abby addams (ayuda) wrote in dunhavenic, @ 2017-08-30 22:58:00 |
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Entry tags: | !narrative, r * laura, r: camila trujillo |
WHO: Camila Trujillo (+ open to anyone who lives at 26 Ruffian!)
WHEN: This afternoon.
WHERE: The house she lives in!
SUMMARY: Camila's tired, and she gets a little memory.
WARNINGS: Nah, though she cusses in Spanish lol.
Camila stepped through the front door of the house and exhaled, closing her eyes for a moment as she stood there in the foyer. Even though classes had just started, she felt way in over her head already. This was a good school, and her classmates seemed so much smarter, more prepared, more experienced. She already felt like the odd one out in this town; meeting the other students only made it worse. She was older than some -- not all, but definitely a good number -- and her life wasn’t something some of the other students had ever experienced, either. She’d known that moving to a brand new town was going to be difficult, but she hadn’t expected to feel so much like she was an island. Maybe it’s just because this is all new, she told herself. Her mother would have told her to turn right around and come home if she was doubting herself, but the voice that was strongest in her head was her abuelita’s, telling her to rise to the challenge so she could make a difference. (Although, she thought, if school was this stressful already, would she even be able to handle it four months from now?) As she stood there, she could see a different living room in her mind, a dark room, a dark figure on the couch. The air smelled like copper -- like blood? -- and her hands were slick. She was counting the person’s -- man’s? -- pulse, kneeling on the floor next to the couch, and her heart was pounding in her ears, making it difficult for her to focus on what she needed to do. Her eyes snapped open and she stumbled forward a little. “Mierda.” Camila glanced down at her hands, flipping her hands over to look at her palms. How long had she been standing there? Did she fall asleep standing up? Camila rubbed a palm over her eyes. She didn’t think she’d been out long enough to dream, and dreams didn’t usually come with sensations like smell or touch, right? Frowning, she shook her head. This was just stress-related, most likely than not. The mind could do funny things under duress, though Camila didn’t know why it would make something so dark and bloody up. If she could ask her abuela, Camila knew that her abuela would have taken it very seriously. Leonora would have told her to listen to her heart and to listen to what the spirits were trying to tell her. But Camila wasn’t her grandmother. She had the same tenacity, but her grandmother was spiritual in a way that neither Camila nor her mother were. Her abuela would have wanted to analyze the entire thing, would have gotten out her book on dream symbolism and told her exactly what a dying, bloody man on her couch meant, and what it meant that she was trying to save his life. Was she trying to resuscitate her own life? Her own future? She shook her head. There was no point in trying to go over it. “Sorry, abuelita,” she murmured, pushing off from the door and heading towards the kitchen. “Just an overactive imagination.” Thinking about it wasn’t going to help. What would help -- what always helped -- was a little bit of kitchen therapy. She had some puff pastry in the freezer, and a house full of people who would probably love some pastelitos. |