Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

LI. Herr God. Herr Lucifer.

3
Robin
Remains of Havana, Cuba
Abandoned Prince Manor
Territory: Pinochetʼs
June 29th, 2004
Time: 12:00 AM
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    Havana was a sandstorm of gold dust and gold decay as Gustavo slept. In a city where the blood on the streets was a coagulated, congealed hue of a gilded sun – a promise of Spainʼs dilapidated power, of a dying Cuban reconquest, of the peopleʼs plea for Reina Santiago to stop ruining the streets in the name of revenge – deathʼs hand was not merciful. Havana was a capital of cocaine dreams and gasoline needs, and with the recession and Reina Santiagoʼs blood-bath, no one was safe. Not even the Wolves that slaughtered children in her name. But in a way, they were all animals – feasting on the bones and the breasts of any living creature they could find, plundering and pillaging any dying manʼs supplies before his dying breath. Havana was a city of monsters trapped in the Sahara desert of destruction, and Robin entered the belly of the beast one last time at the thought.

    Inside the abandoned manor, Robin soaked in the Gothic cathedralʼs once brilliant architecture: with its skeletal stone ribs composed of pointed arches, ribbed vaults, and buttresses stacked a mile high. She sat on the cupola with a bottle of Cuban rum in her hands, her body cushioned by the crumbling pieces of marble and her mouth cushioned by the rumʼs exotic spices and taste of burnt, nutty caramel. Not facing the sun, but the darkness: the silhouettes of shattered stained windows, the ominous history of the once glorious Prince empire in the Caribbean. It was cold with opulence, the manor, meant to intimidate in every facet, and Robin hid in the shadows. The wind bit her v*rgin white dress as some of the skirts cascaded towards the floor, and as she stared into the hellish darkness, she heard the rustling of footsteps. A scent that only she could identify, a hunger that she craved to satisfy. A longing like no other. The eveningʼs transcendent moon was lovely, but her children were lovelier.

    Staring at her Colombian lover once more, the fabled Medellín financier and cousin of Pablo Escobar, Gustavo Escobar, she planted a kiss on his lips as her br*astsfilled his hands. His hands moved with a pianistʼs grace, and every-time, she found herself making the sounds he wanted. Biting her lips, she chuckled into his mouth.

    "Mis bebes estan aqui," she whispered, lips brushing against his mustache and nose. His lips pursed together softly, stirring under the bed, kissing her once more into a smile.

    "Estoy aquí, amor," he whispered back, snaking one last, sweet kiss to her forehead.

    And with that, she raced downstairs. When she approached, there was a rapping; so gentle, so tenure, and so eerily haunting in the dead night. Skirting along the foyer, which was all trussed up in tangled, carnivorous vines and dirt, decay, rot, she broke into tears – dirty tears, sandy tears, golden tears – and rushed to meet her babies. Prying open the door, Robin watched as her identical twins, Lynx and Louise, rush into her arms, her two year old babies with curly locks the color of flames and her dark, doe-like eyes of mocha wide with excitement. They were all deathly skinny, her babies, shaking in their skins as they hugged her – but Robin vowed to keep them warm. To keep them safe.

    "Mami está aquí, mis bebés," she whispered in teary Spanish, kissing their heads, their cheeks, their lips, their foreheads.

    "I will never leave you again. Never, my loves."

    She turned towards Wil, and he looked just as terrible as the rest of them did. The scent of Mojitos and the cheap fumes of cigarette smoke was familiar poison, but when she saw him, he looked like a corpse. His ribs clung to his stomach, and his skin was gray with soot and malnourishment. Smiling at him, Robin let out a few more flushed tears and sniffled.