew most things related to the saloon; now it was time for him to learn the boring stuff; the parts of the job that didn't involve pouring drinks or flirting with the girls.

The sight of those train tickets was convincing enough for him.

The idea had already set on his mind.

He knew what to do.

Erron had heard some rather interesting things about Dallas, the new town – surely they would be able to start anew there. He was done with Arroya; he was positive that town had nothing left to offer, that shithole was sinking but he would not be dragged down along with it. He had to get out, they had to get out.

He made his way back to Amanda's house; the destination was firmly shaped inside his eyes now. The road suddenly got filled with such heavy notions it became clear, for the first time, that that godforsaken place wasn't his home anymore. He thought about the metaphorical dome they had built up in the saloon during all those years – he hadn't even explored that much outside of those protective walls but he knew their faces, he was no stranger to their judgmental reasoning: in their eyes, he was the unwanted son of a whore and no matter what he did; he was only meant to be that. He would never be good enough to change their erroneous perception. He had been molded into a pre-conceived idea, and there was no escaping that imprisoning stereotype.

He waited patiently around the corner until the meeting was over and then, thanking the heavens for the lack of any unwanted attention, he finally surrounded the house and threw some pebbles at her window – she opened it instantaneously and signaled him to wait by the back door. The resolute boy obeyed, as he practiced the words he was about to say: he would only have one chance to make things right; he couldn't afford to waste his only opportunity with clumsy thoughts and unfinished ideas. He was going to do all the talking; he wasn't going to give her any time to think.

Amanda was in her nightgown; the chilling breeze was creating goosebumps all across her arms. She embraced herself, visibly ashamed, as he handed her one of the tickets. He knew Jacob would be mad but still, he had to try.

"We're living tonight, we can start over. You don't have to get married to that old man, you said it yourself: you don't want to, you're way too young – you want to see the world." He began; his quickly-paced words were frantically trying to convince her. "You don't have to put up with your father's shit anymore, this is your chance, let's get away. We don't need this town, there's nothing for us here, let's just get the fuck out while we still can."

He looked into her big, blue eyes as his gaze started to show all those bottled-up feelings contradicting his thoughts, "I know I haven't been there for you lately, 'manda, and I'm sorry for all those shortcomings of mine – Deeply. But maybe this is our chance; maybe we can start anew…" The girl opened her mouth as a futile attempt at actually saying something but the boy went on, wisely, preventing her from speaking. "I know I've let you down. But I have faith; I know we can turn this thing around. Tonight. I'll be waiting."

He ran off as quickly as he could and went back home to pack his bags. Then he took one of Jacob's finest horses and headed for the train station where he waited for several hours as he witnessed countless people coming and going all around him, the anonymous mass of passengers seemed like a ritual in perpetual motion, reminding him of his own contradictory passivity. After a few hours, he sat on a bench, completely hopeless, and he buried his face inside his own hands: he had ruined Jacob's plans for nothing; Amanda had already made her plans for the future and those plans didn't include him.

What was he truly expecting her to do? Deep down the boy knew she would never take on his offer. That agonizing wait was only confirming his suspicious: she wasn't his anymore.

By the time he removed his hands from his face, he had already turned into someone else. His cold, coffee eyes had irreversibly darkened, that hollowed indifference had finally taken eternal residence inside his tired pupils.

July, 18th, 1859 would always be remembered by him as the day when bitterness set on his eyes for good.

July, 18th, 1859 was the day when Amanda never showed up at the station.

July, 18th, 1859 was the last day he ever saw Jessica.

---

VII – Unreadable Pieces of Paper

---

October 1st, 1859

The silent room was unfamiliarly welcoming for the troubled boy. His life was suddenly crumbling all around his tired body: he had become a murderer yet the burden that those deaths were supposed to carry wasn't there to haunt him. There were other things haunting him; things that weighted heavier on his shoulders: his loved ones had slowly started to vanish. One by one, they were leaving him: Jessica was gone, no one knew anything about her yet he feared her spirit had met the worst possible fate. Amanda was a ghost – ever since Mr. Farindon had appeared in the scene things between the young couple had been less than pleasant. They barely spent any time together anymore, and even though she loved him, deep down Erron knew she didn't have the guts to break herself free from that arranged marriage that would definitely kill their love story. She was not the kind of woman he could keep as his secret mistress after all: she was the one. Yet she wasn't ready to sacrifice herself for him, and that pained him more than anything else in the entire world.

The domestic territory had turned black for him as well: his mother's fragile health had deteriorated considerably. The doctors said that it was time to keep a strong faith, that they had seen some miraculous recoveries, that not everything was lost for the poor woman. Yet he knew their honeyed words were meant to caress his sadness and his fears; they didn't carry any truly scientific facts. They were merely trying to give him hope, they needed him to stay strong for Josephine, but the boy was no fool; he had seen that poorly disguised pity inside their eyes.

Doctors had tried to be cautious and prudent about her condition and deep down the boy was grateful for such thoughtful measures but, in the end, they all had no choice but to say the frightening word out loud:

Cirrhosis.

Once that cruel word had been propelled, freed from the prison of their mouths, he knew the inevitable was about to happen. Josephine's death would be painful and it would wound him inside, irreversibly. She had brought it upon herself; he had said it many times. Yet the fact that she would be gone for good rather sooner than later was an unsettling echo revolving around him most of the time.

He was sitting by Jo's bed, witnessing the indifferent dance of the curtains like druids summoning their beloved spirits when one of the saloon girls entered the room. She walked up to him, her expression was deadly serious.

"This is for you," she said as she handed him the folded sheet of paper she was carrying. "It's from Amanda."

Erron nodded politely as he dismissed the girl then placed the letter on the bed beside his mother pretending he didn't care about its content. He was lying to himself, he knew, but Josephine's rapid deterioration was certainly taking its toll on him – he couldn't risk his already troubled heart with yet another frustration. Certain as the dawn that follows the blackest of nights his mother was about to abandon him and the words on that letter he had just received were surely meant to tell him that Josephine wouldn't be the only one leaving him behind for good.

The weight of his mother's terrible decease felt like a heavy pendulum swinging over his head with the wrath of a god. He knew what was about to happen; there was no point in hiding from the obvious. He knew this time her body would drag her down; she wasn't going to leave that bed – at least, not while still being alive. That was it, finally, the point of no return he had feared for so long.

The exhausted sixteen-year-old shook his head bluntly: he knew better than to hide cowardly in the shadowed sanctuary of unrealistic hope. He took the paper and sat by the window – the timid caress of the insipid sunlight coming through the blinds was finally making him feel something. He unfolded the paper to find Amanda's childish calligraphy waiting to be read:

I will never forget the night when you knocked on our door and asked for my hand in matrimony. My father ridiculed you and your insolent ways back then but deep down I think he knew you meant it.

I knew you meant it.

And I will never forget all those nights we stayed together long after the saloon had closed its doors; the way we used to talk about the future will forever be so dearly treasured within me – we should have seen the world together; I'm still certain of that.

But even if it breaks my heart, it's time to let you go.

I decided to marry Mr. Farindon. I cannot say I agree with my father but I understand that my sole image is enough to drive him crazy. I do look like her, Erron. I sadly do. He needs me out of his life; I get that now, and you said it yourself a thousand times already: I'm not the kind of daughter that walks out on her beloved ones and no matter how many times that man has wronged me, he is still there, among my beloved ones.

Sometimes I wish you had the chance to meet the incredible man that he was before losing my mother. He was so different; so capable – so human. I'm sure that man would have liked you.

I know this might feel as if I'm forcing you to move on but it's time to face the facts, my dear: we both know everything changed that night when you came over and gave me that train ticket. You had already made up your mind. You shaped this idea and now it's all you can see: you don't belong here anymore.

But I do.

Please don't be mad at me; I can already see your frowning face telling me that I've always chosen the easy way out. You're probably right. But it's the best I can do. Remember all those times I told you that I didn't understand how you could love your mother so much in spite of all her coldness and indifference? This is exactly the same; this is how much I love my father.

Don't you think, nor even for a minute, that I'm meant to hurt you or that I'm taking this decision lightly because I'm not: I've spent enough nights trying to find a way for all this to work out fine for us but I can't seem to find any and time is running out. You're free now, Erron. You don't owe me anything. Just do what you know you are going to do: wait. For her to be gone, for me to be married. Then leave; I can feel you already gone. Just know that I love you; I shall always love you.

The wedding will be celebrated on November 13th. Perhaps celebration is a strong word, but you know what I mean. I thought it would be better if you learned this from me. Please don't do anything stupid – I'm begging you; please, please don't ruin the beautiful memory of you that will accompany me for the rest of my days.

Please take care and look after your mother – she's the one that truly needs you now.

Amanda.

Each one of her words, spiraling towards him like a phantasmagoric animation, was precluding the little flame of hope he had reserved just for her. Infuriated, the boy tore the paper into tiny, uneven pieces as he cried like a child, unable to believe that Amanda was undoubtedly ready to give up on everything that they had dreamt about together. As the tears streamed down his face, the helpless sixteen-year-old got on his knees and collected each fragment of her letter: no matter how devastating those lines were for him, he just couldn't find the strength to throw them away. Those words he had just read were hers, after all. That damaged letter would be the last piece of her that he would be able to call his own.

He sat down on the floor and kept the tiny pieces of paper inside his curled fist as the darkness of the room enveloped him. Those fragments of his dying love, now resting heavily inside his hand, were a traumatic whirlpool of sepia-colored memories that gravitated menacingly towards him.

---

VIII – A Blue-Covered Bible

---

November 13th, 1859

The minute he saw the priest standing sternly by his mother's bed he knew he had to get away. Run, as fast as humanly possible. Get out of that room; escape from that heartbreaking sight. He didn't want to witness his own mother's last rites. He wasn't ready.

He would never be ready.

He left the saloon and started to wander those streets without a clear destination – those nomadic feet were marching blindly, trying to get lost among the faces walking by his side.

He knew it wasn't right, he knew he wasn't supposed to – especially on such a surely busy day for her. Yet his feet kept moving, relentlessly marching as if driven by an unstoppable force, unmistakably headed for her door. He needed to see her, he needed her.

"What are you doing here? My father and Mr. Farindon are already waiting for me by the sacristy," the bride said the minute she saw the boy standing helplessly by her door. She wasn't expecting him, he could tell.

Erron lowered his head, she had asked him not to show up that day after all. Yet he needed her. Now more than ever. As his gaze finally met hers, the anguish imprinted on those reddened eyes of his was enough for the girl to guess what was going on. She rushed him inside and closed the door behind her – the house was quiet even though they would be celebrating a wedding in no time.

"Wait here," she whispered before going upstairs. After a while she was back, carrying a blue-covered book – she handed it to him and said: "This was my mother's bible. It has helped me a lot during those difficult times; I know you're not a great believer – but I want you to have it anyway." Her arms flew to embrace him with such tenderness the boy couldn't help but to break down and cry like a miserable child, anticipating his imminent loss.

"You don't have to do this," Erron said as he broke the embrace, "we can still leave this damn town and start over." Her teared up gaze was silently telling him that he had said the words she wasn't longing to hear. All the determination she had shown in the past was nowhere to be found now. She had made up her mind – she was finally ready to let him go. Yet seeing him again was clearly harder than she had expected. That's why she had begged him not to come: she knew those coffee-colored eyes of his were powerful enough to make her crumble; that fragile boy crying right in front of her was shattering her world into a million pieces.

As she slowly gathered all the love she still had for that sixteen-year-old boy, she kissed him – the blessing of that beloved mouth of hers was soothing for his damaged senses. Her tongue, exploring every inch of his tongue, was like a comforting balm slowly washing away his fears. He slid his hand underneath her petticoat instinctively, knowing that he was not allowed to wander that uncharted territory. Yet he couldn't help it; the magic of her mere existence was calling him on, making him shiver like a solitary leaf carried by the merciless wind.

Amanda's soft and warm hand began to lead him upstairs – for the first time since meeting that girl he was finally visiting her bedchamber. Enraptured by the bittersweet moment, Amanda cupped his face with her steady hands and kissed him again, this time more fiercely than before. The white dress was resting peacefully on the bed; the sight was intoxicating and agonizing for the boy. She could have been his bride. She should have been his bride.

He envisioned her as he held her close, walking down the aisle enveloped in white. The image of such a delightful, pristine dream suddenly seemed unbearably far from where he was. As shadows began to cloud his face, Amanda's miraculously blue eyes were helplessly professing all the love the girl had been saving just for him. She took off her petticoat and stood naked in front of his wide-eyed gaze. He should have said no, he knew she wasn't meant to be his yet he couldn't help it. Their goodbye was meant to be remembered; they would never get to see the world together yet the world they had created together was still there, alive and undeniable, just like that splendorous body of hers – within his reach for the first time; finally freed from all its bindings.

The boy enveloped her with his strong arms like anchors trying to get a hold of her – a celestial hold of her that would, hopefully, last forever even if only in his dreams and memories. He knew that body would no longer be his after that day and the certainty was bitter and inexplicably bleak for his already depressing reality. Amanda's hands started to romance him as she quickly unbuttoned his white shirt to finally explore his naked torso – those wandering, restless digits were summoning the man in him, the one that had been waiting, eternally, to be released by those powerful fingers of hers.

He laid her on the bed with such delicacy and tenderness that the girl couldn't help but smile: long gone were the days when his body would venture the depths of other women's curves and shapes; now it was her time to be explored. She had anticipated that moment, her heart drenched in the intoxicating wine of poisonous lust. She still wanted him; she still needed him like that day under the rain; she had seen all of his colors and she had craved him with such desire and hunger that now, having him naked upon her own nakedness felt as special as if that glorious, symbolic rain was suddenly pouring all over her again – she had rediscovered her love for him; only now it was too late.

He held her close as he slowly made his way inside her. Amanda shifted slightly under his tight grip, trying her best not to let that awkward pain she was beginning to feel get in their way – she had heard about that infamous first time, after all; they all said it was supposed to hurt a little, yet that inspiring smile upon her face, welcoming his long-awaited presence with an unimaginable bonfire burning inside those blue eyes of hers was melting his hardened façade, slowly, mercilessly recreating the gentle boy he had once been.

God, she loved that boy.

The future mercenary circled her rosy nipples with his explorative tongue before resuming his pace. That flavor of her skin was simply intoxicating – he could have tasted her forever, he admitted to himself as he increased his speed. Amanda had no control over the things she was feeling, she didn't know what it was that she was supposed to be feeling but it was so overwhelming nonetheless, so profoundly nurturing that the girl cried out his name; her voice an echoed mixture of pleasure and pain. Her every moan was a necessity in itself. She buried her fingertips in his back; her nails were gentle torturers digging his skin with such hunger. Everything that she was feeling seemed so unreal that the girl even allowed herself to fantasize and wonder, even if only briefly, about the delusional chance of being dreaming. That had to be a dream; after all, she concluded. Only it wasn't. He was finally awakening the woman in her. She had been waiting for that moment; anticipating the pleasure, daydreaming about his skin and her skin melting together, becoming one, finally one.

As the boy reached his climax she rejoiced her amazed eyes with that face enveloped in the sweetest of ecstasies. That was the face she would remember for as long as she lived, she thought. Now her eyes were the ones blinking unceasingly as if taking his picture. Each frame would be treasured among her fondest memories; never to be forgotten.

As he leaned in for one last kiss Amanda embraced him tighter than ever: that was her silent farewell. Erron caressed her cheek and ran his fingers through her auburn hair – he could never fall for someone else; not as madly as he had fallen for her.

They stayed in bed for a brief moment. Their naked bodies, covered in sweat, were still reeling in the memory they had just created together. After a while they got up and dressed – the boy looked over his shoulder and lowered his head once again: that was it. That was goodbye. That white dress discarded on the floor now was all the proof he needed.

"The Bible," she indicated quickly as they both went downstairs, noticing the boy had forgotten all about the blue covered book she had given him. As he took the book from her hands their fingers touched, for the last time. That final tickling would accompany the mercenary for the years to come. He would long to feel that sensation again but no sensation could ever be compared to that one last sensation.

"I love you," she whispered in his ear.

Those words he had been longing to hear her say for so long felt like daggers piercing his body – that elocution, simple yet immensely meaningful, was too much for him. Feeling completely overwhelmed, the boy looked into her eyes with an intensity she had never seen before: she understood the feeling was mutual, yet the lump in his throat was forcing him to remain silent.

He left her house and glued his back to the nearest wall almost instantly, feeling weak and abandoned. He had done it; he had finally said goodbye to the greatest love of his life. She was bound to marry another man in a matter of hours – that impossible future that they had planned together had finally been erased for good.

He should have said, "I love you too." That silence, stretched in time like a cobweb wrapping up the most sensible part of his nomadic heart, would haunt him almost every night. Even now, that the accumulated dust of more than one hundred and fifty years of memories has covered that heartbreaking scene in the theatre of his mind.

He should have said "I love you."

He should have said I love you.

Black wandered those intrinsically familiar streets, waiting for the miracle that would never happen. That landscape seemed foreign for him now; the certainty was undeniable: he didn't belong there anymore. Arroya was no longer his home. As he walked on by, he tried to capture the essence of that place deep within his pupils – he knew the image was meant to fade in time yet the hope still persisted: he wasn't interested in remembering that town for geographical memorabilia after all – that portion of land had deeper roots for him. All his beloved ones had been anchors for him to stay for as long as he had done. No place in that town could feel impersonal to his downbeat senses: each street, each corner had a story to tell and those people he had held so close to his troubled heart were the main protagonists of such dear stories.

That way he would never forget them.

Back then, oblivion seemed like the most unforgivable of sins.

As he made his way back to The Wise Bird, the saddened faces waiting for him by the door were enough for the boy to get the message: Josephine Turner, aged 30, had died. He ran upstairs to find Jacob Black, his life mentor, sinking in a sea of tears and anguish. Erron embraced the old man tightly – he had already lost a daughter before and Jessica's sudden disappearance had felt as if the cruel repetition of such a tragic event had aimed for the good man's heart. The sight of Josephine, resting peacefully, at last, was both heartbreaking and consoling for the two men mourning the late singer. She had suffered so much; she had struggled so much to overcome that painful beginning of hers that the quieted expression of that whitened face of hers seemed like a breath of fresh air for them now: Erron's diabolic progenitor had ruined her life, yet she had tried. With flaws and insecurities, she had tried her best.

They buried her on that same day. Erron and Jacob Black were the only ones in the precarious cemetery, paying their respects to their beloved Jo. The evocative sound of the church bells indicated the boy that not only his mother had passed, not only Amanda Taggart had now become Mrs. Amanda Farindon – his time in Arroya was completely over.

They walked back to the saloon in silence, the old bartender was saddened to see him go yet the man understood that trying to hold him back would be viciously cruel, to say the least. He had always promoted that wild boy's capabilities; now he wouldn't be the one to hold him prisoner in a town that was clearly rejecting him.

The boy stayed up all night, collecting his final thoughts regarding his imminent departure. Leaving Jacob seemed cruel and unnecessary, but deep down he knew he couldn't stay any longer. He wouldn't survive another day in that hell of a town. Even though he was still in his room, as soon as the impending dawn had started to cover the rooftops with a yellowish tone, he was already gone.

Erron packed his bags and stood in the front porch for a moment – there were a thousand words already choking in his throat yet he couldn't find a way to let them flow. He wasn't good at farewells, he sadly realized as the evident misconnection between his mouth and brain became evident. Jacob had heard the boy's footsteps heading downstairs – now the old man was staring at the boy from behind the bar; his teared up gaze was already describing that unbearable solitude that would accompany him for the rest of his days.

As the sixteen-year-old boy's exhausted yet determined bones started to forsake that cursed town that he had called his own all his life, the choir of avid voices carried by the wind were whispering Arroya's early morning round of restless gossip:

"Her father nearly killed her; she wasn't a virgin anymore when she married the barber, the man claims he never even touched a hair in her head before the wedding night…"

"It must have been that boy, that one, you know? From the saloon, the singer's son. Poor kid, so troubled…"

He put on his hat and started marching.

They all had made their own choices, after all.