Final Call for Mercy

45

The doors of the house open and, like every minute tonight, I take the lead. I am the first to walk in, head held up and trembling fingers doused in blood, as every person that has waited awake for us watches. My head is light and each step onto the marble floors send a shock through my nerves from my sole to my knee. My father sits at the couch, a book forgotten in his hand, watching us with focused eyes as we file in. I've never noticed reading to be a habit of his. So little observant of me.

My brother, too, sits at a seat. He looks half asleep, both eyes puffy as he looks around. I watch as his lips curve into a smile at the sight of me. And I keep watching—hoping—but the smile drops as he looks behind me. Ash is beside him with the same look of frozen confusion. I look away.

My mother is someone I never expected to have waited for us. She'd always kept herself away from all business. But there she sits, her head on my father's shoulder and her eyes closed. I smile. She looks so peaceful when she sleeps.

And someone I expected to be waiting for us, is. Elijah. His eyebrows are drawn together, reminding me of the face he makes when he scolds me. And I wonder if he'll do that tonight. After all, this was a mission failed.

I stop in the center of the room, not really looking at anyone or anything in particular. Not really listening to the sounds behind me. They all sound merged. Not one word sticks to my mind.

And by looking at particularly nothing, my eyes fall on my bloodied hands. Most of it is crusty, dried from the drive back home, but beneath the crust lies the stain of the blood, coloring my hands as if it were dye. Some parts were still semi-wet, like the crevices under my nails. It'll probably take me more than a few washes to get my hands back to normal.

But in the car ride back I touched my face and ran my hands through my hair. I'd have to take a shower, probably multiple. No one likes to sleep bloody and dirty.

A hand touches my shoulder and I turn my head to see my parents looking back at me. Mom's eyes are watery, but she stands tall. My father's mouth is moving and I realized I've been zoned out this entire time. The noises slam into my ears in a rush. I'm almost certain I can hear the buzzing of the lights. 

"What?"

His mouth clams shut and his hand squeezes my shoulder. "Are you okay?" he half-whispers, like I'm a wounded animal. Maybe they think the blood is mine. They're probably worried about me because of it.

"I'm fine," I say flatly. I'm not hurt. This blood isn't mine. It's...

Dad's worry doesn't subside and I'm tempted to show him my arms and my abdomen, so he can know that I'm not hurt. Oh, but I got punched in the nose. I forgot that. Funny, the pain isn't so strong anymore. Maybe they're worried about that.

My parents move out of the way and Mom pulls me back with her. I follow their gaze to Diego and Gabriel bringing in Mateo in their arms. They place him in the couch my parents had been sitting at. It was a gift from the men to my father when he bought the house. My father loved leather couches. He had invited them all to a drink on our moving night and they drank until the sun rose sitting on the very same couch. Personally, I'm not a fan. They're either too cold to sit in or they stick to your skin. Not to mention when they start cracking. 

Daniela kneels by the couch, holding Mateo's hand. She cried the entire way here. I had to share a car with her since the other car had to carry Mateo and one had to wait for Diego until he came back. He had met with us halfway only to say they had gotten away.

Veronica's face is buried in Nicolas' chest, body still shaking. Nicolas just stares at the ground, holding onto his sister as if she might break.

Gabriel sits on a nearby couch, elbows resting on his knees as he rubs both hands on his face and through his hair, and all over again. He catches my eye and I look away.