Page 4 of Eternal Craving

I shifted. “Please don’t hurt me.”

The man’s foot struck my mouth, and I closed my eyes, wincing in pain.

I heard the deepest sigh, or something like one.

I opened my eyes.

He was gone. I stared out through the open doorway and saw no sign of him.

The woman slid the tomb lid closed. Several dry rose petals fluttered to the ground, one of them resting on the abandoned cudgel.

She knelt next to me, tracing my bruises with her cold fingers. “It’s over now,” she said softly.

“Who are you?”

“Sunaria.”

I glanced at the tomb. “I have to get home.”

“You can’t go.” She untied me.

I ran my fingers through my sticky, matted hair and shivered with the thought that it might be blood. I scrambled to my feet.

Her fingers wrapped around my forearm and tugged me back. “It’s not safe.” She gazed out at the twilight.

Alarmed, I considered her warning and turned toward the doorway.

I lost my footing, and she caught me. I pulled away and bolted outside, met by the welcome warmth of freedom, and glanced up at the stark white cross atop the steeple of the nearby church, heartened by the familiar landmark that would guide me home.

I glanced back. Sunaria had vanished amongst the shadows.

Out of sight of the mausoleum, I urinated a dark yellow stream against a sorry-looking hedge. Then, despite my aching limbs, I scampered through the graveyard, following the few village lights that guided me into town and, just beyond, to the bullring.

Dawn crept across the horizon, gilding the sky in molten gold – proof that another day had slipped through my fingers like smoke. The arena's silence whispered the truth I dared not face. I clenched my fists, willing it not to be true.

I couldn't be late – not for this.

I entered the ring, sucking in a terrified gasp.

Empty seats indicated that the bullfight was over. My heart pounded, making me short of breath.

I bolted home ignoring my suffering body, hoping to wash off this blood before my mother caught sight of me. My thoughts returned to the mausoleum. I tried to understand what had happened and was so relieved that the dead had remained hidden.

The senorita had come out of nowhere, but more alarming was that awful cudgel the man had tried to kill me with, and the dread I felt thinking he might try it again.

My brother would know what to do.

I stared up at my closed bedroom window.

I’d have to enter via the back door that was usually left open. I was shocked by the sight of chaos within the kitchen– sporadically placed unwashed pots and pans, and a table left untouched from supper, the food only half-eaten. Not the usual tidiness my mother insisted upon.

But understandable if she had believed me missing.

A basket of clean clothes sat next to the kitchen table. I gulped cup after cup of warm water, trying to quench a thirst that refused to relent.

In the back room, I leaned over the wash bowl and poured water over my matted hair. I disposed of the pinkish-red water before someone saw it. The throbbing in my head caused me to suffer another bout of nausea. All I wanted was to sleep.

Hushed voices could be heard from the upper rooms. With deliberate footsteps, I ascended the stairs, avoiding the floorboards that creaked, memorized over time. A warm breeze brushed past, billowing the curtain at an open window. I stopped in front of a closed door. Through the keyhole, I made out the shape of my grandfather lying upon my mother’s bed.