Page 9 of Cuervo's Carnival
But this is different. This kind of death, the kind that happens when fate occurs naturally, without the interruption of man’s twisted will, is somehow more haunting.
I slip my phone into my back pocket as Cillian’s black polish comes into view. He pulls me in close, yanking me by the small loops on my shorts. Without saying a word, he already knows.
“She needs you. Go to her,” he says, letting go of my belt loop and grabbing my hand, raising it to his lips for a kiss.
Pressing my eyes together, I try to fight back the tears I know are desperate to escape.
Cillian lets go of my hand and glides it to the end of my braids. “I like these.” He grins as he bites down on his bottom lip, looking suddenly ravenous. “After the three weeks are up, the next time you wear these, Paxton is going to have to fight me for them.”
Paxton steps in. “There will be no fighting for anything of hers. We will rein in our wickedMortatogether. Our fallen angel to praise and fuck for eternity,” he says, leaning in for a kiss on my forehead. His warm lips are a welcome comfort compared to the coldness that lingers on my flesh. “Now go, she needs you.”
I blow them a kiss before I turn around and break into an all-out sprint. Frantically heading to the parking lot as I make my way through the lingering crowd.
Then, only a few feet from where I parked my Harley, I see it.
And once more, my heart sinks. With the plummet it makes in my chest, I feel another ping of coldness trickle through my body.
There, resting on the seat and camouflaging with the jet-black leather, I spot its equally dark plume. Large, onyx eyes stare right at me, feeling as though they are ripping into me, and once more, that dreaded, frigid sensation washes over my body.
The feeling is heightened as my vision begins to fade. Suddenly, I am made painfully aware of every ounce of blood flowing through my veins. My heart, my lungs, my soul, every part of me feels like it’s slowly unraveling itself into a bleak misfortune.
Chills infiltrate my body as the raven begins to soar, taking with it the darkness but leaving me in the cold, artificial light. It makes a sound so horrid it can’t be described as a croak, a cry, or a caw. In its wake, I am left with faded senses, but the message sears into my conscious as it bellows from its bill: “Su tiempo es ahora.”
Your time is now.
4
Lola
“I can feel it,”she murmurs, eyes closed as she takes in a long, slow breath.
“Feel what,Abuela?” I ask, cupping her frail hand in mine.
“El fin,” she whispers before taking another long, exaggerated breath, causing her to cough. The way she winces intensifies each time she is jolted from her coughing.
I rub her hand, trying to comfort her, just as a sneaky ray of sunlight creeps its way past the rich amethyst curtains draped on the window. The light slowly trickles in until it settles its warm gleam on the onyx ringabuelawears on her middle finger.
Since I was a little girl, she would always be decked out in jewelry. Almost every finger was adorned with unique rings, but out of her collection, her onyx ring has always been her favorite. It was her mother’s ring, mybisabuela, Mary.
The dayAbuela’smother died, she found a coqui on the windowsill of her bedroom. It chirped and followed her all day as if trying to warn or comfort her from what was to come. After mybisabuelapassed,abuelaswore that every time she heard a coqui let out its distinct whistle, it was her mother trying to connect with her from the grave.
WhenAbuelamoved from Mayagüez to the States, she had the ring engraved with the coquis that now adorn the band. A reminder of what she lost and the comfort the beautiful creature of the island gave her in her time of grief. I study the engravings that wrap around the ring, admiring the sentiment behind them.
I’ve always admired my grandmother’s views on the afterlife. She has always approached the idea of death with as much grace and confidence as she has life.
Although now, as I hold her hand, which becomes gradually frigid and frail with her withering pulse, I wish the barrier between life and death was more tangible than the stories she told me growing up. She is the only mother figure I had since my mother, her only daughter, ran off on Zeke and me when I was a baby. Losing her will be beyond just losing a grandmother; it will be losing the only role model I had in my life.
Tears begin to well in my eyes. The realization that the end is near begins to wreak havoc on my heart. Her strong-willed attitude, quick-witted responses, endless talents, and beyond-earthly wisdom are suddenly fading into the black hole to which life eventually reduces us. The salt of my tears trickles down to my lips as I taste what heartbreak feels like.
Cold, alone, bitter.
I dry my hand on my shirt and bring it to her wrinkled yet smooth cheek. Stroking the side of her face, I lean in closer to her rigid hospital bed.
“I hope you haunt me,Abuela, when you drift away,” I whisper, not expecting her to answer. The moment the sentiment leaves my lips, I feel her hand stiffen, followed by a gasp.
She inhales violently, causing an awful wheezing noise. It’s as if she is suddenly fighting something stronger than the cancer cells already plaguing her body. Unsure of what to do, I tighten my grip on her hand. Just as I am about to scream to get my brother, a nurse, or anyone, I hear it and my heart fucking sinks.
Through the orchestra of beeping machines, the guttural screech of the bird most associated with one’s grim fate makes its presence known…again. The croak echoes as its bill taps against the window.
