THE SECONDS TICK BY, EACH MORE DREADFUL THAN THE LAST, an uneasiness lingers in the air surrounding Hector Vincent, keeping him from being able to breathe properly and reminding him, time and again, the approach of something horrible.
What? He doesn't know. But he knows his brother well enough to not take his threat lightly, to be aware that the pledges leaving his mouth are not to be hanging in air, unfulfilled, forgotten, but to be complied word by word, leaving no loose ends.
He drowns the burning liquid down his raw throat, coughing twice to rid of the uneasiness, and disposes the plastic cup on the tiled floor, unable to hold it any longer for it's red hue reminds him of those dozen innocent people's blood he has on his hands.
The vodka isn't helping. It never does. But Hector isn't the one to learn. He cups his ears, pinching his eyes shut to stop his sickened mind from chanting those dread stricken words over and over again, like a broken VHS tape, as though the very words haven't been tattooed inside his brain already,
“You'll pay for this”
“You'll p̵̲̼̟̈a̴̡̢̯̤̳̎͆́̍͝ỳ̸͚͔̥̮̾̇̀͌͂ for this”
“You'll pay f̴̮̝̫͎̭̝͆̈ͅỏ̵̖͙̜̮̠͓̔̆̆͗́̏̐̌̅ŗ̷̝̤̦̲̗͖̝̭͕͋́̉̂͜ this”
“You'll pay for thi—
“Hector!”
His eyes snap open and he looks up.
“What are doing here?” the apprehensive voice of Louise inquires, sliding opposite to him on the kitchen stool. “Alone if I might add.”
Hector barely processes her words, finding it hard to listen and respond when his eyes are burning from the lack of sleep his brother's threat caused, and the straight vodka drowning his senses. The lip ring catches his attention even though Louise has had it since forever, but Hector has always found it peculiar how one can be comfortable wearing so many accessories.
The girl has three chokers around her neck, a few cheap silver chains, and bracelets wrapping her tiny wrists—which seems like it could be broken with just one quick twist—too many rings for just ten fingers, six piercings on each ear and one on her eyebrow and lips. She said something about a nipple piercing but Hector can't remember for sure.
“You look miserable,” Louise says, “Like no offence, but you look like shit. You look like somebody held you hostage for three days and forced you to drink your piss. Yeah you look like shit.”
Hector stiffs out a grunt. “Enough with my misery. Tell me something else or piss off.”
“Okay, well Drew drank like a lot of alcohol and threw up on Steve's mom's crazy expensive rug and passed out there, and by there I mean on top of her puke—”
“Stop,” Hector holds his hand out, “don't tell me something else just piss off, piss off. I can't with puke stories right now.”
Louise shrugs her one shoulder, like she's saying it's Hector's loss not wanting to hear this ground breaking news she has shed blood to gather, and raises the cup to her brown tinted lips to take the tiniest sip. Hector realizes Louise is perhaps one of the most intimidating looking person he has even come across despite the girl being 4'11. The snake tattoo on her neck adds to it, but it's also an incredible facade, Hector thinks. For she's softer than petals of delicate flowers, more fragile than imported China cups, could easily crumble like the crisp autumn leaves under the faintest pressure, the scratch of a nail would bleed her meek soul out, the voice if an individual rising an octave higher would cause the nesh tears to spill out.
Sweet soul. Hector thinks. Wonder what she'd do at knife point.
Before Hector can fantasize about sliting the snake tattoo on Louise's pale, thin neck—painting the boring black and white with rich dark pool of lovely scarlet, doing a favor in creating a morbid yet exquisite art, keeping the aestheticism running—a voice breaks the silence.
“Why the hell are you two sulking in the fucking kitchen when you could watch Steve cleaning Drew's puke?”
Murad storms in, angrier than the waves on the night of a violent storm, voice booming throughout the kitchen like an acoustic, holding the same red plastic cup but crushing it with the tight hold of his fingers, and face contoured with fury.
“You don't get to see that every day. You don't get to see Steve so fucked everyday. You don't.” He places the cup on the kitchen island before Hector, firmly to accentuate the building anger within him and glances at Hector. “You look like shit by the way.”
Hector looks up at him, his head already pounding from being sleep deprived and consuming alcohol like air, chugging down the tasteless liquor, bottle after bottle, as though his life depended on it, leaving him more miserable than he has been for a while.
But he can't help it now, can he? When Torye, his own brother, has left a promise hanging the thick air, poisoning it entirely, which kills him everytime he breathes it in, chocking him tight enough to bleed his worry out into a tinted pool but not enough to kill him.
He never intended on dragging his miserable self to this party, but then again the words of his brother hanged before him, repeated itself in his head like a mantra and he never not worried about Murad too much to not crawl here and make sure himself that nothing happened to him. Yet.
His insides are churning knowing his brother hasn't returned home after last night's brawl and is out there somewhere, camouflaged into the night awaiting to strike.
He suddenly feels a wave of anger within him, like a quick gash of a knife it appears and grows like ivy on a brick wall. Murad. Fucking Murad. If it wasn't for him then he wouldn't have been looking like shit, now would he? Hector glances at the culprit who speaks hastily with tensed brows to Louise, who pretends to listen. His blurred eyes fixes on him with sparks of hostility. The sparkle on Murad's glassed eyes, the oval of his face, the rounded end of his chin, the glisten of his rich brown skin, the swiftness of his long fingers, curves of his wrist, curls on his head, assertion of his words, the length of his accent, his scrawny built, all of it making Hector angrier.
“You'll pay for this”
“You'll p̵̲̼̟̈a̴̡̢̯̤̳̎͆́̍͝ỳ̸͚͔̥̮̾̇̀͌͂ for this”
“You'll pay f̴̮̝̫͎̭̝͆̈ͅỏ̵̖͙̜̮̠͓̔̆̆͗́̏̐̌̅ŗ̷̝̤̦̲̗͖̝̭͕͋́̉̂͜ this”
“He''ll pay f̵̖̣͈̿̈́̏̓ͅơ̸̧͕̫̙̭͚̹̪̜̱̱̝͓͙̲̥̘̣̬͌̌͋͋̓̍̍͛̚ṙ̸̨̢̛̖̣̠͍͉̦̞͕̮͙̟̬̙͖̓̓̉̊͜ this”
“He''ll pay for this”
“He'll pay for thi—
“THERE YOU ARE!”
Hector looks up, annoyed at Murad's shrill voice, which seems to never fail at hitting a nerve in his head, triggering an everlasting headache and makes him wince.
“Guys guys,” calls Murad for the pairs attention, sounding happier than a toddler on his birthday. “I made a new friend!” He grins.
Only then Hector notices the presence of another amongst them, standing in the doorway of Steve's refined kitchen. A boy, leaning against the door frame, the ends of his tweed jacket perched upwards for his hands being stuffed into the pockets of his dark dress pants. The harsh light dancing over his copper skin castes rough shadows over his tight features and Hector spots the faint one sided grin he wears on his lip—visible, yet not-entirely—as his eyes stay latched on Hector with a look he can't quite shake off. A look that suggests this very boy, a stranger to him, knows something. Something that Hector doesn't.
“Guys,” Murad announces, “Meet Cedric Creed.”
***
daddy's here.
