Re: Marvel: Cris & Sam
She bled from the palms in some white-trash, crack-wrought stigmata, crescents welling red in a repetition of one phase of the moon, a line, and Cris pulled the shirt from behind his head where he made it a pillow. His head was pretty much done by now anyway. The blood from his head had stained it, but it wasn't soaked. The head bled a lot, he knew that, sometimes seemingly regardless to the size of an injury. He daubed at Sam's wrists as best he could, even as the girl sat there, silent, shaking, eyes closed, lips open—but nada. He daubed, and stubbed the fabric there as a catch-all swab, until she was crying in front of him, like he'd just reached into her heart and pulled out the organ through the slit of her ribs, squashed and useless. She sobbed, words dropping, one by one, like shell casings discarded, and he sat through it, looking. Her shoulders shook and she bent forward. Cris moved then, closer.
At first, his touch was light, tentative, like he'd back off if she swatted at him, like he thought she might. But, if she didn't, he pulled her up to his chest, their hips meeting, and he laid her flush there where it was broad and where her pigtails might splay across black polo. She curled into herself, shrinking, and he just enveloped around her, like that could help.
"Mami, I'm fine." He repeated it one more time. "You think I never hit my head before? I'm fine." Once more. Cris didn't bother trying to catch her tears as they fell in falls. He kept after the blood carved from the flesh of her palm with that undershirt, chasing red down muted-blue and milk-white. He didn't make the denial she told him he would, because she'd called it. He would say no. So, he didn't. "Respire hondo." He did it with her, or tried. A deep inhale, an exhale. "You don't gotta do anything right now. Except stay with me." He put his hand over the messy blond, over Sam's cheek, where her head was on his chest. His fingers touched the silt of tears. "I got my friend—ah, I gotta kid killed before." He just said it, some thoughtless thread latched onto, knowing distraction helped her. "I was supposed to be there. On the corner. But, I wanted to see this girl. Before Sofia. He covered for me. Shoulda been me. Kid was, what? 16? Then, bam. Dead. Executed by some Ñeta motherfuckers." The word was harsh from him, but he said it. He sniffed, stupid all these years on, and he kissed Sam on the top of the head. "We never did a funeral or anything for Joey. You wanna do that?"