Worth The Shot

Cold as Corpses

"I know," Camilo sadly responded, and with clarity burning in his eyes, he turned the blade on himself and stabbed. 

At first you couldn't feel anything but numb confusion. You'd been tensing your shoulders, anticipating a sudden and intense pain that never came. When you saw the blood soaking into his ruana like red water on paper, the confusion immediately dispersed.

"What did you do?" You whispered in horror. 

Camilo unsteadily staggered forward, and your arms instinctively shot out to steady him. His golden eyes widened, as if he were just as shocked as you.

"I'm sorry," he said, not breaking eye contact as his chest struggled to heave in ragged breaths. His knees buckled beneath him, splashing sloppily into the river water. 

"No, no, no," you whimpered, terrified. You jaggedly ripped off the hem of your night shirt, blotting at Camilo's wound as if soaking a wine spill.

There was so much blood. You hadn't even known a person could contain the gallons that freely pumped from Camilo's stomach. Tears blotchily streamed down your face. Or it was sweat. You were shivering too hard to care. 

He'll be okay. Senorita Julieta will heal him. The scattered thought blurred through your mind, but even you couldn't believe that lie. You knew no magical arepa would stitch him together this time.

"Hey, (y/n)." Camilo's voice was weak and kind. "Come on."

You didn't listen. Your makeshift rag hung limply, stained crimson and soaked by chilled river water. You desperately tore off another scrap. This will work. I just needed more fabric.

"Stop it, (y/n)," Camilo whispered, his eyebrows furrowed from the pain. Cold river spray showered beaded droplets onto his forehead. "Stop it."

"Shut up," you brokenly sobbed, gripping his thick hair between your hands. "You're not dying. You're gonna make it. Why'd you have to go and do that?"

"Because I remember. Everything," Camilo said, wincing as your hands desperately applied pressure to his wound. "Papa told me everything Gothel said. It sounded like a romantic lover had to be present for the sacrifice to work. And I...." Camilo grimaced in pain, stilling your prodding hand by pushing it aside. "I promised to protect you. It couldn't be you. I couldn't live with that."

Dark red blossomed in the river, swirling around your legs and staining your shaking hands as they cradled Camilo's head.

"Listen to me," Camilo softly instructed. "I want you to look away for this part, okay? Please?" His voice turned gentle and low, as if comforting a child.

"No," You stubbornly choked out. "No, I'm not. You won't be here when I look back."

Camilo unsteadily exhaled, wincing.  His fingers reached up to brush your cheek, dripping icy, liquid diamonds. He softly chuckled. "I never could tell you what to do."

"You can't. But I'm gonna tell you what to do. Stay here," You helplessly begged, fingers pressing Camilo's hand firmly to your tear-stained face. His dark eyelids flickered, as if fighting a sugary drowsiness. "Cut it out. Don't close your eyes."

"I hope you can forgive me someday," Camilo said. 

Your eyes were tightly closed, deeply buried into his dark forest of curls. You didn't see it. But you knew. You felt his limbs relax and his consciousness slide into the river, but you roughly held his body against your chest like a child clinging to a ragdoll.

The sobs erupted from deep within your chest. You weren't sure if you were crying or vomiting as your shoulders forcefully shook. Everything whirled around like a tornado of knives, slicing your eyes blind and your heart bloody. 

You couldn't focus. You were reeling, a dark planet ripped out of orbit. The past two months, the primal battles to keep Camilo alive, had all blown away like a dry husk of corn in mere seconds. And you'd lost. 

You barely registered Sebastian's strong, wiry hands tugging you from the river. Beside you, Gothel scooped Camilo in his big arms, wrapping him in his cloak like it was a body bag.

You couldn't muster enough energy to question their sudden appearance. Shivering from the frigid water plastering your clothes to your skin, you emptily slumped as Sebastian pointlessly restrained you from getting in Gothel's way. 

Gothel delicately rolled Camilo's body onto the dry riverbank. The feathery reeds swayed in a mournful eulogy dance. You felt yourself unsteadily swaying with them; Sebastian's grip was all that kept you upright. Feebly, as if afraid to disturb the birth of this permanent memory, pale pink dawn light tinged the sky. 

Gothel's glossy ebony hair draped in a curtain as he leaned his ear over Camilo's mouth. Two fingers pressed against Camilo's neck, checking his ebbing pulse. "He's bleeding out." 

Sebastian studied Gothel. "So it's too late." Both of their eyes grimly slid over to you. 

Sebastian didn't lie. He didn't tell you it would be okay. Unexpectedly, he crushed you against his chest. The rough, black leather of his jacket felt cold against your cheek, and Sebastian kept on releasing sharp sighs from his nose, but you didn't move away from him. If you did, your heart might freeze to death and shatter like an icicle.

So you gripped onto his shirt, tightly enough to numb your knuckles. Your father, your uncle, your enemy... You didn't care who he was. You would take what little comfort remained from anyone. 

"Marcos." Gothel's startled, wary word stirred a distant memory. Shaken awake, you lifted your head to stare. A short, muscled figure with pale brown waves lumbered toward Camilo's dying body like a nightmarish creature. Your father. He was here.

He killed Camilo. 

Yanking out of Sebastian's arms, you stalked across the river bank and forcefully struck your father across the face. His soft brown eyes expanded in surprise. 

"Surprised?" You shouted, shoving him hard in the chest. Marcos stumbled backwad, studying you with confused, innocently-raised eyebrows. As if he felt atrociously betrayed that his special, loyal, little daughter could ever loathe him. "I trusted you! To look out for me, to be my father, and you ruined everything." 

Marcos blinked slowly, and electric rage swelled inside you. He didn't even care. You almost hit him again, but something odd in his expression stayed you. His posture wasn't superior or smug. He didn't launch a barrage of flowery words to justify himself. He just looked completely, genuinely confused.

"Who is that?" He eventually said, gesturing quickly to Camilo. 

"The boy you killed," you snarled, your voice flat. Anger felt easier than pain. Anger felt easier than the dread of breaking the news to the Madrigals. 

"Alright," your father awkwardly swallowed, "And who is that?" He pointed a finger toward Gothel, who had protectively shouldered himself in front of Camilo's dying body. 

Furious at his nerve, you glared daggers. But a distant shadow flickered in your mind. Why was your father feigning ignorance? What could he gain from playing dumb? Nothing. 

Unless... he wasn't faking. 

Marcos uncomfortably crossed his thick arms, glancing at you and Sebastian miserably. As if he truly couldn't comprehend why you both despised him. Your eyebrows softly raised, horrified.

Your father had turned his gift on himself.