|Repose Remembers (reposeremembers) wrote in repose,|
@ 2020-04-10 20:03:00
|Entry tags:||adrian march, cass reynaud, plot: memories|
Will characters be viewing the memory or experiencing it?: Experiencing it
Warning, this memory contains: Minor child mistreatment
You're hot, and the air around you is tacky with warmth, and it's dark. You can see a fat moon in the sky through a canopy of thick green leaves. Your feet are on uneven footing. You look down, and there's earth and green and you're standing on an incline. It's a rolling incline, not steep, but it goes up a long way ahead of you. It seems to climb right into the sky, and the differentness of it surprises you. Different because you're not accustomed to inclines. Your life until this point has been flat or hollowed out.
You're dressed all wrong. You notice that when you look down. Your pants are twill and your shirt has long sleeves and buttons that go all the way to your throat. If you touch your cheek, you'll find no stubble there. You're young. You can feel that in your bones, the fact that you're young, and your fingertips tingle with some electric and unspoken power you're holding inside.
You kick off shiny black shoes with hurty points, and you unroll black socks that are so thin as to almost resemble socks a girl would wear beneath a dress. You're a boy, you know, though you can't see your own face. You're male, young, and you press the pads of your toes against the ground. The ground feels cooler than the sticky heat of the air.
You walk. It's stupid of you, which you only realize a few minutes later. Your feet hurt. They are quickly cut up and sliced, and the pointed shoes would have hurt less. But you don't want to turn around, because there's sound ahead. The sound of drums and chanting, and you push aside branches to reveal a small building that is handmade from things in this forest. The palm trees you recognize, but you don't know the oaks from the cedars from the huge jaguey trees with their roots in the air.
The house is small and squat, but inside there is music. It's no music you have ever heard, and in this shrouded copse under moonlight it all feels sacrilegious in a way that makes you consider Our Fathers and Hail Marys. But you're curious, and you step closer until you're peering in a window with no glass.
There is dancing inside. Sweaty men and women, dark hair thick and skin shiny beneath thin white linen clothing. There are candles lit, every single one of them red, and there is the scent of apples on the air. In the corner, you espy an altar, but no one is kneeling respectfully in front of it and praying. The people in the room dance. They sip amber liquid from a bottle they pass around, and the dancing reminds you a little of evangelicals being thick with The Lord.
The entire room is loud. Not just the music, but the way the dancers throw their arms up and trill along with the drums. You see the drums now, crowded into the far corner of the room and made of shining metal.
You look away from the drums, and you don't expect to find someone looking back at you through the open window, but there he is. It's a boy, young, with skinny wrists and nighttime skin. He smiles and motions toward the door,. He says something too, but you don't understand him. But it's the universal language of summons and beckoning, and you take your tortured feet to the door. He opens it and puts a finger to his lips, as if anyone could hear you in the loud hut. You're surprised when he takes you by the elbow and pulls you inside. He says something else, another thing you don't understand, but you feel the warmth of the hut seep into your bones like embers crackling into the very marrow of who you are. It feels like homecoming, and you find yourself drawn into the circle.
You have no idea how to dance, but it doesn't matter. You don't fit in here, but that doesn't matter either. An elderly woman shows you how to throw your hands in the air, así, así, and you do it. You feel stupid, but only for a few seconds. The boy is still there, hand in yours, and he hauls you around the circle with loud laughter on plump lips.
You're twirling and it's liberating, and that's your voice whooping and trilling along with the rest. You belong. That's what you feel, and it's the first time you have ever felt it in your life. Belonging. The dampness on your cheeks isn't sweat now, it's tears. An elderly man, with hands like leather, grips your fingers in his own. His fingers shake, trembling with age, but he leads you slowly to the altar. The statue there is of a mother and child, and you drop to your knees in front of it. You steeple your fingers and press your forehead to the space between your hands. You pray, and the room behind you goes silent as the moments pass.
You turn, and the entire room is doing the same thing you are. They're praying, speaking in ways that remind you of things you were taught were bad. It's not a language, but they don't seem ashamed or chagrined. You look back to the statue of the woman. She's supposed to be wearing blue, but she's garbed in resplendent red. You have never seen her before, but you have always known her.
You begin to close your eyes again, but the door to the hut is thrown open. The door is flimsy, and it cracks as it hits the adjacent wall.
A man stands there. He is tall and broad, dressed as you are, and he looked angry. His face is red, his cheeks puffed out with ire, and the dampness of his fine hair lets you know he's been out in the night heat for a long time. You know this is your father, and trip over yourself in the rush to get to your feet. "Sorry—" you begin, but it's only a beginning. He has your slight forearm in his beefy palm, and the grip is one that will leave a bruise over similar layers of bruises, all telling tales of transgressions in old yellow and faded green. He yanks you, and you try to keep up. Your bloodied feet slip on the dirtwood floor as he pulls you out of the hut.
Behind you there is silence, and you do not look back.