Real-estate

As Héctor began helping the receptionist clean up the mess, a thought occurred to him. "Señora, where did all of these lost items come from?" A sad and mournful look crossed the esqueletta's face.

"Most of them are not lost. Most of them, have simply been left behind."

"Que? Left behind?" Héctor asked, puzzled. The receptionist sighed.

"You've heard of the Final Death, yes?"

"Si, but no one really explained anything about it. Well, except that my parents experienced it before I got here. What...is it, exactly?"

"Aye, Dios. You poor thing. The least they could have done was fill you in. You see, when you and anyone else who knew them in life, died or worse, forgot your parents, they became Forgotten. They died one last time and disappeared from this world. Tragically, it happens to more souls than you think. And like this place, once it occurs, it is irreversible."

"So, it's my fault they're not here, isn't it?" Depression began to show in Héctor's features. He began to remember.

His mother's name was Sofia and she loved to dance. She would wear her dark hair in braids pulled into a tight bun, with a red rose. His father, Pedro, bought her a beautiful dress for their anniversary. That night, they left him, their 8 year-old son, at home with a neighbor. They went out dancing, but a fire broke out at the dance hall. Pedro made it out ok, but soon discovered Sofia was still inside. He went back in to save her and the building collapsed.

"Señor Rivera, are you ok?"

"Huh, what?" Héctor blinked himself back into the present and noticed the receptionist's worried expression. "Oh, uh si. I'm ok."

"Well just know, it's not your fault your parents were forgotten. Our loved ones in the Land of the Living, no matter how dedicated they are to the traditions, have no knowledge of how important those traditions are. That's why it's so important to remember your family and to pass down their stories."

"That doesn't make me feel any better." Héctor remarked.

"Point is, the memories of our loved ones can sometimes be quite painful. That's probably why it was so easy to forget your parents." Héctor only nodded, for he was lost in thought. "Well, the mess is cleaned up and you have clothes so I'm going back to my desk. Oh and before I forget, here's the check I wrote out for your charro suit." The esqueleta handed him a slip of paper, took the charro suit, and left to return to her desktop.

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"And over here we have the shopping district, where all you're fashion needs can be met!" Héctor just rolled his eyes. This tour was taking forever, and he was ready for it to be over so he could get to his apartment and brood. Sure, the Land of the Dead was quite beautiful and lively for its name. But his family and true home were in the Land of the Living. Despite the fact that he was dead, he knew he didn't belong here. How could he? He knew no one here. And because he had died so young, he wouldn't for a long time. Héctor was alone again, and it was worse than being at the orphanage. He could make friends with the other orphans because they had a lot in common. The only common thing he shared with people here was being dead. He sighed. One of the skeletons on the tour bus was gently strumming a guitar, and beautiful music flowed in Héctor's direction. He smiled only for a moment, before looking depressingly at the floor of the bus. If he had only stayed with Coco and Imelda, this would never had happened. He would get to live out the rest of his life with his family and hopefully die an old man. But it was too late. He was never going to have that chance, and he only had himself to blame.

"Hey, buddy! What's wrong with you?" asked the tour guide. It took a while before Héctor realized he was talking to him.

"Oh, uh..." Everyone on the bus was looking at him, and the sudden, unwanted attention was making him nervous. "Uh, guess I'm just a little tired." It was the truth. Héctor may have not felt physically exhausted but, he certainly was emotionally. All this depression and anger had really worn him out.

When the tour was finally over, Héctor was shown the apartment in which he would be residing. It wasn't much but, well, it wasn't much. It had a small bed in the far corner, a kitchenette across from the front door, a table for two, and a living area with a sofa and a little bookshelf. Rent was free, but if he wanted something nicer, he would have to fork out a few thousand pesos. Which, he didn't have, especially since wallet was stolen. As he looked around the pitiful room, he realized something was missing.

"Where do I um, you know..."

"No, I don't know. What are trying to say?"

"Um, relieve myself?" he asked with a sheepish grin.

"Oh! You mean the restroom?"

"Um yeah, the restroom." Héctor said, as he squinted his eyes and tapped his forehead.

"There are no restrooms in the Land of the Dead." the Realtor recited.

"Then where am I supposed to go?" Héctor hated asking this. He didn't want to look like un estúpido idiota. Unfortunately that seemed to be the case.

"Señor, let me ask you something. Do you have kidneys?"

"Well yeah, everyone does."

"The dead do not." the Realtor stated harshly. Héctor glanced at the window and noticed the sad appearance of the skeleton looking back at him. His reflection.

"Oh, si." he said and reached up a hand to begin rubbing his elbow, a nervous tick he'd always had. But instead of feeling soft, warm, flesh he only felt cold, hard, bone. It wasn't at all reassuring like it used to be.

True, he had always had a bony figure. But that didn't mean he couldn't hold his own in a bar fight, though. He had had his share of those thanks to Ernesto. Héctor knew there was a point where 'one more' became too much. He knew his own alcoholic tolerance, and though his friend claimed he knew his, that wasn't at all true. When Ernesto became drunk, he thought nothing could hurt him. But again, that wasn't at all true. Both would get back to the motel with bruises and black eyes. His friend would pass out on the first place he landed, be it the couch or the floor. He would get so drunk sometimes, Héctor would beg Ernesto to cancel a performance. Luckily he would eventually cave for the sake of their reputations, and that his hangovers got the best of him. Héctor wondered who would help his amigo with his addiction now that he was dead. Would Ernesto replace him? Who knew at this point? The Realtor interrupted his thoughts.

"Well, we're done here so I'll be on my way." He showed himself out so Héctor returned to his reflection.

"Tu es un estúpido idiota, Héctor." he sighed. "What am I going to do? I want to go home, but I suppose this is my home now." he walked across the room to the bookshelf. Héctor needed to occupy himself before he broke down again. So, he searched the shelf for some blank paper, figuring he could write a song about his hardship. But all he found were 'how-to' books. Some such titles included,

How to Make Tamales

How to Mend Your Charro Suit

How to Fry Sopapeas

How to Play Guitar

Hector was about to give up, when a particular book caught his eye. "How to go into business for yourself." he read.