by Eve Hathaway
Chapter Five
INSTINCT KEPT THEM from mentioning anything to Gloria or George. But the shift was palpable. When Mila stopped thinking about getting back to the US and started thinking about going to the US, the resentment she'd been harboring towards her parents evaporated, and instead became channeled into making plans for their future. Her parents didn't quite understand what brought this on, but they were nonetheless relieved that the fighting and arguing and tensions dropped.
Mila and Tomas would meet on the beach after the manor house had darkened into sleep if the weather was good, or Mila would go to Tomas's room-it was farther from her parents' room. They would talk quietly; which is to say that Mila would talk quietly while Tomas listened, awed by her descriptions of Boston and New York. She had to describe snow to him-he didn't even know the word. It was both touching and a little frightening, how naive he could be.
What Tomas lacked in worldliness, though, he made up for in his ability to read and understand people. He was the one who pointed out that Gloria wasn't actually a mean person, just stressed out and under an incredible amount of pressure to make sure everything went off well. "The next time she starts to get to you, ask her what she wants you to do," Tomas advised. Mila was skeptical, but she tried it, and he was right-it worked. Gloria told her to mop the floors, and the tension evaporated faster than the water did.
"You're like a mind-reading genius," she said that night.
"I don't read minds," he said. "I understand the heart."
"So tell me about mine," she said.
It was now a month after their kiss. They were in Tomas's room, lying side by side on his bed, his left arm intertwined with her right one, surrounded by the dark and his scent-clean. They had shared a few more kisses since then, but nothing more. It wasn't just the fear of what Gloria would do, though that contributed some. It was mostly that neither Mila nor Tomas felt the need to go further. They could wait. It wasn't like high school, where every other girl wanted every other boy and sealing the deal was the only way to guarantee (and sometimes, not even that would do it) a certain degree of monogamy. They had oceans of time-and an ocean they could sit next to; the infinite waters recalling the infinite nature of love.
"Are you sure you want to know?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, simply.
He rolled off the bed and took her smooth hand in his calloused one. She could feel his fingertips tracing her palm, kissing her knuckles. "You want something more from this life," he said. "You want me to give it to you."
"And will you?" she asked.
"You want me to say, 'Yes'," he said. "But I don't know if I can."
She sat up. "Well, that was romantic."
He sighed. "You said you wanted to know."
True, she thought unhappily. But then, what was the point of pursuing this relationship if Tomas didn't think he could make her happy?
"You are more than I could ever hope to be," Tomas said, as she stood up. She shook her head, furious with herself for asking, furious with him for being so honest. What was so terrible about a white lie every now and then, she wondered. Why couldn't he be sweet, for once? It wasn't like she expected him to bring her flowers or anything.
His grip on her hand tightened. "Please don't go," he said.
"Give me a reason to stay," she retorted. "Give me that 'something more' that I'm supposed to be looking for then."
Tomas dropped her hand and backed away from her, fading into the darkness. "No, Mila, not like this."
It wasn't until she felt the pang of disappointment that she realized what he was saying. "That wasn't what I meant," she began, but even as the words faltered she understood that it was, indeed, what she meant, what she wanted. Blood rushed to her face, and even though it was dark she had the feeling that Tomas could see her blush.
She left him without saying another word and slipped back into her bedroom, furious-at him, or at herself, she couldn't tell. But either way, she wasn't sleeping that night, and she wasn't going to the beach, either.
MILA WAS AWAKENED the next morning by her father. He knocked on her door and brought her a tray with sweet buns and a cup of coffee. "What's going on?" Mila asked, suspiciously. Her father didn't normally bring her breakfast.
"It's your birthday," he said.
"Shit, really?" She glanced at the calendar hanging above her desk. "It is. Holy crap. I can't believe I forgot," she said.
"I thought maybe you might want to go with Tomas to Cancun today," he said, setting the tray down. He sat down at the foot of her bed, smiling at her as she dug into the food. "You know. Do a little shopping. Show Tomas what a city is."
Mila understood the unspoken part of the suggestion: her father wanted her to run some additional errands as well. She wondered how to tell him that she didn't want to go anywhere with Tomas, not after last night. Refusing to go to Cancun altogether would make him worry.
"I hadn't made any plans for the day," she said, stalling for time.
"It's okay," George said. "We don't have any guests right now, so your mother-" he dropped his voice to a stage whisper, "-wants to throw you a surprise party."
"Papa, you're not supposed to tell me that!" Mila said, laughing. "And anyway, since when does Mama throw me a surprise birthday party?"
George shrugged. "Okay, well, it's not actually a birthday party. But we-and I mean the abuelos and Tomas and everybody-thought we'd celebrate finally getting this place into shape."
"At the end of the tourist season," Mila said. It was a bit mean, but she couldn't help it. George, fortunately, didn't seem to mind.
"Yes, it's the end of the tourist season, but we do have another set of guests coming in a week. University people. They're coming to look at the cenotes, or something."
Was anybody planning on telling me these things, Mila wondered. Just when she was hoping not to have to share "her" bathroom any more, too.
"Anyway," George said. "The Jeep is filled up and ready to go. Tomas is ready to leave whenever you are."
Of course he would be, she thought harshly. She was surprised at how bitter she was about last night, as if he'd insulted her. And now she was expected to go to Cancun with him? George stood up and left her to finish her breakfast-or, more accurately, to pick over the rest of the sticky buns and then toss them out the window.
Still, she thought, as she returned the tray to the kitchen, where Gloria was busy shaping the tortillas for the day. A trip to Cancun was a trip to Cancun. And there was one thing she could count on Tomas for, and that was being quiet. It would be awkward, but, well, she'd be able to enjoy herself, at least.
Gloria nodded at a pile of pesos on the counter, and a note underneath it. "That's what we need you to get in Cancun," she said. "We've given you a little extra to buy yourself something nice."
"Aw, Mom," Mila said.
"Happy birthday," Gloria said. Her hands never stopped rolling out the balls of dough.
This was probably as celebratory as it was going to get in the house, Mila realized. She picked up the keys to the Jeep, gathered the money and the list, and went to find Tomas. He was in his room, kneeling next to his bed. "Hey," she said. "Let's go."
He didn't say he was sorry for last night, which was just as well, because it would have been a lie. But at least they would have been talking.
As they walked to the Jeep in cold, stony silence, Mila couldn't help but think that maybe all relationships were built on lies.
Something Wicked
Requiem for a Dream Part 1
Prologue
THE SALLOW GLOW of the candelabra cast a dim, haunted glow over the sparsely decorated room. The house was quiet now, quieter than it had been for many, many weeks. The servants had been dismissed by the master in a fit of hopeless fury and they fled, leaving behind the monstrous manor and the cloud of death that hovered above.
Yes, death walked the hallways of this place, leaving traces of his breathless caress on every aspect of
the property. He had been a visitor here for the past several months, reducing the mansion's ruler from a tall, powerfully built former general to a withered husk of burgeoning humanity.
Now his large hands had shriveled into brittle twigs and his once tanned skin was almost translucent, revealing a network of blue veins and splotches all across the balding skull. So crumbled was the once great man.
He was dying. Oh yes, the shadow of death moved closer and closer every night. He could see the black feathers as they reached out to brush him softly across the face. All his wealth, his power, and his connections -- everything was worthless now. He had nothing left that could save him from this creeping specter.
He reached out a frail hand and seized up a bowl of cold soup that had been rotting by his bedside for several days and threw it with all his might at the encroaching spirit. However, the dish just passed right through it and shattered on the opposite wall, leaving the remains of his final meal to decorate the floor.
"Be gone, Demon! Leave me in peace!" His voice had once been powerful, thundering over the heads of troops without the aid of a microphone, but now it emanated in a faint, croaking rasp. The shadow was silent.
"Take me now then," the old man hissed. "Dispense with your waiting game and take me now! I won't tolerate this cankerous weakness any longer! Curse you, curse you! Curse everything you stand for! Take my soul if you must have it, what would I not give to be rid you?"
Spittle and blood sprayed from the dying man's cracked lips as he screamed obscenities at his haunter, at God, and at the Universe. Bloodshot eyes rolled madly in their sockets and the old man fell panting backwards on the bed in exhaustion from his wild outburst.
When he opened his eyes, the dark shadow had vanished. The room was as empty as it had been in the days of his health. The old man blinked his rheumy eyes in disbelief and squinted for a better look, for he suddenly realized that while death's shadow was certainly no longer there, something had indeed replaced it.
Three somethings. Three disembodied shapes, as they appeared to his failing vision, encroached upon him.
"Who are you?" He demanded, the fear sickeningly obvious in his voice. "What do you want? Speak up!"
"Why boy, is that any way to talk to your associates? I was under the impression that you had something to offer."
The voice was cream and iron, honeyed steel, smooth but powerful and disembodied, belonging to no man who walked the earth. It struck a cold blade of fear into what was left of the old man, numbing him as if he'd been touched by poison. No longer did he feel any physical discomfort.
"Now," the voice continued, "What you have to offer is, I'm afraid, hardly worth our time. The question is, how much are you willing to give up?"
"Anything! Everything!" The old man rasped in desperation. "I will give you anything you ask! I am the master of my bloodline, every drop is yours! Only stave off the demon!"
A terrible, booming laugh echoed through every corner of the mansion. Never had the man heard such an awful sound in his life. It struck horror into his very soul and he drew away, every nerve in his body trembling.
"You misunderstand," the voice chided with amusement, "it is the Angel of Mercy whom I stave, I shall pin her wings to the wall. We, we are saviors of your mortal soul. We are much more worthy of the name Demon."
"Whatever you are," the man replied, "angels, devils, whatever. I ask that you protect me from the netherworld and deliver me from death. My bounties, bodily and otherwise, are forever yours. Grant me the immortality I seek and even my descendants will repay you. My bloodline is yours. Take what you will."
The light of the candles flickered with a phantom wind. A pair of smoldering eyes materialized over the elderly man's bed, and he suddenly felt cold, as though he had been doused in icy water. When he opened his eyes, the three shapes had faded away, leaving behind only a lingering whisper.
If that is your wish.
THEY TOLD ME I was special.
They assured me I was about to change my life.
But where I used to dream of the world and all its strangeness and splendor, I now only see oiled darkness and gnashing teeth when I close my eyes. They're eating me alive.
Tell me...what day is it?