Worth The Shot

Vaporized

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The rain continued into the next day. Incessant, fat drops hammered on the roof and shimmered on the grass in clusters. If Pepa's panic had incited a storm this long, she and the other Madrigals must have discovered the prophecy.

You'd held your tears in last night. You didn't want to wake up red-eyed and receive concerned questions from your father. You woke up early, and your father was in your room, probably just coming to check on you.

You didn't say much. He wouldn't get it.

The dark stormclouds hung heavy with a gloomy atmosphere. Even your dining room, usually showered in golden pools of sunlight, surrendered to menacing shadows that prowled around the table as you sat down. Your father joined you and began eating. You frowned.

"Where's Abuela?" You questioned. Her place hadn't been set. You suddenly stood up, panicking. "Where is she? Is she okay?" Her worn rocking chair. Her jumble of yarn and needles. Her shoes by the door. Gone.

"Who?" Your father asked, his eyebrows raised in exaggerated innocence. He'd always been a bad actor, and you saw right through his charade.

"You're trying to lie to me," You furiously accused, trying to keep the panic out of your voice. "What is this? Where is she?" He opened his mouth with the fake bewildered expression, but you slammed your hand onto the table.

The room became as silent as death. A cup rolled onto its side and red juice gushed onto the tablecloth.

"Fine." He softly admitted, caught. "She's okay. I promise, (y/n)." He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand, and you noticed bags under his eyes. "I'm under a lot of stress right now. There are things you don't understand. People who are counting on me."

"That doesn't explain what happened to abuela," You stubbornly said, scared for your grandma.

"(Y/n)." Your father pleaded. "5 more days."

"No!" You shouted, grabbing your coat and charging into the storm. "I'm going to find abuela." The rain whipped your face. You didn't even know where to look.

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When night fell, you had retreated back home, exhausted, cold, and defeated. No one had even remembered you had an abuela.

It didn't feel like she had died. It was worse. She had evaporated into invisible mist as if she never even existed.

You leaned your elbows on the window of your room. The chilly night air billowed against your face. You felt fragile, like you were supported by brittle toothpicks that might crack at any moment.

The rain was gentle now, like when you and Camilo had danced, spinning so fast the world became a blur. You tore your gaze away from the window. Away from the grassy yard where he had stood with an easy grin and a rock in his hand. You didn't want to think about him. It hurt too much.

He probably hates me now.

You picked up the guitar in the corner of your room and lightly strummed a few chords. I wish I could write songs, like Mariano. But you couldn't, so you played a melancholy melody that sounded like the painful throbs in your heart felt. God, I miss him.

A deep voice roughly cleared its throat.

Camilo rested his crossed arms on the window sill, his expression coldly unreadable. "(Y/n). We need to talk."