Outside the Encanto

Estar Con Madre

The straps leave red marks on your skin, festering boils underneath feeling such agony. You stare solemnly at the ceiling, hoping reality will fade away. The pouring rain outside continues to drone on, although significantly lighter than before. Lighting continues crashing down.

Eduardo will be having fun. You think, before wincing. You fight the battle, managing to escape reality once more. You hum an old hymn, thinking of only the life you had before, the one of blissful ignorance. Church bells ringing, festival music, the smell of fresh vanilla wafting from the bakers kitchen. Memories that please the senses, though do not inflict damage on the mind.

"Y/n, are you ready?" Abuela calls, her voice shattering the numbness shield you'd created. You sigh, knowing you'll never be ready. But you've had an outburst, one that's already destroyed the room you've been harbored in.

"Yes, Abuela." You respond, shifting to look over to the door, which has been split down the middle by one of the several pieces of cement flung around the room mercilessly.

Your Abuela comes in, observing the room before striding over to you. The thing you love about Abuela, she never judges the chaos you fabricate. She unstraps you, lingering only for a moment on the red welches that act as a demonic bracelet.

"I'm sorry Amor, but you won't be able to get the healing soup. This kind of injury fades on its own, although it'll be painful for quite some time." She croons, caressing your cheek and playing with your hair.

"Why didn't you use it on Maria? Or did you just not care enough to protect her, too?" You snap, immediately regretting your words. The venom seems to seep into Abuela's soul, her face portrays defeat before expressing nothingness.

"Maria had died before we got there. Pepa says she was alive when she came out, but died shortly after. Only Dolores, Camilo, and Luisa were there when it happened. I don't know the rest." Abuela confides, squeezing your hand.

"I'm sorry, Abuela. I never should've gone there, I never should've involved us with the Madrigals. Papa was right, everyone was right!" You wail, tearing down the barrier between ignorance and reality. The pain hits you again, but the monster inside you has rampaged, now hibernating, regaining energy. You know the monster will come back someday, but not now. Never again will it cry for Maria's death.

"Abuela, why did I get the soup? My injuries weren't too bad." You protest, accepting reality and wanting to find the truth.

"You had three broken ribs, a broken ankle, and so many cuts. Any longer and you would've been dead. It was a miracle in itself that you were alive, that we found the soup. After we found Maria, we feared for you too. You're the gift, and I'd trade Julieta's soup for you any day. The price of the gift is the gift itself." Abuela says, kissing your cheek.

The words sticks in your mind, although you can't decipher the meaning behind it. For some reason, you remember the drills in which you and your classmates would simulate fire, although you laughed and said you didn't need it, because you could change the way fire patterns would spread. You found it amusing to demonstrate to the class, the teacher did not. You had to jealously watch as Camilo Madrigal shape-shifted into large men, helping classmates up a tree. The urge to scale it was unbearable, but the hawklike gaze of the teacher kept you in your seat. You spent the rest of that day pouting.

No, the words meant more to you than just some stupid day in school. The price of the gift is the gift itself.

Abuela interrupts your thoughts by tossing clothes at you, obscuring your view. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand, immediately dropping from the shakiness of your legs. Your vision gets blurry, not helping the collapse.