Blues

49. Why I Sing The Blues

For someone who has always been resilient and willful, I've become such an underdog. I still remember those watchwords I inked into my mind before I decided to leave Tacoma, and none of them entailed love or trouble.

Yet I got myself mired deeply in both.

I fell in love with an angel who soared with me to the stars, and then left me there alone to burn.

I thought I was stout as iron, yet here I am, being shredded like a flimsy piece of paper.

I watch the world as it races while I'm constantly being jostled to the back.

I behold the allure of colors, yet I don't stop falling into that avalanche of blues. And I wonder; will I ever reach the bottom?

"Remember the first time I saw you?" Chavez asks, and his murky, eerie tone chills my spine.

I lie still, huddled onto the indurate ground in a ball. I watch him—or rather his feet—as he wanders around my apartment like he owns it, and if it weren't for my lacking capacity to move, I would've at least tried to break those brawny legs of his.

His feet finally stop in front of me, and even in my deeply sedated state, I sense panic inside of me, but for some reason, it's so distant-flung. It exists somewhere, though I can't put my finger on it. "Well, I remember it very well. It was at Emerald. It was the first time I saw you with those brats. You were quite outstanding, if you ask me. But do you know what actually caught my attention that day?" He questions, but I still refrain from giving an answer.

Big mistake.

A normal person would at least grovel away, if they saw a strike coming. But my burdensome body doesn't move an inch when he aims at my ribs with the front of his shoe. "Answer me! Do you know what caught my attention that day?"

I howl in affliction, and it feels like the sound was forced out of my throat from the strong impact of the bash, my arms hastening to secure my midriff. I hysterically shake my head, feeling my tears spilling down my cheeks. He chuckles, and though my eyes are blurred by my tears, I perceive him crouching, his voice getting closer. I tighten my arms around myself, expecting the next blow any time. "I saw how that Evans boy kept staring at you like a prize he can't wait to obtain. And I kept trying to remember if he ever looked at my sister the same way, but I came up with no memory resembling that."

He reaches out, his fingers smoothing my hair back, before I feel them burrowing in, and I can't help but shudder, his revolting touch feeling like flyspecks of venom. I don't foresee it, and that's why I emanate another agonized yowl when he wrenches the mass of locks back, forcing me to look at him. "And I can see why. You're actually a sweet piece of ass, but too bad I don't appreciate beauty the way he does."

I don't get to fathom the meaning behind his words. His hand moves fast, landing hard on my cheek, and just before I attempt to move my hands to protect my face, he yanks my arms together, anchoring them above my head with one of his big hands. Though I expected it, I still yelp in surprise when he strikes the other cheek, my tears flowing like a stream of water.

I keep my eyes closed, and I keep praying for this to be one of those nightmares I have on those sore, caliginous nights, but the next wallop is too real. Too torturous, even for my own grievous nightmares. Frail and dreary, I find myself resorting to less dark memories, just to block him out. And I wonder: Is this how my mother felt that night?

'Are you her daughter?' The doctor asks, her pitiful smile faltering as she stares at my tear-soaked face. She's holding a chart in his hands, her fingers tightening around the edges. I can tell she's shell-shocked and unstrung.