Chapter Ten
Nightmare or Memory?
GRAPHIC WARNING:
- DEATH THREAT
- SEXUAL ASSAULT AND RAPE
- ABUSE
???
The world was hazy, in the tiny candlelit room. Cloyingly sweet smoke filled the area, dripping down the throat like melting wax and sticking to the sides of her throat like thorns. It was sweltering inside, the windows tightly shut and locked, the thick draperies that hung above them drawn and tied in place. They were so heavy, or at least felt that way, it would take at least two of her to open them. If she lifted a hand to swipe at the back of her neck, it would come away wet as if she had just been running three miles on the hottest day of the year. Perspiration ran down her forehead, down her arms, plastering her nightgown to her body. The air was heavy with the scent of sweat, of something infinitely bitter, and of iron and rust. Mingling with the candle smoke, it had Michaela's head pounding and her nose wrinkling. She pursed her lips, trying to reorient herself while trying to clear her still-spinning head.
She was standing, now. The wooden floor was frigid beneath her bare feet, and with the room being so hellish in temperature, she might as well have been standing on dry ice. It was so cold that it almost burned. She grimaced, peeling the skirt of Helene's nightgown away from her skin. The first question that came to mind was...Where was she?
The last thing that she remembered, Helene had been singing to her. Her voice had been so soft, so lovely and nice and gentle. The faint scent of flowers, a scent that she would forever onwards identify as Helene's, whisked under her nose for a moment before vanishing. She had been laying down, trying to sleep...was this a dream then? She lifted up her arms and rubbed at her eyes, trying to shake off the feeling of being wrapped in a lead vest. Her eyes were heavy and didn't want to stay open. Weren't you supposed to feel well rested and lucid if you were in such a lucid dream?
This dream certainly seemed very lucid. It was sharp and vivid, almost as though it were actually real. At least it was something actually tangible, something she could comprehend now. Before...before she had found herself here, wherever that was, she had been wrapped in total darkness. Surrounded on all sides, like she was just...floating in an abyss of nothingness.
it had been almost painful there, a cold sort of nothing that burned and ached deep inside her and she hadn't even had a shape! She had just been a shapeless little speck amidst the darkness, as colorless as her surroundings. She had no eyes to see anything, and there wasn't anything to be seen. She had no mouth to speak with and no one to speak to. Even her emotions, her thoughts had felt formless. They were still there, but they were dull and scattered and not...there was no clarity or order to them. Just this very strong, very strange urge. Like...like when she forgot something important, like a project to work on, and her head felt as though it were itching, tingling from the inside out, urging her to remember it.
Then there had been a sudden burst of recognition, a tiny piece of light like stained glass that came right in front of her, painfully bright. She didn't think she had consciously reached for that light, but there was the odd feeling of a little part of her moving towards it, her formless body taking form again and molding itself into fingers and hands and arms and latching desperately onto that minute piece of colored glass. Then, it had started gleaming even brighter and she had been sucked inside of it. Like a massive vacuum of air had just broken out of it and wrapped around her and dragged her in.
Then, she had gotten spat out, right into this tiny room. She was back, back to having a body, back to having her thoughts and emotions and so very disoriented because of it. The more she thought about it though, the less it seemed like a dream, and the more like a really old memory she had somehow managed to forget.
The room was dim, the only source of light being the plethora of candles scattered around it, but it was vivid in a way that even the most lucid dreams weren't. It really felt more like she was living this in the moment, and not just recalling it. If this wasn't a normal sort of lucid dream, if this turned out to be really weird, she was going to blame it on the curse. At least, Michaela really, really hoped it was just a dream or a weird curse-memory, because if it wasn't that meant she had either gotten kidnapped (which meant Helene might have been hurt or kidnapped as well) or she had gotten teleported somewhere (and Helene would probably be panicking and that wouldn't be good at all-).
She stood still for a few minutes, waiting for something, anything at all, to happen. Like a bird crashing through the window or a dinosaur caving the roof in with a fairy riding on its back. After waiting for a while though, nothing happened except for her headache blossoming into a near migraine. "Well, this is a whole lot of boring." She muttered under her breath. "If nothing's going to happen, I might as well take...just...a little look around."
The room she was in looked pretty old. The wallpaper was a very, very pale greenish-ivory and embellished with slightly darker floral motifs. It looked pretty, like the antique wallpaper that went out of date decades and decades ago with corsets and long dresses and fancy balls. The floors were, obviously, wood. A very dark, well polished wood. The furniture dotting the side of the room she was looking at, a small table with a few chairs, a woman's vanity with a small basin, were made of the same wood.
A bed was pressed back against the middle of the wall opposite the vanity, the bedframe made from shining iron. The design was very simple, but the posts were topped with gleaming orbs big enough to sit in the palm of her hand. The cream colored quilt that covered it hung off the side, dragging on the floor as if whoever occupied the bed had fallen out of it in a hurry. There was a glass of water on the stand besides the bed, and a tiny bottle that looked medicine.
Michaela moved over to pick it up and read the label, when there was the sound of something creaking and a soft curse from behind her. She froze at the same time she tried to turn around, body stuck between jumping in fright and fleeing and seeing who else was in the room with her. Dream or not, was she going to get in trouble? She started running through what she could say. "Hi, yeah sorry, I have no idea where I am, I went to sleep and woke up here-" like anyone would believe that!
She dropped to her knees, prostrating as she spun around. "I'm sorry for breaking into your room, I'm not sure how I got here, I swear, I-" She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for someone to start screaming in shock or calling for the police or something. Nothing happened. She stayed like that for a while, on the ground, but nothing happened. Whoever had spoken hadn't said a thing to her or moved towards her or- Hadn't they noticed her?
She lifted her head up, looking for the source of that soft voice from before. Right behind where she had been standing, situated in a small part of the room that she hadn't seen because it was behind her, there was a small writing desk and chair. Even in the dim lighting, Michaela could still see the svelte and lithe figure of a young woman. She was hunched over the desk, gripping her stomach gingerly with a hand, but different from when someone had a stomach ache. It was closer to someone trying to shield a sore area, a bruise, from getting hit, or trying to soothe the pain.
The woman's hair was long and dark, draping over the back of the chair and hanging over her face, obscuring her features from view. Even without seeing her face though, something didn't seem right about her. There was an odd pallor to her skin, and she was breathing very heavily, very slowly, like she was feverish or her nose was clogged. She was wearing a nightgown, soft and pure white, but just like the one Michaela wore, it was plastered to her body and dripping with sweat. Her right arm was...very slowly, it was moving across the desk. She had to be writing something, and Michaela...well, she was nosy. As a teenager, wasn't it a duty of hers to poke her nose into someone else's business? Michaela scrambled back to her feet and made her way over to the desk. Could this woman...really not hear her? A shudder went down her spine. Somehow, now it felt like...this really was mixed up with the curse somehow. "Señorita? Señora?" She crept closer, putting her weight on her toes. "Can you hear me?"
There wasn't a response. The woman didn't turn around, didn't so much as blink, even when Michaela went right up behind her. Peeking over her shoulder, it was evident what she was working on and also that she really wasn't feeling well. Judging from the dating on the paper, and the salutations, she was writing a letter to someone one. Her hand was shaking though, so badly that it was a wonder she was still holding the pen. Her letters were written a drunken slant, a bit larger than how someone would normally write, but not even the slightest bit legible. It looked, to Michaela at least, that she couldn't muster the strength to lift her hand and the pen up from the paper. All her letters were written with an unbroken line on ink, clotting together in a tangled heap on ink splotches.
Closer now, Michaela could make out tiny, breathless, quivering whimpers each time the woman breathed in. Like every breath was a struggle. Her head dipped down low, as though she were struggling with all of her physical and mental strength to focus on the letter she was composing. She looked like she was in severe pain.
Michaela stepped around to the woman's side, reached out a hand to tap on her shoulder. "...Hello?" Her small, tentative question froze in her throat at the same time her hand dropped back to her side in shock. The woman...her face was... Michaela had to bite down on her lip to keep herself from gasping, like she was from a tacky telenovela.
The woman...she had a face, but it was...nearly indecipherable to Michaela. She had her eyes, she had her nose, her mouth...but it was like Michaela just couldn't comprehend the shape of them, recognize her face in its entirety. It billowed and flexed and folded like hundreds of thousands of ribbons weaving and unraveling at once, rippling like the surface of a lake after a toy boat has sunk. Even still, that strange enchantment on her face hadn't been what startled Michaela. It was the bruises that were painted over it.
Her cheek was mottled with dark purple-black shapes, ugly shapes, and her lower lip was swollen. It looked like someone had bitten down on it, or smacked her at full force, because there was an angry, dark red split there that seemed ready to bleed at any moment. There were shallow bags under her eyes as though she hadn't been sleeping well or at all. It made her appear haunted, terrified that at any moment some clawed beast would emerge from the shadows to devour her. Every so often, she would pause in her writing, eyes flicking up and around the room as though looking for some sort of sign that warranted her caution. Her gaze passed right through Michaela. Which meant the woman in the chair really couldn't see or hear her.
This close to her, Michaela took closer notice of her nightgown. It was soaked in sweat, sticking to her skin and leaving little of her figure to the imagination. More than that, there were...stains on the fabric, dark stains colored like rust that stood out against her skin and the white fabric. The white fabric was translucent now, soaked to her skin, so more than revealing her figure, it revealed...a lot more. Michaela flushed, about to turn away to preserve the woman's dignity, when she noticed those bruises.
All up her arms, on her shoulders, on her stomach...there were very ugly and dark shapes pressed into her skin, half-obscured and half-revealed by the soaked fabric. There were gauze bandages wrapped around some parts of her body, covering other injuries, and some of them were...also stained with that dried rust-colored liquid. That strange scent, the iron and rust, was very strong. It wrapped around the woman like a poisonous miasma. It was a very belated realization to her, that it was blood she was smelling. That odd scent of iron was the spilled blood of that woman, the blood drying on her clothes. At her neckline, half-hidden, there was a darker, fresher stain and...a bite mark? Pressed into her skin, there was broken skin that looked just like someone had...had bitten her.
Who the hell would do something like that?
This woman...someone was hurting her, repeatedly. Any thoughts of dreams and memories flew out Michaela's head, buried under an upheaval of concern for her. No one, not a single person, deserved to be in a situation like this. A ring on the woman's hand glinted dully in the light. She was married...so that made this domestic abuse?
Michaela tried to gently touch her shoulder, only for the tips of her fingers to phase right through the woman's body, just like when she had gotten cursed in the land of the living. However, her body...it seemed to ripple in shades of a gold, like a stone had been skipped across the surface of a massive pool filled with liquid gold.
The way it glimmered...reminded her of two things. The way the curse was spreading through her body...and the glow of Chicharrón's Final Death. "So this has to be part of the curse..." She looked back towards the woman. "But why am I being shown this?"
Michaela, after all, had been cursed for stealing Tió Ernesto's guitar. If this was part of the curse, wouldn't it be showing her something related to him? Or even her Great-Great Grandmother? She had no idea how curses worked, but maybe...
She had no basis for this thought, but if...if Papa Imelio or the rest of the family had needed to say they gave her their blessing, and she denied it, and was looking for a blessing from her tatarabuela or Tio Ernesto...did the curse know that? Was it sentient of the most basic of levels and showing her something that could, maybe, lead her to one of them?
She didn't know what her tatarabuela looked like. Her face wasn't known to anyone, except maybe Mama Coco. She glanced back at the face of the woman. Maybe...maybe this woman's face couldn't be seen...because Michaela didn't know her tatarabuela's face. Again, she had no basis for this...but she was fairly certain the curse had a hand in this, and if the curse was related to her family, it had to show her something relating to her family. This woman...might be-
Something in the corner of the room gleamed. White wood, and silver strings. Michaela, glancing at the woman, moved to inspect it. Leaning up against the wall, as pristine as it had been hung up in the crypt, was...Ernesto de la Cruz's guitar. Unlike before, when she had been overjoyed to see it in the photograph, it felt...it felt more like black ice spilled down the back of her spine and started to freeze her from the inside out.
That was Ernesto de la Cruz's guitar...which meant this woman was traveling with Ernesto de la Cruz. Michaela's tatarabuela had been traveling with Ernesto de la Cruz. Completely silent, Michaela walked back over to the desk and the woman. She couldn't make out her face...but, if it was her...if she was writing a letter...
It seemed, at a glance, completely indecipherable. Michaela fixated on it, narrowed her eyes as she tried to split the letters and numbers apart from each other. The date at the top of the page was legible. Her body got colder, and colder...That handwriting was eerily familiar, and it took less than ten seconds for it to click in Michaela's head as to why. That was…the same handwriting…that was on that letter from the Ofrenda. The letter to Papá Imelio.
The letter from Mamá Coco's Mamá.
Diciembre 4th, 1921
Imelio-
Her handwriting was the same. Nearly illegible now, but this woman's handwriting and the handwriting from her tatarabuela was the same. It was...the exact same. As...the letter to Papa Imelio. For the moment, it was all she could repeat to herself. It was the same. It was the same. They...they were the same. They were the same person. This woman...and her tatarabuela...were the same person. Her legs folded beneath her, and she ended up sitting on the floor, struggling to comprehend what she was seeing.
That...threw Michaela's theory of domestic abuse out the window. Papá Imelio would never, not in a million damn years, ever put his hands on his family with the intent to hurt them. He'd probably shoot anyone who tried straight up their jaw. But...her tatarabuela, his wife, she was supposed to still be with Ernesto de la Cruz- up until the seventh! If this was the third...then she was still supposed to be with...his guitar was still-
Nothing about Ernesto de la Cruz's reputation painted him as the sort of man to hit a woman, let alone...molest her like this! I hat else could bítemarks like that mean? They were...it didn't make- This...she couldn't understand. She didn't want to understand. Maybe, maybe she had tried to come home early as a surprise, and someone had kidnapped her? That didn't explain the guitar though, unless the guitar didn't belong to him. It was a random, fly-away thought, but it would explain why the guitar was in the photo, but then- how did he end up with it after she was kidnapped unless she wasn't and he was-
It took all of Michaela's tiny bit of self control to keep from screaming, because if she started screaming she wouldn't be able to stop. It wasn't that difficult to put the pieces into place. Comprehending it was another matter entirely.
If this was her great-great grandmother, why was she so badly injured…? She was supposed to be with Tio Ernesto right now, right? Why…why was she so badly hurt? Her letter to Papa Imelio had said that her train home was on the 7th, just before Mamá Coco's birthday…and this was the 4th, so there was still three more days until then…
Had she…really lied about returning home? Michaela discarded that idea. That letter, the one from the ofrenda, it had been…thirsty, to say the least. It, to her at least, didn't seem plausible for someone to lie like that. Was it some sort of surprise where she was coming home earlier than expected? Or had she gotten kidnapped by someone? She was panicking, she was repeating herself and she couldn't stop because this, what she knew or what she thought she knew was trying mix with what she was learning and it wasn't-
She covered her face with her hands, taking in deep breaths. "You need to calm down, you need to be calm, you can't scream no matter how badly you want to..." She crawled over to the desk, grabbed the corner of it to pull herself back to her feet. All of those thoughts...they would drive her mad if she thought about it any more. It would have to wait, wait until she woke up and maybe got hold of some paper to write everything down...
Something unsettling took root with the ice traveling through her veins. Ernesto de la Cruz was Mama Coco's Tió...so there, there could be no way he- he would do something like- stop thinking, stop thinking about it! Even so, thinking about the man caused an unpleasant feeling to well up in her chest. Cold and fiery at once, but muffled and half-remembered and a little weak because of it. Michaela turned her attention back to her tatarabuela.
What...what was she supposed to do here? Just...watch and wait to wake up? It wasn't like she could leave the room. Without even nearing the door me, she had the feeling...that there wasn't anything outside it. There was nowhere to run and hide, and she couldn't grab her tatarabuela and help her escape either. She looked at the woman, at her tatarabuela. Nothing was happening, and, taking in the sight of the woman's injuries... she took back what she said about the dream or memory or whatever being boring. She'd gladly take boring. Oh, what would actually be perfect was waking up. That would be even better.
She glanced at her tatarabuela again, trying to see if she could make out the way she looked any better after calming down. Then...there was something odd about her tatarabuela's face, the longer Michaela stared at it. The flexing, fluttering glamour seemed to settle down, smoothing out the indecipherable and incomprehensible into something that was comprehensible. If she stared long enough, focused on seeing her face, it seemed like the ribbons began to settle down, weaving her features together like a radiant tapestry. Less like a dream, it was more like recalling a really old memory. She had heard from somewhere that when you recalled something, you weren't actually remembering that specific moment. You were remembering your memory of that moment, and if you later thought of it again, you were thinking about the memory about that memory. It was…confusing and, in this case, didn't seem right. Her emerging face was too sharp and vivid, if you took away the loose boundary of the room and the sense that nothing existed outside it. It was the memory of exactly that moment, that original memory, it made sense. A little aged, a little worn around the edges, but intact. Her face, and this room. It was so...clear. Almost as though...it really was one of Michaela's own memories.
Little by little, the curve of her lower lip, the bow of the upper, the shape of brows became just a little bit clearer. Michaela kept staring, other thoughts drifting away as she remained steadfast in pursuing her goal. Just before her tatarabuela's face settled into place, just as it was right within her grasp and so familiar that it made her head ache, there was the clattering of metal striking wood as the pen slipped from the woman's fingers. Michaela swore her heart stopped.
Her tatarabuela tried to reach for it as it rattled across the desk, the sound as loud as cracking ice in the dead of night. Michaela's heart sank for her, so fast that it left her head spinning in dizzying swoops. She moved so quickly, so desperately, it was like that pen hitting the ground would kill her. No, it would be more accurate to say that the sound would get her killed.
Her great-great grandmother was afraid of it. Terrified. That sound was so loud in the room, it felt like it would draw attention, and clearly she was in a place and condition where that wouldn't be a good thing. For her, from her behavior, Michaela got the feeling that she believed help wouldn't be coming. This tiny room was severed from the rest of the world, and the confines of it were sweltering and stifling as though trying to drive her mad. Michaela's first thought was domestic abuse, but that couldn't be the case when she wasn't with Papá Imelio. If she was so badly hurt, struggling to be quiet, she had to still be near whoever hurt her. There was no way she'd be able to run in her current state. At least, not well. It was a wonder she had managed to make it over to the desk.
The sound of the pen dropping to the floor was lost as a man, broad-shoulder with a strong chin, reached forwards and dragged the woman from her chair. Michaela hadn't even heard him enter the room. The legs of the chair screeched like a thousand discordant violin strings breaking at once. Her great-great grandmother tried to stand, tried to turn to face him, but with the painful grip on her hair, could only make a pitiful little cry, stifled in her throat before it left her lips. There was resignation in her face, mixing with the pain and terror.
Any other sound the woman would have made was silenced when the man slammed his hand over her mouth. With one hand fisted in her hair, and another covering her mouth, he leaned in close to her ear. His voice was rough and sweet, as though he wasn't hurting her. "What were you doing just now, mi pájaro cantor?" It wasn't a question she was meant to answer, or one he wanted an answer to.
Michaela watched as her great-great grandmother tried to pull the man's hand off with all the finesse of infant trying to grab toy blocks. The way she she moved was painfully slow to an outsider's perspective, but considering how much of a struggle it had been just to hold a pen, Michaela couldn't imagine the pain and stress she was under now. Her nails dug into the long sleeve of the man's white dress shirt while she tried to scratch at the hand covering her mouth. In response, the man holding her had the audacity to smile, before yanking her head back by her hair, jerking her entire body back like she was a puppet on strings. "Did I say you could move?" The insidious tone of his curled around the room, thick and poisonous with too many meanings in it that Michaela didn't want to comprehend. Her great-great grandmother had gone limp in his arms, but her body was still shaking.
Michaela tried to help her. Her body jumped forwards almost of its own accord, hands outstretched to shove that man away from her great-great grandmother, fury building in every cell in her body. She wanted to hurt that man as much as hurt her great-great grandmother. By nature, Michaela wasn't a violent girl. At least, she thought she wasn't. It was a whole different matter when her family came into perspective, and it wasn't just with her. The entirety of her family tended to get a little punch-happy (shoe-happy, in abuelita's case) if someone else was hurt or in danger. Here, though, it seemed she wasn't capable of anything like that. Michaela had forgotten, in the heat of the moment, that she couldn't touch anyone.
Just before she made contact with the man, her form wavered like mist. Like someone could just breathe out and wash her away entirely. Exactly like when she was first cursed, she fell straight through him, hitting the ground with her knees. She bit back the plethora of curses she wanted to start screaming and forced herself back to her feet. Why, when someone close to her really needed her help, couldn't she be even slightly useful?
The man leaned down and pressed a kiss to the side of her great-great grandmother's throat. "Now that's a good girl." He let his teeth scrape along the thin skin, the woman in his arms shuddering in revulsion. He released her hair, her mouth, and it made Michaela almost physically sick to watch his hands glide down her body, wrapping around her stomach and holding her against him. The man buried his face in her hair, chuckling. Then he spoke with a quiet anger. "You know I don't like it when you try to write letters to that man, mi pájaro cantor. I wonder how I should punish you?"
His hands reached up to grope at her chest. Michaela tried to turn away, only to find that she couldn't. She couldn't move her body at all, or even her eyes. She could just stare, like she was a passenger in the backseat of a car that was going to crash. The man groaned as he squeezed, so tightly that it cause the woman he held captive to whimper in pain. Her glossy eyes squeezed themselves shut for a moment, before staring straight through Michaela at the far wall, as though she were trying to detach her own mind from her body through sheer willpower.
When he heard the sound she made, he didn't stop. Instead, he started giggling like a child and squeezing more, squeezing harder, like he enjoyed her pain. "Does that hurt, mi amor?" He was grinning against her neck, the white teeth biting down on soft skin. Michaela's tatarabuela yelped, when he broke the skin. Her body jerked forwards on reflex in a bid for freedom, and all at once his body tightened around her, holding her up as her legs buckled beneath her.
Her indecipherable face was twisted with pain, each breath labored as she tried to keep from saying anything, tried to push away and stand in her own right. The man gave her a mocking smile. "Well, it seems there's no point in punishing you right now. You can't even stand on your own."
He released her, and she crumpled to the ground with a thud and a whimper hushed in its infancy. Again, Michaela's body moved forwards on its own, and then she came to the startling realization that she really was like a passenger in a car. She wasn't controlling her body at all. It really was like a memory. You can't control what you do in a memory like you control yourself in a dream.
She knelt besides her great-great grandmother, who struggled to push herself up. Fresh blood was trickling down the side of her throat, slipping down over her skin and seeping into the white fabric of her nightgown. The man walked away from her and lifted the letter she had been working on. The way the light hit him seemed to make him look like he was carved of stone, an ominous structure of some demonic construction. He started laughing, louder than before, as he skimmed the letter.
Michaela's great-great grandmother forced herself up onto her knees, staring at the man with no small measure of fear. Fear, and regret, and buried beneath it, anger. On her hands and knees, she tried to crawl over to him. Her eyes never left the letter he had picked up. She didn't make a sound, but he ...turned and kicked at her, right at her ribs, knocking the air from her lungs and leaving her wheezing on the floor. Then, to keep her from moving, he placed one of his feet on her back and pinned her to the ground. He was still chuckling, and have her a look that barely passed as fond. "Do you really think something like this is legible? If you're going behind my back, you should at least make it comprehensible, my dear."
Right in front of her eyes, he lifted the edge of the paper to a nearby candle. The flame licked at the fragile edge and began eating away at it, leaving ash and black-red-gold embers in its wake. He continued laughing as her face drowned in despair, in absolute misery.
The man scattered the ashes over the desk, and removed his foot so that he could kneel down. He wasn't smiling now. No, he was beaming. He dragged Michaela's great-great grandmother into his lap, lifting her chin to that she had no choice but to look in his eyes. There was a joyous, bloodthirsty madness there. Madness, and lust. It filled his voice when he spoke, holding her in such a way that she was forced into straddling him.
"Imelio isn't coming to save you, and he won't ever come to save you. No matter how much you cry his name. No matter how many letters you write, no matter how far you try to run or where you hide, I won't ever let you get away from me. Perhaps, you do need a little punishment…" His fingers traced the edge of the bite mark he had forced on her, sliding down to trace the shape of her clavicle.
It was like a blow to the chest, for Michaela. So this…definitely….was her great-great grandmother. There was no way she chose to abandon the family, not if this was real, not if she was begging for her husband to find her. For the first time since she had been brought to this room, this little piece of hell, Michaela heard her great-great grandmother speak. "No…no, please…no, no, no…." She kept repeating it, like a scratched record. She began pushing, trying to shove the man away from her with shaking arms. Her eyes were blown wide. Whatever little central thought she possessed in the middle of illness and injury was completely scattered by her terror of the approaching 'punishment'. One of his hands gripped her thigh hard enough to leave another bruise in its image.
"No, no….Imelio! Imelio! Imelio!" Her expression was manic as she began calling for her husband, beginning to beat against the man's chest and shoulders with her arms. Flailing, trying to get away from him by any means possible. "No! No, no, no, no!" Her begging turned to wailing, and the wailing to screaming. It pierced Michaela's eardrums, echoing around the room. Surely someone could hear this. Someone had to come and help her, right?
The man forcefully pulled her head back, sealing her mouth with his own to muffle the screaming. He grabbed her arms by the elbows, holding her still. With her legs on either side of the man, their bodies were pressed intimately against each other, and Michaela didn't want to think about why he suddenly began to make breathless sounds, moans, that resounded around the room and sent ice down her spine. Michaela's body, this time, didn't move. Her body was practically paralyzed from shock, but whether it was hers or her puppeteer's, she couldn't tell.
The man pulled back, and ran his tongue across the pearly tears running down the cheek of his prey. "You're not supposed to scream, mi amor. Don't make me regret making this punishment a nice one for you. It's only a punishment because you make it one, after all."
With that, he lifted her up into her arms and stood, long hair loosely trailing down. She had really long hair, so much so that he couldn't hope to carry all of it, and it draped like a waterfall of dark curls. She was crying so hard now that she couldn't even speak, nails twisted into the white fabric of his shirt as though they could tear through it and gouge off his skin instead. Her legs kicked out against him, trying to make him drop her, but it only made the man chuckle.
Michaela didn't want to see what happened next. She didn't want to know, but her body staggered to its feet and after them. She wanted to help her, she needed to help, but what could she do?
The man dropped her great-great grandmother onto a bed. She tried to sit up, looking feverish and terrified, only to be forcefully shoved back down against the mattress. "No….no…" The man ignored her, and instead placed his hands on the neckline of her nightgown before tearing right through the center. The sound of tearing fabric had Michaela flushing with horror and mortification. The remnants of the white gown were swept off her body and thrown to a distant corner of the room. Her great-great grandmother tried to shove him away, crossing one arm over her chest, but the man simply grabbed her wrists in his significantly larger hands and forced them down.
He leaned down, mouth descending upon her skin with an agonizing fervor, as though she would impossibly vanish from his grip if he wasted a moment. For all his eagerness in putting his hands on her unwilling body, he moved with incredible delicacy. The way he touched her was worshipful, and it made it all the more disgusting to watch. "No…only Imelio, only Imelio is allowed…" Her voice was barely louder than a breath of air. Her body was tense, arms straining to break out of his grip. Michaela swore she felt her heart break. She couldn't look away, couldn't do anything to help.
"Imelio isn't here to protect you, and he won't want you when he learns what's happened." The man grinned, baring his teeth. A monster, a beast wearing a human man's skin. A nasty, cruel beast interested in taking what they wanted with no regards to others, their wants and well-being. "No struggling, my bird. It'd be unpleasant to clip your wings, but I won't hesitate if necessary." He sang into her ears, the threat clear and not holding a single sign of reluctance or hesitation. The woman's body went limp beneath him, her face taking on a deathly pallor. Her stomach, her hips, her arms...they were mottled with black and blue bruises and they were so much worse than what she had been able to see. She squeezed her eyes shut, as though not seeing the man above her meant she wouldn't feel what he was about to do to her. Something dark crossed the man's expression, and he began to twist her arm back. There was a startled gasp that tore past her lips, the pain forcing the woman to open her glazed eyes. "Look at me and beg me to touch you." The man towered over her, eyes sharp and cold and hungry for something.
Michaela's great-great grandmother's chest heaved as she sucked in air and tried to keep herself from screaming. She looked the man right in the face and spat at him, her words slurring slightly as though she were drunk. "I don't want you touching me." Silent tears were rolling down her cheeks, and she seemed to sink back into the pillows as though bracing for something. The man lifted one hand and sent it across her cheek. Her head went snapping to the side, and in the next second, he bent her arm back at a nearly impossible angle. She hadn't screamed when he slapped her. If anything, she had seemed resigned. The noise she made when he forced her arm out and back like that though...it was horrible. Pure pain in raw, vocalized form. "That's not what I asked, mi amor. It wouldn't be at all difficult for me to clip your wings now, you know. If anything, it would save me the hassle of doing so later. Such a filthy song just now. I'll have to wash it out of your mouth." He jerked her head back so that she faced him, and leaned down. Squeezing her face in his hands, he forced her jaw open and spat in her mouth. She gagged, humiliation etched across her features and mixing with pain as he forced her arm back even further. "Look at me when I'm talking to you. Any further, and your poor wing might break." He spoke so casually, as if talking about the weather. "Now, what do you have to say...?"
"G-go to hell."
Michaela couldn't see the man's face, but she could still make out the way his expression darkened. "I see." There was a violent, jerking motion and then he was sitting on her stomach and Michaela had to watch as he jerked her great-great grandmother's arm back and then drove his knee into it. There was a very high sound reverberating around the room for a while after that, so remarkably high that it was a sound she didn't know was humanly possible, and an angry sound like bone snapping. She dropped to her knees, gagging with horror. No, it wasn't like bone. That sound was a bone breaking. The man had pulled her tatarabuela's arm back, and now it laid on the bed in an odd way that just screamed as bright as day that it was broken. Her great-great grandmother cried out again as the man moved back to straddle her and jerked both her arms back to her sides. "I didn't want to hurt you like that, mi amor. You know exactly how you're supposed to behave. Poor behavior gets you punished."
She stared up at him with a terrified, tear-stained, and unrepentant expression. "You're a monster." She rasped, voice sounding raw. The man seemed to ignore her, lust-darkened eyes roaming her naked body beneath him. Then he looked her, stared into her eyes. "I'm only a monster when you make me one, dear. Don't make me break your other wing. You know how tonight will end either way." He crooned, reaching forwards and stroking the curve of one cheek. His other hand slid over her shoulder, tracing the line of her collarbone, before drifting down to the curve of her breasts where his fingers tightened around a hardened nipple. His smile was callous as he flicked idly at it, relishing in the flinch that traveled over her body. "Your body wants me so badly, how can I not give it what it wants? Sooner or later, you're going to want it...so beg me, my bird. Sing so prettily that I won't punish you for those false notes you sang."
He wouldn't hesitate. Michaela looked at what little she could make out of him, his face as incomprehensible as her great-great grandmother's, if only a little bit clearer, was dark and his eyes wild. He really wouldn't hesitate to break her other arm, or even her legs. Then he would...he was going to- Michaela watched, horrified, as her great-great grandmother's expression crumbled. There was so much disgust there, so much pain, as she gave in to his demands. Her eyes jumped to the walls, the roof, and then the man's face. There was hatred there too, hatred and terror and humiliation. "...ease..." Her voice was quiet, barely audible.
"I can't hear you." The dark expression gave way to a vicious, cutting delight. Her eyes started frantically searching the room now, welling up with more tears. It cut Michaela's down to the bone. This was horrific, so- so horrific. What...what sort of choice could you make in this situation? If someone was laying their hands on you, you were supposed to say no. But if they were threatening your well-being, and there was no one around who could help you, or who wanted to help you, what did you do when there was no choice but to give in? Her great-great grandmother, her face- Michaela wanted nothing more than to tell her that nothing that was happening was her fault. No matter what she said to appease the man pinning her down, no matter what happened, it wasn't ever going to be her fault. "It's not your fault." She rasped, still unable to move from where she was cradling herself. "It's not your fault, it's not ever going to be your fault!"
"P..plea...se...to..." the woman choked on the words that passed her lips, like they were stuck into the walls of her throat like razorblades of broken glass. "T...tou..ch...me..." Her eyes squeezed themselves shut, tears still slipping past the closed lids. The man, the man started laughing again. "I'm sorry, you'll have to be speak clearly. I want you to hear what you're saying. Do you get it now? Your body wants this. From the moment you say you want this, you will completely be at fault for this. That sinful little body of yours has belonged to me all your life and always will. It was a crime you committed, when you gave it to someone else. You will always be mine, and it's time you realized that."
"No, it's not! You're the sinful, filthy fucking liar here! You bastard!" Michaela barely recognized her own voice as it hurled vicious insults at a man who couldn't hear her words. She started pulling at her hair, her body unwilling to move from where it had curled up in the corner. Why was she here? She couldn't do anything to stop him, couldn't do anything to help her- she was useless! Completely useless! She started to pull at her hair with her hands, feeling the ache and sting as though she were about to rip out great clumps of it. What was she supposed to do here? What was she supposed to do?!
Her great-great grandmother's face twisted, looking as though she would like nothing more than to bite through her own tongue and choke on it. She lifted red-rimmed eyes to the man's face, still speaking slowly, this time through gritted teeth. "P-please. Touch. M-me." The man's boisterous laughter echoed around the room as her eyes slid shut again. "Such a filthy, filthy songbird. I'll do exactly what you want." Careful of her broken arm, he leaned down and pressed their lips together. There was a quiet whimper, a bit of red at her bottom lip where it began to bleed again at the split, as he manhandled his way into her mouth. The phantom sensation of bile rose and crested at the back of Michaela's throat, burning. She started gagging again, watching as the man straddled her great-great grandmother.
Gone was the harsh, bruising, breaking touch from before. His fingers glided tenderly over her skin, drawing delicate and ornate patterns into it. The way he kissed her would be romantic if he hadn't broken her arm when she denied him or was actively forcing himself on her. He broke that mockery of a kiss and pressed their foreheads together. "I told you, and you should be well aware by now, that I knew every inch of your body better than you did." He brushed her hair from her face gently, as though he hadn't just humiliated her, had not just crippled her esteem. In response, all she did was clench her teeth together. "I'll be gentle..." he hummed against her skin.
He started sliding down her body, pressing slow kisses to the left of her throat. He'd hover over the skin, ignorant of the way her face would twist, and begin to suck at it. The minutes ticked by at a snail's pace as he worked at marking up her neck with hickeys. His hands rubbed against her stomach, her hips, in a manner that was probably meant to be soothing, stimulating, but it made their unseen observer's stomach revolt. Michaela was crying in that corner of the room, sobbing as loudly as her great-great grandmother probably wanted to. In contrast, the woman kept her eyes shut, hands balled tightly in the sheets of the bed, lying as still and rigid as possible. Her hair was splayed around her on the bed, the deep brown a sharp contrast against the pristine white. The man tugged on one strand lightly, moving from her neck down to the clavicle.
"Do you remember when you tried to cut your hair, just a day or so ago...? It was so awful to see you do that, after you've spent so long growing it out..." One hand slid up the curve of her stomach, stroking at just beneath her chest, drawing a tiny shape just below her cleavage. The other tightened, lifting her hair and using it to crane her neck into a clearly painful angle for a moment before releasing her. "Don't try that again, mi pájaro contar. I might just break your neck as punishment." He said it as though it were a joke, but his face was grim and serious.
She shuddered beneath him when he said that, especially when a hand crept up so that his fingers could encircle her throat. He would do that, Michaela thought dully. There was no hesitation, no reluctance in his voice at all. There was a soft squeeze around her throat as a warning, and then he ducked his head down further and took one nipple into his mouth. Michaela wished dearly to whatever gods in existence that she could just look away, at least to afford her great-great grandmother some privacy, but control over her body seemed to remain far from her grasp.
The woman's eyes flew open in sudden shock at the unexpected sensation. For a moment, it looked like her entire body spasmed as her muscles tensed up even further and tried to lock her in place. A short, wisp of breath was drawn from her lungs and her legs began to draw up and lengthen out slowly, seemingly at random, as the man continued to explore her body.
Michaela...wasn't a kid, or at least, she wasn't a little kid anymore. She knew what it felt like...to touch herself. To feel that pressure build between her legs, to want to alleviate it...but for someone to force that onto another person for their own selfish wants was- it was nothing but humiliation, a mockery, a display of power over another person. There was shame across her great-great grandmother's face as the man slid a hand between her thighs. Michaela couldn't see what his hand was doing, and she didn't want to see what it was doing. It was clear enough when the woman on the bed flinched, and he started laughing from where he had buried his face in her chest. He sounded almost like a kid having the time of his life at his birthday party, except there was nothing happy or wonderful about this situation.
There was nothing but silence in the room after that. Silence, and the breath of her great-great grandmother growing steadily heavier, cheeks flushing a rosy shade and hips and legs quivering against the sheets. The man pinning her down moved up again, to give her bruised lips more attention, biting down hard enough to make blood well up again, while never faltering in the careful ministrations between her legs.
Michaela wasn't sure how much time passed, by the time her great-great grandmother went rigid on the bed, her back arching and pressing her against the body of her assailant. What she was aware of, beneath the nausea and the horror, was a burning anger and spiking hatred towards a man she didn't even know the name or face of. The man crooned at her tatarabuela. "Oh, that's a very good girl. Good...good girl..." he continued to toy with her even after that, watching her body shake from overstimulation for no short period of time until she was writhing against the sheets so much that her injured arm started to drag, causing her to cry out in pain every so often. "My filthy, needy songbird..." He brought his hand up into the light, and held it in front of her. "Look at how slick and wet you got for me. To think you had tried to lie and say you didn't want my touch..."
There was a sadistic turn at the corner of his mouth, and making sure she was paying close attention, slid one of his fingers into his mouth. He sucked on it for a moment, before pulling his hand away with a popping noise. "Ohh..." his voice was a low growl in his chest. "You taste...divine." He breathed. His tongue ran across his lips as though savoring the taste. He got up from straddling the woman, instead moving back to rest on his knees between her legs.
Michaela thought she wouldn't have been able to bear it, if she had to hear her great-great grandmother scream. She couldn't do anything to help, it was like she was in a miniature hell and she wasn't even suffering the brunt of it, but the madness that would have accompanied the screaming was nothing compared to the madness that bred in the silence. The still air was only broken by soft gasps, or a bit of mewling that had been cut and held in the back of her throat. She had thought that the man would hurt her, just...take what he wanted...but it was far worse to see him treat her like she was a treasure, to physically please her body and rip apart her mind. So much worse. Because people can fight against pain, they will always strive against it...but pleasure is debilitating. Especially like this, when she so clearly didn't want it- Her suffering was silent. As silent as a leaf falling from a tree amid a hundred thousand others, swept away and never to be found.
"No...no- no more, please..." Her great-great grandmother's voice was frail, like it would break to pieces in a moment. "Please..." With her one good arm, she tried to pry the man's grip away from her thighs as he lifted her legs over his shoulders, pulling her body down the bed. He peered up at her. "No." There was no reason. Just. No. "I want a better taste of you." He buried his face between her thighs, hidden from view.
If there had been anything in her stomach, Michaela would have vomited then and there. Her great-great grandmother's back arched and she made a noise that couldn't be mistaken for physical pain even as tears continued to roll down her cheeks. "No, stop- please!" The man did as he wished and continued on, leaving her to babble half-formed pleas beneath him, trying to shove him away with one weak hand. He growled, groaned against her, and forcefully held her thighs in place. She couldn't even manage to squeeze them together.
By...by the end, he had drawn away with glistening lips and she was sobbing on the bed, her body shaking with the force of her crying. Michaela swore, right there, that she wanted to kill that man. Kill him for stripping her great-great grandmother, her family, of basic decency, of dehumanizing her. What else could it be called, when he stripped her of her rights to her own body, kept calling her his songbird like she was some toy, some inanimate object?
The man looked unruffled, except for the rising flush on his cheeks. "Yes..." He spoke over the woman beneath him and her sobbing. "You taste as divine as I thought, as I remember." One large hand of his landed on her stomach. His face filled with awe. "I can still feel your muscles squeezing and fluttering. You really are such a slut for the touch a man who understands you. For the man who owns you. Look at yourself. You're dripping wet for me, and we haven't even gotten to the fun part yet."
Michaela's hands had been slammed over her ears, but she could still hear everything just fine. She didn't want to hear this dirty talk, this sort of refined cruelty which stripped someone of their self-worth. Her eyes burned, cheeks stained with tears. The man continued speaking. "You're staining the sheets, you know. So slick. Have you already been fucked dumb by just my fingers, my tongue? Mi amor?" He started to chuckle as her tatarabuela's sobs faded. It cut off abruptly, when he heard what she whispered.
"Imelio...Imelio, please...help me..."
She looked exhausted, barely conscious, eyes wide and frightened like a starved dog hiding in a corner. Her skin was damp with sweat and shimmered in shades of gold under the lighting. The man pulled her up by her hair, ignoring the pained whimper that accompanied the movement. His laugh was mirthless. "Do you really think your husband will come for you? That he's going to want you, now that you've begged for my fingers and my tongue on your filthy, sexy little body? When you've laid in my bed, all pretty and slick and prepared to take me?" His voice was soft, but it didn't soften the words he spoke. "No...no...please, stop-" He covered her mouth and leaned forwards so that he could speak directly into her ear.
"Stop what? Telling the truth? Everyone thinks you're bedding me. He probably thought we were sleeping together from the moment we left. He's expecting it. Do you really think a wealthy boy like him really cares for you? You're just a pretty face to him. All he needs is to divorce you and go running to Mommy to get all his shiny money back. Not to mention his face whenever I'm near you. Did you never see that jealousy, that distrust? Even he has suspicious that you're a dirty songbird, willing to spread your legs for another man..."
She was staring at him now, with horrified eyes as a vicious smile spread across his face. "You're lying...you have to be." Her face twisted in distress, only adding to the hedonistic pleasure on his. "Maybe, but whether or not I am, do you really think he'll want you back when you're all dirty with another man's touch? You've been a slut for mine for years, even if you never knew. Look between your legs. That's all the proof you need. Your cunt's still leaking all over the place."
"No, no..." she murmured, shutting her eyes. If she couldn't see it, it wasn't happening. If she couldn't see him speak, she could block it out, she couldn't hear him. It wasn't happening and it wouldn't happen and- Michaela could only watch from the corner as her great-great grandmother seemed to breakdown. "Imelio is never going to want to see you again." The man smiled while she choked on air. "But I will always want you. I won't ever let you go."
There was the soft click of moving metal, a buckle coming undone. Then...a zipper being pulled down. "No...no...!" Her eyes shot open at the sound, her body weakly shifting against the sheets as she tried to push herself further up the bed. Her eyes darted frantically around the room, hysteria building in the back of her throat. "Imelio..." she called out, as though calling his name would bring him to her side. "Imelio, Imelio! Imelio!"
The sound could have shattered glass.
Each scream was another crack in Michaela's heart. No matter how much her tatarabuela screamed, Papá Imelio…wouldn't be coming to save her. After all, a century from this time- he really was convinced she had left him for someone else. Somehow, something like this...hadn't really factored into Michaela's thoughts about what had happened to her great-great grandmother. Illness and death maybe, but not...not kidnapping and rape. A very dark part of her wanted Papá Imelio to see this. To see his wife suffering and hear her call out his name desperately and realize he was wrong, that she needed his help, and that even if he was unaware of it, he had been the one to abandon her when she needed him most. Papa Imelio needed to know about this.
How could it have made sense to him, for his wife, the woman who had carried his child and had specifically said she was coming back, for his wife to just abandon their family? If this...really was a memory being shown to her through whatever bullshit magic shenanigans, if this really was what happened to her tatarabuela- what did that mean for her now? She had never come back home. Had she remained trapped with this man, this monster, waiting for someone to come save her, trying to save herself and being physically broken for it? Even in the land of the dead, was she...Even now, almost a century later, was she still trapped by this man and waiting for her husband who abandoned her? It made her heart hurt, as though her ribcage was cracking and closing in on itself. If she felt like this, what about her great-great grandmother who lived it? She...she had suffered so much- and this was just a single day...the letter, the letter had said December 3rd? The 4th?
There was a scream from the bed, and Michaela had to watch as the man forced himself between her tatarabuela's legs and slotted their hips together. There was no period of time for her to accommodate to a sudden intrusion, he just- her body went ridged, hands tightening against the sheets causing time to tear in her grasp as a dull, fast, wet slapping sound filled the air.
Michaela curled further into herself, hands over her ears. She didn't want to see this, didn't want to hear this. She went from gagging to dry heaving against the cold wood floor.
Her great-great grandmother was perfectly still on the bed, the knuckles on her hand white. She kept her eyes shut, her mouth shut, even as tears dripped down her cheeks. The man groaned, rutting against her senselessly. "You aren't going to sing for me, songbird? You were doing so well up until now, even if the song was so ugly." He leaned over her, laughing as he forced his lips on her, reaching down to lace strands of her hair between his fingers and tug at them. When she opened her eyes again, they were vacant. Devoid of life, devoid of any sort of joy or emotion. There was just a ceaseless agony, a field of complete and total ruin. It was though her insides had been carved out and devoured, leaving only a shell behind. Even though she were still breathing, the look in her eyes...her eyes were dead, soulless. Not for a second did she look at his face. Instead, her eyes drifted up besides his head, looking up at the ceiling. She kept her gaze fixated there as if not seeing what was happening to her would translate into not feeling it. "...Imelio..." she breathed. Her breath was punctuated in sharp, short staccatos and she cried out when the man lifted her hips, forcing himself deeper into her body, harder and faster- "No, no, no!"
A deep, powerful moan lifted from the belly of the man's throat, drowning out Michaela's tatarabuela. He started panting, like he was a bitch in heat. "You feel so good. I had you just yesterday, but it feels like years between then and now. You're a wonder, did you know that?" He was rambling, trying to dominate not just her body, but her mind, filling her head with what he said and only what he said. "Your body is a wonder. So warm, it's like you were made just for me. Doesn't this feel good for you? Doesn't it feel nice, having someone fuck every last thought from your pretty little head? I know every inch of your body better than you, better than your husband." His spite was palpable, grip tightening on her body. "Do you like this? Being filled up by someone who loves you? By your owner? You belong to me! You have always belonged to me. If I have to force myself on you a hundred, a thousand times to make you understand this, I will. Maybe I'll even give a baby of my own. Would you like that? You would, wouldn't you? You've made such a good mother already, to another man's child, so you'd be wonderful to mine- she should have been mine."
He was snarling by the end, almost howling, ducking his head down and biting at her throat again like something feral. Her body beneath him tried to twist away, the delicate skin breaking under his teeth and dripping red. The man lapped at the spilled blood, painted his lips with it, his teeth were red with it- "You're mine. Everything you are belongs to me, your body, your blood, even your little daughter. Mine, mine, mine-"
He had to be delusional, Michaela thought. Delusional and completely insane. He didn't stop at just one bloody mark on her body. His head bowed, lowering to her shoulders, her collarbone. He left bites and broken skin all over her. It took a moment for it to sink in that he was talking about Mama Coco. Mama Coco, who in this time was just three years old, about to turn four. Mama Coco, who was nearly one hundred now and waiting for her Mama who never came home.
Her Mama, Michaela's great-great grandma, who was being held down to the bed right in front of Michaela and being- Michaela gagged. If Helene hadn't saved her, back in that alleyway, something like that would have happened to Michaela too.
Michaela turned further into herself, trying to drown out what she was seeing, what she was hearing, by trying to think. She was…dreaming, dreaming of a memory. Was this a part of the curse? If she got dragged to the land of the dead, maybe some weird part of the magic behind the curse knew she was looking for great-great grandmother and was showing her this…? She had no reason for thinking this other than if she didn't think of something else than what she was seeing, she'd start to go mad.
There was the sound of the man groaning, panting over her great-great grandmother, jolting against her and slowing and holding her so close to her it was like he was about to crush her under his body weight. "Oh god, oh god- I'm going to fill you up, give you a baby, you won't leave then-" There was another earbursting howl, and he jerked against her. He held her by the hips and used her like she was just...a receptacle for him. Not a person, but...a thing. Something he owned. When he finally pulled away from her, lowering her back to the bed after a minute, he left her thighs smeared in an ugly white substance that burned itself into Michaela's eyes. "You're so beautiful like this." He stroked her bruised cheek tenderly, pressing kisses to her face. "All mine, filled up with me." His hands rubbed the surface of her body roughly, swiping across the warm, fevered, unwilling flesh. "I love you." He crooned. She watched him with empty eyes, before finally being allowed to succumb to her fatigue. She didn't speak or beg any more, but the tears...the tears didn't stop. She mouthed something, and her eyes slid shut. Darkness beckoned, and she slipped into blissful unconsciousness.
The man leaned over her, still breathing heavily. His body was still tense, and Michaela...she still had to watch. He manipulated her body, her unconscious form, up onto her knees and - he forced himself down her throat. Even...even unconscious, he didn't allow her-
Finally, Michaela's body responded to her. She wrenched her gaze away from the bed and screamed. She couldn't look up again, didn't want to look up again, and began striking at the floor with her hands mercilessly, until they began to sting, until they started to bleed- her body went through the motion of dry heaving, and all the while she could still hear those horrible sounds-
There was another breathless and drawn out moan from the man. "Good girl, my good songbird, such a lovely mouth when you aren't misbehaving...swallow it, swallow of all me and have it fill your stomach and mouth and only taste me on your tongue-"
It took him far to long to stop rambling like that to her, to remove himself. He...he wouldn't leave her alone, even when she was completely unresponsive. The man used her body to chase his own high, even wrapping his hands around his throat and squeezing just to hear her gasp for air.
Michaela's tatarabuela would wake up sometimes, as the man did...did this to her. It was like she either didn't register what was happening or...she started screaming and lashing out like some sort of feral beast. More than once, those hands of his had squeezed at her throat until-
Those sounds-
Michaela's stomach revolted again, growing more violent each time.
It seemed like an eternity had passed before he tired himself of tormenting her, draping his body over hers like a heavy weighted blanket. Even then, he ground himself against her, right up until he painted her stomach white in- After a few minutes, he pushed himself up again and Michaela tensed, preparing to watch another round of torture- there was nothing else to call it but torture.
Instead, she watched with dizzying relief as he finally stood up from the bed and walked away from her to the vanity, where the basin rested. There was a pile of cloth there, rags which he soaked in the water before bringing them over to the bed. The dizzying relief twisted into nausea, because he began wiping her body down with the water-soaked cloth, stroking her skin with perverted affection. Even unconscious, she feared him, curling in on herself as much as possible. "Mi pájaro cantor, it's almost as though you like being covered in my spunk." He whispered into her ears, dragging his hands and the cloth roughly over her body, her legs, her hands, her lips- Michaela wanted to vomit when his hands slid between her thighs-
She wanted to kill him. She wanted to find the stupid gun that Marco had taken from Helene and press it to the man's forehead and pull the trigger. She didn't know when, and she didn't how, but this man was responsible for her tatarabuela never coming back. Responsible for so much suffering- Something in her was screaming it so loudly that it resonated in her bones, in her skin itself-
She wanted to spill this man's blood. She would do it even if it took her one hundred years. He would suffer for his man had hurt her beloved babysis-
The mind forgets, but the soul always remembers.
The man discarded the dirty rags on the floor besides the bed, moving to pull his clothes back on as though nothing untoward had occurred in the room. He tugged on his pants, buckling his leather belt and buttoning up his shirt. He was disgusting, leaning over the side of the bed to kiss Michaela's tatarabuela on the lips. Like she was his wife, like he had a right to do that, like she wanted him to do that when she so clearly didn't-
"Sleep well, mi amor. I'll be back soon. I need more laudanum and paregoric from the store for you." He caressed her head fondly. "I'll splint your wing as well, but you should have known better." He hummed. Michaela curled her hands into fists. He was the one who should know better, who should end up in the deepest pit in all of hell. With cold calculation, she rolled his words over in her head. Laudanum? Paregoric? Wasn't that...medication? The thought brought to mind her tatarabuela's slow movements, her glazed eyes...had..had he...was she...?
Had he drugged her?
As the man continued to place lingering kisses on the woman's lips, tenderly adjusting her arm and pulling the blanket back over her, Michaela watched him with burning eyes. She knew now...what it meant to hate someone. Michaela had never thought she had it in her to hate someone, but now she knew the feeling and it burned hot and bright in her chest like a second heartbeat. The man finally pulled away, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to groom it into a somewhat near style, though Michaela's stomach remained unsettled regardless of his growing distance from the bed and her tatarabuela. She would prefer it if he was out the room entirely, and six feet on the ground in an iron casket screwed shut and locked with deadbolts.
He plucked a comb from the vanity, grooming himself in the mirror as he prepared to step out into the world, to shop for more drugs that would allow him to put his filthy, rotten hands all over Michaela's tatarabuela again.
She got to her feet and strode over to him with eerily steady, eerily calm footsteps. She wanted to see that face. If she saw his face, she would find a way to identify him. When she did, she would find him. She would put a gun in his mouth, aimed straight at the roof of it, and blast a hole through the top of his head. At the very least, If she could recognize that man, she'd be able to tell someone what he looked like, have someone sketch it out. That much…would be useful for her great-great grandmother, right? If he wasn't already rotting in a jail cell like the piece of shit that he was, he would be soon as Michaela was able to speak to someone. Papa Imelio needed to be told, too. Preferably with a fist to his face. He had married this woman, and had a child with her, and yet…he believed she had abandoned him? And she had been begging for him to save her, being hurt by someone…better yet, Papa Imelio would help her pump the man full of lead.
She didn't think of whether anyone would believe her, or how she'd be able to prove it, or if anyone would listen. But something buried very deep inside of her told this was real. Something woven into her soul itself. Maybe, if there was precedent for getting cursed, someone had ended up in a similar situation...there would surely be proof, right? Of memories and curses, and curses showing memories...
Michaela looked into the man's face...focusing...watching as the features slowly came into focus...
Her heart stopped in her chest.
Then she doubled over and began dry heaving, gagging on air when nothing came up. That was…that….was….the letter had said- the one from the ofrenda- she was traveling with- she threw herself away from the man, scrambling away and trying to keep herself from vomiting.
Ernesto de la Cruz.
The man that hurt her great-great grandmother was…Ernesto de la Cruz? The memory started wavering, unraveling at the seams and breaking apart into a hundred different threads and Michaela fell through them, back into that deep, endless void.
It wasn't cold anymore. Instead, it was a sea of black fire that was burning her, consuming flesh and bone and sense of self-
Her body itself was unraveling with any coherent thought, as though it had been so thoroughly Integrated in the memory that it disappeared alongside it. Ernesto de la Cruz, Tio Ernesto? He…he, he hurt her. He hurt her tatarabuela. She drowned in that thought. At that moment, everything she thought she knew about Ernesto de la Cruz was thrown into the abyss and left to shatter into pieces in the sea of absolute nothingness.
He hurt her.
He hurt her.
He hurt her.
He had said he would never let her go. Was that why she never came back? Was she even now locked up somewhere, held in the unfeeling grasp of a monster, waiting for her husband to come and rescue her-?
She'd hurt him.
She was drowning, drowning in this sea of black-fire and burning up from the inside out. There was fury, there was grief, and it was eating her up. It was swelling up deep within her, like something buried long ago and recently unearthed in pristine condition. She wanted to rip something apart, she was nearly driven mad by emotions she couldn't put a name to.
She was sinking, deeper and deeper into the bottomless pit. It felt as though she would continue falling, being ripped apart by a vortex of her own emotions, and the blooming urge in the back of her mind that told her there was something she needed to do-
And then there was a little gleam of gold. A small, shining worm like creature that drifted just past her formless line of sight. It was warm and soft, and covered in spider-web thin cracks all over it like someone had thrown it down and beaten it to the point of breaking and it was a thick sheet of glass, but glass nonetheless.
She followed it, and realized it wasn't a worm, but a thread of some sort. It was wearing thin, so much so that it was nearly nonexistent. It was something precious, something to be protected, and that belief was something that radiated from the very core of her being. With a sweeping motion, she moved the mass of what had once been her body and wrapped herself around it.
Her arms were arms again, and there were her legs as well, her body slowly weaving itself back together, remaking itself within the depths of hell. The golden thread, with its severed ends, dripped tears of liquified agony. As she neared it, the golden thread almost seemed to draw back like a sentient creature. A little frightened, a great deal more wary, and above all else- lonely.
She reached for it again, trying to convey to it that she wasn't going to hurt it. Time was meaningless here, but it felt like a very long time had passed as she waited. Then, very slowly, the thread reached towards her.
It wrapped around her little finger, and seemed to brighten just a little. The tears did not stop, but they slowed. It sank beneath her skin, running through all her veins and cells right down to her soul itself. It felt…like meeting a very old, very dear friend after a very, very long time.
The golden thread seemed to glimmer, and then…a soft voice came from it. Someone…was singing to her. "Wake up, morning is here and the day is bright~ Someone is waiting, waiting for you to open your eyes~"
That voice…that was-
November 1st, 2017
[The Land of the Dead] (Helene's House)
Michaela's eyes opened. They didn't snap open, and they didn't creak open. They just…opened. Hovering above her, Helene's face came into view. Her eyes were wide with worry, and her face was softer than she had seen it before. More than that, she seemed…relieved about something. Also, concerned. It flashed back and forth across her face.
"Michaela, are you awake now?" She sounded breathless.
For a minute, she didn't see Helene. There was the faintest afterimage of another woman with a very similar build, the same long and dark hair...the sad eyes. Michaela reached up a hand and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, feeling not rested at all. When she looked again, the mirage of her tatarabuela had vanished. "Yeah, I think so..." she trailed off, taking another look at Helene's pinched expression. "What's wrong?" She took a moment to rub at her throat. Her voice sounded a little weird, and her body was still so heavy...
She tried to sit up and yelped as a burning pain in her scalp as she rolled over onto her own hair, spread out over the bed like spilled ink. "Ow..." she hissed, rubbing against her scalp as she finagled it out from under her. Then she froze. Her hair wasn't long enough for her to roll over on it, let alone cover the bed. It reached her mid-back at best, and that was her being hopeful about it.
Her hand trailed down from her scalp, following her hair further and further down across the sheets, and she even tugged on it for good measure, wincing when she did. It was...definitely her hair. "...Helene...?" The woman had stood and picked up a tiny mirror from somewhere in the room, but glanced back at Michaela and hesitated with an odd expression. "You...you have markings, Michaela."
"I what now?"
Helene handed the mirror over, facing downwards, and Michaela flipped it over to see her reflection. She leaned forwards, narrowing her eyes. Then, with one finger, she prodded at the glass as though it would change her reflection. It didn't. There was the tiny shape of flowers on Michaela's cheeks, along the cheekbone, like tiny eight-point stars. Almost like...lilies, she thought. Cresting across her forehead, like a diadem etched in her skin, were grandiose spirals and and curls unfurling into leaves, and set in the very center...it was something like a flower, but it was reaching out like a blazing fire. A flower born from fire, like a Phoenix.
Somehow, that wasn't the weirdest thing.
Michaela, she...she looked, well...older. Not by a lot, maybe by just a year or two? It wasn't something shocking, it could easily be put down to a growth spurt of something but- she looked older. Actually, she looked closer to Helene's age. Like a young lady instead of a teenager. If someone were to ask her how old she was, if she had seen herself on the street, she would have said seventeen, maybe eighteen. Nineteen was pushing it, but still plausible.
So, Michaela proceeded to do the only logical thing she could think of. She chucked the mirror into a far corner of the room and curled up against the headboard, shrieking. "Your mirror must be broken, Helene!" When the woman snorted, half amused and half hysterical, then broke down into tears of laughter (or so she hoped), Michaela couldn't bring herself to mention her nightmare.
Helene was so relieved, she felt like she could just melt into floor once Michaela woke up. When she had woken up, the teenager had been crying out like she was in pain, twisting and turning so violently that she nearly threw herself out of the bed. Helene had to grab her to keep her from injuring herself. Her skin had become a living tapestry of golden light, rippling out over her body in waves, her veins shining like molten stars. From the way she was screaming, Helene had thought for a moment that Michaela was dying.
It had been terrifying.
It wasn't just that. When Helene had pulled Michaela into her arms, trying to wake her up or calm her, it had burned as though she was touching a live fire, except the fire was in her body, in her bones, in her veins. It had been an excruciating agony, one far different than the chilling ache that had been spreading throughout her body for so many years.
For a moment, she swore she felt something latch on to her, a little tether tying her to someone else, like the- the bond between herself and Imelio. Or, it was more like a frayed tether being renewed, repaired, reworked. There had been a boiling rage, a rising wall of bloodlust not directed towards her and still frightening all the same. Then it was muted, slightly muffled...but still a very noticeable presence in the back of Helene's mind. There wasn't even anytime to wonder what that had been, because then, the marking, the markings of the dead, had blazed across Michaela's face in wave of glorious light that illuminated the entire room like the sun.
It had been the dead of night.
Then Michaela had gone limp, completely limp, like a marionette that had it's strings cut. She looked like she was dead, with all the markings of the dead and the skin and flesh on one arm rapidly phasing out and reduced to bare bones- Helene had for one horrifying moment thought that the curse had come to fruition early, that Michaela would be like her, an eternally youthful citizen of Mictlan up until the final death, torn from life too soon-
Michaela still had a pulse, but that meant nothing in the Land of the Dead where memories became one's pulse, the blood in the veins of the bloodless. Even dead, they breathed, they had a pulse but...for whatever reason, they didn't have heartbeats in their chest. If Michaela still had a heartbeat, then...!
Helene had leaned forwards, pressing an ear over Michaela's heart. It had been uncomfortable to Helene to do so, an invasion of privacy and personal space, but her concern far outweighed her own comfort. Surely, there had been the dull beating of her heart, steady in Helene's ear. Michaela was very much still alive...she had left the room so that she would disturb Michaela, sat down in a chair, and burst out into tears out of both relief and growing concern.
It was more evident. She...they were running out of time.
It had been with her face in her hands that Helene had noticed something else, this time pertaining to herself.
Helene bowed her head, hiding her face behind her hands in the kitchen, sitting upon one of the chairs. Words could not describe the absolute terror that still racked her body even after determining that Michaela was alive and well. She had sounded, and seemed, like she was dying. Trapped within the blankets, scratching and kicking at them, burning up like that and glowing-
Helene had never dealt with someone who had been cursed before, did not know what it looked like when a cursed person died as a consequence of the curse, but she did know what the final death looked like, and while Michaela certainly hadn't seemed like she was about to crumble into dust, she...
Helene forced herself to breathe. Michaela was fine, and that was all that mattered besides getting her a blessing and sending her home.
...Could she really do it though? Bring Michaela to...to Ernesto? With what he had done to Helene, how could she trust that man with a defenseless child, regardless of blood relation, especially if he had decided to hire a man like Marco Vilchez to come and capture her. Vilchez who was a sex trafficker, even if no one could pin the crime on him and few chose to believe it, Vilchez who had taken an interest in Michaela, so whose to say he wouldn't use the teenager's close proximity to Ernesto to nab her? How could Ernesto stand the man? He had to know what the man was doing, and turning a blind eye...
Ernesto might be paying him money, he might be Ernesto temporary watchdog and hunter, but once the money stopped coming, everyone would get bit if he didn't get who he wanted. No, Ernesto...
What Ernesto did to her was unforgivable, but even he...he wouldn't hurt a child, surely? He wouldn't allow his own family- But he was dangerous, at least to Helene, who had been seen as family- he had seen her as family in a different light than she had realized- even thinking about his name made her feel sick-
But Michaela had also said that Ernesto was her only lead to her ancestor, her great-great grandmother, the only one who wouldn't give her a conditional blessing. Helene had half a mind to strike the fool who gave her the blessing across the face. She'd be damned if he meant well, meaning well had gotten Helene murdered at twenty-one by a man who had been her best friend and brother because he had wanted to be more than that to her! Helene desperately wished to be able to send Michaela home herself, but since they couldn't be related, and also was not the one Michaela had stolen from- Even though Ernesto had stolen it first- she couldn't give a blessing.
Oh, Helene had entertained the possibility of Michaela being her great-great granddaughter. A family which banned music, coming from Santa Cecilia? It had sounded too good to be true, but...Helene's family hated her down to her bones. Even if Imelio had never yelled at her again, never forced her away as he had that night he died, he never...spoke much to her during those brief morning run ins. No one...no one in her family would ever come to look for her.
Not now. Ernesto had too thoroughly buried what he'd done, under his fame and prestige and money, and whoever killed her had likely done away with her body in some unmarked pauper's grave, and who would want her anyway? She was a criminal, breaking many laws in her reckless pursuit of crossing the bridge without an ofrenda or anyone waiting for her on the other side. She was tainted and dirty with the touch of other men- after so long fighting and scraping for her own survival, in a world where the weak always grow weaker, she was a fool to think there weren't other men waiting to take advantage of a warm, weak body to shelter themselves in even if it was by force. Ernesto wasn't the only one who couldn't keep his hand off an unwilling person.
Behind her eyelids...there was a faint glimmer of silver light that caught her attention. It was very, very faint at first...then it almost swelled, so that it's shimmering hue was so bright that it dragged her from her thoughts. What...was that...? Around shantytown, no spirit had a drop of silver in their veins. There was no blood in their veins, because they had almost no memories left to sustain them. Michaela was in the bed... tucked safely back into the blankets...it couldn't be her...
Helene lifted her head up, seeking the source of the light. Her breath rattled in her throat, in her chest, as her gaze dropped back down from darting around the kitchen...to her own arms. The chill...the chill that had plagued her day and night for so long...it was gone. Swept away by a tide of warmth that she hadn't felt...hadn't felt in decades...
It wasn't possible. It shouldn't be possible. However, the possibility of this occurring didn't change the fact that it was, actually, happening. Thin, minute lines stretched across Helene's arms as she honed in on the sensation of warmth, real warmth, that she had thought lost forever. It felt like laughter, warm sunshine on her face during a lazy afternoon.
It felt like love. It felt like...remembrance.
Her veins shimmered like liquid stardust and molten sunlight woven together, as though she had been granted a divine gift, an unseen blessing. Tears pricked the corner of her eyes. This...this had to be a dream, a wonderful dream born from the aftermath of a nightmare. Helene was...someone...was remembering her? Someone was passing down her memories? The only person capable of that though was...
"Coco, my mija..."
Her daughter remembered her. Her daughter was...sharing her memories of Helene? It was like a hammer had struck at her ribs, slowly shattering the thawing ice she had used to shield her too small, too scarred heart. It...almost hurt. The sensation of hope...Helene had forgotten what it had felt like...
She got to her feet, trying to find her balance in a body still weak, still off-kilter, but leagues stronger than she had felt in...in years. It...it would need to wait. Michaela came first. She needed to wake the teenager, to check if she was all right.
Had...had she been in pain, when...? She was alive at least, and that counted for something. Still, Helene would remain ill at ease until Michaela woke up.
She did not expect, at that point, for it to take an entire half hour to wake Michaela up.
She glanced down at her hands again, retreating from the memory of a few hours prior. The glow had settled down now, but she could still feel it thrumming and spreading throughout her. Her body still ached, there was still pain, but it had noticeably lessened. She felt so light! She felt as if she could fight an entire bar at once and win!
She wiped the tears of relief off her face and managed to look up at Michaela, trying to hide how her eyes had already been red...and noticed she was still plastered against the headboard. "I think my mirror is broken because you broke it." She couldn't keep a smile off her lips, her tone not as wry as she wanted it. Michaela turned to her with a sheepish expression and a nervous chuckle, and Helene had to shake her head at the teen's reaction. It was both reasonable and entertaining, though she would miss that mirror. "Don't worry, you're still alive. You have a heartbeat, whereas I don't.
She paused as Michaela rolled to the side of the bed and almost onto the floor, hopping to her feet after almost falling on her face. "...Mmkay. I hate mornings..." the girl muttered, yawning. Helene raised an eyebrow, pushing her worries to the back of her mind. "Regardless of your hatred of mornings, we have a busy day ahead of us and you have a talent show to win. The clock's ticking. You have today and the entirety of tomorrow to get home, or else..."
Her expression grew somber, and she motioned to her own facial markings. "That whole...situation...is probably an indicator to the curse's progression." Michaela's still sleepy expression was docile, but she was aware enough to comprehend what Helene said. "Probably." She chirped, slowly waking up a little bit more. "So, where do we go from here?" Hands on her hips, she looked poised to walk out the door straight to the backstage of the talent show in her nightgown.
Helene snorted. "First, you are going to take a bath and get dressed while I make breakfast. Then, we are going to plan what you are planning to do at the talent show." She turned away, but gave Michaela a side-glance as she left the room. "We'll also be working on some self-defense, so prepare yourself."
She strode out the room and back towards the kitchen, where she knelt on the ground, by a tile near the stove. Her nails clicked uselessly against the surface, until she was able to lodge them beneath the sides and pry it up. A small section of the floor, a 2x2 square of tiles, came up and revealed a little hole in the ground where a tightly locked box laid.
Helene hauled it up and brought it to the table, fiddling with the lock for a moment, pulling a pin from her pocket. The key was long gone, and a hazard to her own safety if anyone ever knew where it's treasure laid, so using a pin to pick the lock was far more preferential to her.
It popped open with well-oiled ease, and Helene's touch was tender as she lifted her prize from its cushioned case. Though, if she were more specific, the prize was technically two things, one for each hand.
Pistols.
She'd need to be judicious in teaching Michaela to use one of them, and only in self-defense. Here in the Land of the Dead, bullets couldn't kill anyone, but it could slow them down. Slowing down your opponent could be the difference between your freedom or being knocked unconscious or hurt. Or worse.
Real bullets were hard to come buy, unless you went to the more...seedy areas of the land of the dead, and even more expensive to pay off. An arm, a leg, an eye...and it doesn't necessarily have to be your own. Rubber bullets, those were the ones used for shooting ranges and sport, and her preferred go-to. Either that, or blanks. They didn't set off metal detectors. Somewhat useless when you were carrying a weapon that did, but very useful for those who could just...slip past the detectors.
It would be good for her to learn how to wield one, in case they were separated. It had been too close, on the trolley. If...if at any point they were separated, Helene could rest easier if Michaela knew at least the smallest fragment of self-defense. It would be good for her to know how to throw a punch, how to break out of someone's hold... she'd have to hold off the knife-wielding, though. She didn't need the teenager cutting or stabbing herself by accident, or getting disarmed. Not all people knew how to properly fire a gun, they could make mistakes or misfire, which was still just as deadly as a trained hand, but everyone knew how to use a knife.
She stroked the cool, reassuring metal with her thumb. She wouldn't hesitate next time someone grabbed her, she wouldn't allow herself to freeze. If it came down to it, to staying with Michaela, she'd pull the trigger without hesitation.
She returned the pistols to their case for the moment, setting it aside and preparing to make something for Michaela to eat. Something to eat... "Um...Helene...?" Michaela's voice floated from the doorway sheepishly. "Hmm?" She hummed in response, still focused on something she could make for Michaela.
"Do...do you have clean clothes that I could wear?"
Michaela, after Helene swept out the room, sat back down on the bed in an attempt to regain her balance. Helene had told her to get into the bath, and she would...in a few minutes. She felt just the tiniest bit off, and not just because of her hair and the markings on her face. The ground seemed a little bit farther from her, her limbs a little more awkward and clumsy. That wasn't even touching on her mental state.
The anger wasn't dull any more. It was a beast that curled in her chest, waiting and thriving on its own existence. It's sharp claws sank deeply into her heart and refused to release it, the inside of it frozen into an icy core, the outside consumed with flames of wrath. What she had just witnessed...
It was unforgivable.
The memory, or dream, whichever it was, had been carved so deeply into her mind that she would never be able to forget it. The proof of the curse, the patterns stretching across her arms, pulsed with in tune with her raw anger. In watching her…in seeing what had been done to her tatarabuela, even if she herself had not been touched, it was like her insides had been scraped out and served on a silver platter to the man that, throughout this entire night, she had been calling Tio. It was almost astonishing, how quickly her starry-eyed adoration for the man had been twisted into complete and utter loathing.
The teenager stared at her knees through the nightgown. Her tatarabuela...had been wearing a nightgown, kind of like this. Her tatarabuela...If this was how Michaela was feeling, like she was on the edge of the cliff or still floating in that senseless and infinite black void and burning up and like her memories were water sloshing around the inside of her skull, how had her tatarabuela felt? Her stomach began to burn, not to the point where she was fetching like in the memory, but a clear indicator that if she kept thinking about it she would start.
A part of her mind whispered that it had been the stress of the previous day and night, that had created such a twisted dream. That Ernesto de la Cruz was still someone to trust...With Marco giving chase to her and Helene, and her thoughts mostly focused on her tatarabuela and Ernesto de la Cruz, wasn't it a given she would have a dream pertaining to those topics?
She wanted to believe that part of her mind. That her idol was a good man, that he hadn't been involved in her tatarabuela's eternal absence - even if something similar had still happened to her- Then she remembered those rumors, all fairly old from when he had first started his career, dug up by conspiracists on Internet forums. Michaela had discarded the possibility they were legitimate, especially with his well-known reputation-
That dream, that memory (so sharp, so vivid, what else could it be?), had nourished the seeds those rumors had planted, and on top of that...Ernesto de la Cruz noticeably had a type. If he flirted with anyone...often times it was a taller-than-average woman, often with long dark hair...he had been called Prince Charming, because many were upcoming stars of low-income households...and some called him a predator, preying on the naive. All of his flirtations and affairs were, despite his age as time went on, in their early twenties.
Her tatarabuela had been young, because Papa Imelio had only been, what, 23? Mama Coco was born when he was 18, she believed, and that picture had been taken the beginning of the year 1921, when Mama Coco was turning four. When her tatarabuela had left, he had been somewhere around that early-mid twenties age range. She couldn't have been much older than that. Wasn't it common, back then, for girls to marry others older than them too? She might have been younger...Michaela didn't know, but in the memory...she had seemed and sounded pretty young. Barely older than Michaela.
...He had behaved almost like Marco. That man...wouldn't have hesitated to do the same thing to Michaela, he'd even said as much to her in that alleyway with his filthy, dirty hands sliding under her shirt. Michaela shuddered, mind replaying images of the memory but with herself instead of her tatarabuela and it was too clear what could have-
Through the fabric, she pinched her thigh between her thumb and index finger hard enough that it bruised. That, at least, she could be certain was a phantom of her own terror and imagination. After all, Helene had saved her from that fate. It was just that no one had been there to save Michaela's tatarabuela.
The woman's tear soaked face, the bruises on her body, her throat, flashed across her mind in quick succession. If guardian angels or something of the sort existed, her tatarabuela's must have been off duty...or maybe unable to do anything, just as powerless as she had been in attempting to change anything.
If that were the case, then Michaela would be her avenging angel.
Michaela would get to Ernesto de la Cruz. She would play the role of a star-struck descendant, slowly prying into the location of her tatarabuela, maybe even stroking his ego and implying she had stayed with him of her own volition, and then...perhaps Helene had a weapon she could lend to Michaela, could teach her how to use it.
She'd cave the man's skull in if she had too, find any way possible to get her tatarabuela away from him, or at least contact police officials - that pamphlet from earlier had the telephone numbers inside - and gladly take her blessing. If she weren't there...whether he had hidden her away or she had escaped or...or that one, horrific, final fate...Michaela would return to Papa Imelio and the others after, if not destroying his fame, destroying Ernesto de la Cruz's face.
In the course of that horrific hell she had witnessed, what her tatarabuela had lived through, Michaela felt as though her mind had aged years instead of her body aging a day...or so it was supposed to be, when she glanced back to her hair. It wasn't even humanly possible for hair to grow that quickly, she thought.
She'd need Helene's help with it...actually, she would need Helene's help for a few things. Her clothes from yesterday...they were still dirty. Or rather, Helene had said she would wash them, so they were probably drying...somewhere. Her hoodie, draped over a chair, had fared better than the rest of what she had been wearing. Other than that though, Michaela had nothing clean to wear and, if they were trying to win tickets to de la Cruz's mansion by performing, she was not performing in dirt smudged and blood-stained clothing. Maybe she could ask to borrow something from Helene's clothes.
It would be nice...if Helene joined her on stage. The woman had a beautiful voice...and Michaela felt so safe around her...then again, performing in the show was a risk for Marco to show up again. He...had had gotten so close to snatching Helene up...Michaela could still hear her scream ringing in her ears...
Michaela stiffened, the memory of Helene's dark hair flying around her as she desperately tried to push Michaela to safety on the trolley irritating her. Helene's hair was a dark brown, so long it nearly brushed the floor...she used to be a musician...and she didn't like Ernesto de la Cruz...she was pretty young, too.
Back in the Marigold Station, hadn't that officer insulted her? Called her a "scorned lover"? Helene...fit the bill perfectly, for the type of woman Ernesto de la Cruz usually went after. Then there was what she had said about being stabbed in the back...being unable to trust people who seem good...
Helene...from what Michaela could piece together...maybe Ernesto de la Cruz had seduced her with his sweet words, his charisma, like he had done with so many other girls. Judging from the style of the clothes she wore, so very old, she might have been one of his first flings after...whatever had happened to her tatarabuela. Clearly, at one point, they had separated. Michaela's hope that she had escaped though...dwindled each second. She would have come home, if she had escaped and...he had threatened to break her neck, after all. He had broken her arm, and her injuries...he had even mentioned purchasing sleep medication to drug her with.
In his early career, that was when Ernesto de la Cruz's longest affairs had lasted. They grew shorter and shorter with each girl, as he aged. It would make sense, that he would attach to the closest person to Michaela's tatarabuela...and maybe, just maybe, he went a little too far with one of them...
He had threatened to murder her tatarabuela once, seeming so drunk on his obsession with her that he wouldn't have hesitated if he thought she would even attempt to leave. It was...possible...he had done so...and maybe again to another woman...if he lost control...The thought was poison to the heart, seeping into every crevice in Michaela's brain and refusing to leave her alone.
She'd get revenge for all of them. Her tatarabuela, her family...and Helene, too. Ernesto de la Cruz was someone who deserved no peace in the afterlife, and no mercy.
Michaela got up, and picked up her hoodie. Rifling through the pockets, she grabbed the old family photo and the letter. Papa Imelio's stern face, Mama Coco's younger self sitting on her mother's lap, and her faceless tatarabuela...soon. One way or another, she'd find out what happened. She returned the image and the letter to her pockets.
...She really did need to ask Helene about clothing though. Tossing her hoodie and a towel over her shoulder, she left the room and went to find Helene, who was standing in the kitchen silently, brows pushed together like she was thinking very hard over something. Michaela didn't want to interrupt her, but considering Helene herself had told the teenager to bathe...
"Um...Helene?" Helene tilted her head in Michaela's direction but still seemed lost in thought. Whatever she was thinking about had to be pretty important, then. Regardless of whatever had her attention, she hummed in response, the inflection in her voice making it out into a question.
"Do...do you have any clean clothes that I could wear?"
A few minutes later saw Michaela washing up in the bathtub and Helene looking though her things for something that might fit Michaela. There were a few day dresses that the teen might like, a chemise, a corset and cover...she'd have to check if Michaela were comfortable with that though, or if Helene's corset would even fit her properly. It'd be painful if it didn't fit her body properly, like a shoe that is way too tight around the toes or heel. Besides that, brasseries were more common in the more recent generations.
They were convenient, to be sure. Easy to put on, easy to pull off. She could see the appeal to them. To Helene though, the straps were a bother to untangle, and the plastic pieces on them dug into her back and were a constant pain. Her corset was far more comfortable in comparison (though that was probably her bias talking). That and...she didn't like how easy they were to remove. Someone could pinch the clasp through whatever clothing a woman was wearing and-
Besides that, you could just as easily shove something down your corset as you would a brassiere. Keys, money, knives...
Setting her personal thoughts on undergarments aside, she laid out a dress for Michaela...and then also a blouse and one of the few pairs of pants she owned. The choice would belong to Michaela. Would the teenager like wearing something as...old-fashioned as Helene wore? Times and styles had changed since her day and age.
Then again, it wasn't like Helene owned anything different than that.
She wrote a small note to Michaela, telling her she'd be in the kitchen if the teenager needed anything. She still needed to feed her...she should have some pan dulce...it wouldn't be much of a breakfast, but it would be something at least.
Michaela stared. Then she narrowed her eyes, squinted at the clothing laid out, and then stared some more. The dress looked pretty...but the blouse and pants looked more comfortable and simpler compared to the...death trap that laid next to the dress. Then again, she would be even less noticeable to her family, magic hair and markings included, if she were in clothing that was out of the ordinary compared to what she had been wearing.
Also, spinning in a skirt was too much fun to pass up without considering seriously. She could wear the dress...and wear her bra underneath it...but her bra was still dirty and that would be gross and she could hear her Mama's lecture on personal hygiene start playing on repeat in the back of her head.
Then there was Mother's lecture that corsets would not kill you as long it properly fit and you didn't tightlace...but...Michaela's mother, as far as she was aware, had never worn a corset. Mamá had always been Mamá, too…since when was she "Mother"?
There was a brief sense of vertigo, but it faded as quickly as it had shown up.
Michaela shook her head. It...would be a once in a lifetime opportunity to wear a dress like that...like most of Helene's clothes, it seemed pretty old and faded...so wouldn't that make it historical clothing...a genuine article of historical clothing? Plus, a corset...you couldn't just buy one anywhere today. Well, you could, but she doubted they were made with the same quality and material as the one Helene owned...speaking of which, she still didn't even know how old Helene was.
Then again, she had handed Michaela a pair of combinations instead of a pair of panties so...that was a clear indicator that she was definitely older than she appeared. They were very nice, held up by straps over her shoulders, and the legs were cut just above her knees- and they were hemmed with lace too.
Michaela had an estimation, considering Helene had mentioned knowing Ernesto de la Cruz, but she didn't have an actual number. If she got Helene to help her with the dress and..the corset...maybe she could bring it up...? Then again, everyone always said it was rude to ask a lady her age.
Would Helene get offended?
"Michaela, are you dressed?" Helene called from the kitchen. Her footsteps were light as she began making her way to the living room/bedroom/dining room. Michaela threw on the nightgown-like underdress besides the corset and actual dress, the chemise- it was called a chemise- "um...no, can you...help me please?"
Helene stopped outside the doorway. "Are you decent at least? Because if you're not wearing anything-" Michaela flushed red. "I'm wearing stuff, I'm wearing stuff, Stooooop-" She wailed over Helene's voice. Mortifying. Helene meant well, but it felt mortifying. It was ten times worse when she heard Helene start giggling. "I'm coming in." She said, and her cheeks were still rosy with mirth as she went over to help Michaela.
Just slightly, it banked the fire burning in her blood.
Helene's lips quirked upwards when she saw Michaela awkwardly cradling the corset in her arms, looking at it with distaste. "Why are you looking at it like that? It's not a deathtrap. Unless you tightlace it like a nutcase, you'll be fine." Michaela sent her a dubious look that screamed distrust in her statement.
"Michaela, I swear on my afterlife that you will be fine. I wear a corset everyday, and you don't see me passing out or crippled, do you?" She even pressed a hand on her heart to seal the deal. Michaela huffed. "...okay. How...do you put it on though?" She dangled it from her hands and Helene did start laughing at her then. Michaela's expression was both completely deadpan and completely baffled as she stared at the corset. It made Helene's stomach ache with laughter. She couldn't remember the last time she had laughed so hard.
"Firstly, stand up straight. I can't help you put it on if you're hunched over like that. You and I have a close enough body shape that it should be fine, but I'd also like a minute or so to take your measurements to make sure it'll fit you."
Helene proceeded to pull a tape measure out of thin air, the type that you could roll up, and took a minute to measure Michaela's hips and bust, ascertaining that it would be alright for Michaela to wear the corset. "We're similar enough in height, so that shouldn't be a problem either."
She was very deft, very gentle in the way she bustled around Michaela. The back of the corset was already laced up (as in, the laces were in the right place, not that they were tied) so really, all Michaela had needed to do was unbutton the busk of the corset, put it on and button it up the front, then the laces would be tightened so that it would actually fit. Like...how you would tie shoelaces, almost. Helene tightened the laces slowly, carefully. "Tell me when to stop or if it's too tight and I'll loosen it." She said over Michaela's shoulders.
The teenager waited until it felt comfortably snug. "I...I think that's good, Helene." She smoothed her hand down the front of the corset, put her hands on her hips. The lines of it felt so smooth, it made her giddy in a weird sense. It was super comfortable too! After Helene secured the laces in a bow, Michaela spinning around the room trying to adjust to the slight weight of the corset. It wasn't painful or hard to breathe in...if anything, it just felt like a torso-long bra. Helene smiled at her. "Good, now for the petticoat and the dress."
The petticoat was slim, with just a little added flounce at the hem from the dust ruffle supposed to protect the skirt from dirt and dust, as the name implied. Helene had dropped it over her head out of nowhere with a wide grin on her face, delighted when Michaela squeaked in surprise, too caught up in her spinning to pay close attention.
The dress itself was a very soft pastel amber-yellow color, slightly lighter frills round the neckline, the petticoat peeking out from under the hem. It was soft and smelled like Helene, like she had sprayed it with perfume or something. The skirt swished and spun around Michaela when she moved. She loved it. It wasn't enough to wipe away the lingering thoughts on that nightmare memory from hell, but...it was enough to soothe her for now.
She spun around, faced Helene, and curtseyed deeply. When the opportunity to be dramatic came, Michaela was never one to pass it up. It was way too much fun, spinning around like this! "Thank you, Helene!" She beamed. Helene's smile was a little bit smug when she responded. "You're very welcome." In the back of her head, she was thinking to herself.
I knew she would look good in that dress!
"That's right!" Michaela suddenly popped back up, clapping her hands together as though she just remembered something. "Helene!" She reached forwards and grabbed Helene's hands, an eager smile crossing her face. "Yes...?" Time to throw caution to the wind!
"How old are you?!"
"Wait, what-"
In the kitchen, Helene stood and drank a glass of water while Michaela ate her bread and leftover rice from the previous night. Helene wasn't looking at her, but nonetheless, she could feel Michaela's eyes burning a hole into the back of her head as she waited for a response.
She leaned back against the counter. "What brought on this question about my age?" She raised an eyebrow at the teen, who...had this really wicked gleam in her eyes. "Well, you look just a little bit older than I do." Then she held up a finger. "But, you wear really old fashioned clothes, and also said you knew Ernesto de la Cruz-" Helene stifled the urge to flinch - "So you have to be really, well, old."
"I'll have you know that you're wearing my really old-fashioned clothes, little miss." She put down the half empty glass and walked over to Michaela, gently poking her cheek. "To answer your question, I was born in this month in 1900. So I'm around 116? It'll be 117 by the thirtieth." If I can hope to last that long, she thought. The urge to look at her arms was nearly irrepressible. It hadn't faded, the feeling of remembrance. It left her nearly lightheaded.
Michaela had stopped eating, and now just stared at Helene. "Wow, you're ancient." She was grinning as she said that, like an evil food gremlin. Helene feigned offense, letting her voice drag out like a fisher's net over water. "Wow, I bring you in my home, I give you my food, and you have the gall to call me old." She swept around Michaela, resting her chin on top of the girl's head. "Because you are!" She was giggling more than speaking.
"Well then, this old lady has a thing or two to show you." Michaela straightened up as Helene's voice took a slightly more somber tone. Helene drew back, and put a hand on the pistol case. "You still want to perform in that talent show, right? I'm not going to lie and tell you it's a smart idea. It's a stupid one, because it's going to draw all sorts of attention, and not just from your family because I have no doubt they're looking for you," she faced Michaela with a look that had the teen feeling just a little guilty, "but also from Marco and his damned alebrije."
"More than whatever you're going to perform, I want to make sure you are capable of defending yourself if, at any point, we get separated or, for whatever reason, I can't protect you." She scowled at the wall. "On the trolley...we got too close to a situation like that, and I can't rest easy imagining what could have happened if..."
She ran a hand through her hair, shaking her head. "It didn't happen, but it just goes to show that something could happen, and you can't take a risk like that. You..."
It went unsaid that Michaela could die if they got separated, and there was nothing about that statement which could be called an exaggeration. "So. I'm teaching you a bit of self-defense. Starting with these." Helene popped open the case her hand was resting on.
The sheer elation Michaela felt at that moment was probably unhealthy in anyone, but she also didn't care in the slightest. Gleaming within its velvet confines were two silver pistols, one of which Helene lifted up and put down on the table, right in front of Michaela. Helene was giving her a weapon.
Helene took the other one in her own hand and stared at it. "You'll carry one of these on you at all times. I'll teach you how to shoot, but you need to promise me something." The look she gave Michaela was piercing, and she laid a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder.
"Only pull the trigger if you have no other choice."
...
Michaela grinned at her. "Of course! I don't want to hurt anyone if I don't have to!"
...She crossed her fingers under the table, where Helene couldn't see them. There was one person that could not go unpunished. Even if that meant breaking a promise to Helene. All she needed to do, right now, is learn how to use that gun and win that talent show. Her soul cried out for revenge.
AN:
Bet you didn't expect another chapter so soon! :)
THE DAWN OF THE SECOND DAY HAS ARRIVED.
Are you feeling the pain yet? Long story short, the nightmare Michaela had IS a memory, but it doesn't belong to Helene even though, yes, it is about her. It involves being a reincarnation, feel free to drop your guess as to how in the reviews/ comments. This was supposed to be WAY longer, with some bonding between our favorite girls and then I realized it was almost as long as the previous chapter, lol.
So, to be continued.