Page 41 of Cuervo's Carnival
I swipe my thumbs across the keyboard on the screen.
Ferris wheel.
I text Cillian before slipping my phone in my back pocket so I can climb over the fence. Overgrown vines practically swallow the bent chain link material whole, but I am able to gain enough footing to climb up and swing myself to the other side.
Once I make it to what once stood as a main attraction when The Night’s Plutonian was running, I scan to see if any of the gondola seats are usable.
It would have been nice if we were able to get the Ferris wheel up and running again, considering how sentimental they are to the three of us. But tonight, we don’t need this behemoth of a ride functioning. We just need a spot where we can reminisce on how good it feels to be us three, just like we discovered years before.
As the wind picks up, the rusted metal frame begins to make an eerie screeching sound. I lift my head in the direction of the high-pitched noise, when I see a black and purple striped gondola seat suspended a couple of inches from the ground amidst the sprawling overgrowth.
I grab my phone and turn on the flashlight to get a better look, expecting that I have to clean it up a bit, but the seat looks pristine, untouched, somehow.
Perfect.
The gondola swings and creaks as I hoist myself up onto it. I’m about to start brushing off the minimal dirt that is on the seat, when a rustling noise steals my attention. I twist myself and look over the back of the seat to see if it’s Cillian and Lola, but they aren’t there.
I shrug, turning back around, but the noise happens again. This time, a familiar riff begins to pierce my eardrums, followed by the distinct percussion of a cowbell matching the beat.
“Who’s there?” I call out as I hop out of the gondola to inspect where the music is coming from.
No one answers, and there is no sign of Cillian or Lola. Anger fuses in my system, since what used to be one of my favorite songs is now marred with the memory of what happened every time that we were told to play the song as Reapers.
Suddenly, the thoughts of ghosts haunting this place are a lot more comforting than what I now have reason to believe has followed us here.
“All our times have come, here but now they’re gone,”plays in the background, causing chills to infiltrate my spine as I reach for my knife from my pocket.
19
Lola
We continueour careful strides through the endless brush that covers the ground leading to the Ferris wheel. With the backdrop of dwindling light mixed with dense storm clouds on the horizon, the ride not only looks enormous but menacing.
The closer our steps are to the chain link barrier that separates the ominous attraction, the louder the music becomes. What started as a faint guitar riff to a familiar song buried in the background is now front and center to the eerie scene before us.
The decrepit remnants of the Ferris wheel are a vast reminder of life’s vicious cycle. All that starts in hope will likely end in despair. Landmarks, just like people, all fall victim to the Reaper’s hand. A reminder that echoes in my subconscious the more I focus on the song playing on what appears to be repeat.
Our stride comes to a halt at the moss-covered fence. I bob my head to the side, trying to get a peek through the small spaces that aren’t covered by overgrowth.
“Where is he?” I ask Cillian. My eyes reduce to half-open slits, trying to look beyond the patches of blackened green that have claimed the fence as home.
Cillian shrugs, also scanning the area. “Pax!” he shouts, cupping his hands into a circle framing his mouth. “Let us in!”
We stand there waiting for a response, but there isn’t any. The only sound to be heard in response to Cillian’s call is the music playing and the creaky groans coming from the Ferris wheel. Each gust of wind from the impending storm brings the ancient ride and its parts to a screeching rhythm, mocking us.
“I’ll text him,” I say, reaching for my phone. I swipe the screen to unlock it. “Fuck, I have no service,” I say, defeated.
“Yea, me neither,” Cillian huffs, before slipping his phone back into his pocket.
Cillian calls for Pax once more, this time even louder, with desperation in his voice. Again, there is no response.
Releasing an exasperated sigh into the air, he brings his hands to his side. Immediately closing the gap between us, I extend my hand to his, lacing my fingers through his clammy ones.
We exchange a concerned look. Something isn’t right, we can both feel it. But before either of us are able to discuss what is running through our heads, the song ends and, once again, begins to replay.
“Ah, that fucking song,” Cillian exclaims. I feel his body tense as our woven fingertips loosen.
Then, it hits me. I remember something with that song that Roberto told me when he and I were forced on a date together once our fathers determined us to be married. I just can’t remember now what the hell it was.
