Hello, Láquesis writing in.
This story takes place somewhere in Latin America, the character is from Brazil.
Nothing happens in here, but the ending is bittersweet.
Enjoy reading, thank you for your time.
— L
Life is strange, isn’t it? Works in the oddest of ways, surprising one with every twist and turn of fate, or luck, or karma, or anything of the sort one holds close to their chest.
Life is rather… well, isn’t it just peculiar how one day can change it all? One day, Marcia was fine, having late dinner at her best friend's house, talking about all sorts of wild adventures they’d like to go on together. The next day? She was shoved on board of a plane, which destination was so far from the only people that brought her comfort that she wasn’t even allowing herself to think about it.
It’s what happens, she supposes, when you have a dream and fight for it to come true.
Marcia hadn’t even told them until it was far too late, and as she's standing below the screen that announces, in bright green and white light, her departure from the only place she’s ever known, she doesn’t even know why.
Postponing the announcement hadn’t even been her intention, but she had been so caught up with work and studies to even schedule a day in which they could meet properly, they weren't at fault for Marcia’s lack of organization skills.
She was leaving, far up north, giving up all the old and greeting, albeit begrudgingly, all the new.
No more corner stores that had an old woman, smoking as if it was nothing but breathing, greeting her with a warm smile and tired eyes, and gifting Marcia cookies and ice cream no one would miss.
No more summer nights with her friends, standing on the cargo bed of Antonio’s jeep and feeling the wind against her skin, hair completely whipping and whisking itself in wild movements as the element brushed it away from her face.
No more cooking lessons with her uncle Luciano, giving him more gray hairs while attempting and failing horribly at any of the fancy plates he served at his restaurant. And oh how Marcia loved the family restaurant.
It wasn’t big, really, but it was enough. It wasn’t fancy either, but it was pretty in her opinion, the hanging pots filled with bushy plants littered over the windows, almost always open due to how hot it could get in her hometown. The walls were white, or supposed to be, at least, as many of her family members had given it a hand or two in doodles and paintings that decorated the place.
If she closed her eyes, she could still feel the paint beneath her fingers, she could still hear her brothers laughing at the doodles of each other, hidden behind one of the booths, so no customers would wind up losing appetite at such childish displays.
Even so, Marcia doubts many would’ve said something.
They all knew each other, at least around her street.
They were nothing special, really. They had to work so hard every day, each and every one of them, to make it back home and be able to provide at least the bare minimum to their families. They were poor, and forgotten by the world, but they cared for each other, like one big extended family, all of them caring for one another.
If she closes her eyes now, and mutes away the telltale sound of an announcement being made, and ignores the shushing and rustling of clothes and voices and movement and just—
If she ignored everything around her, she could see her Amaya, her Antonio, her Rafael and Lucas, and Lucero and Priya and even Amadeo.
She could see her people.
Marcia inhales softly, and catches a trace of Amaya’s perfume, always fresh but never sweet, because she never liked it like that, she preferred subtle scents, that were nothing short of comforting for Marcia. She could still feel her face pressed against Amaya’s chest, the girl talking her ears off while fiddling with the beads on Marcia’s braids. She could still hear her heartbeat and catch the soft scent of cotton and lavender that always carried her everywhere, pale blue and opaque purple encompassing Amaya’s aura and voice, too. Amaya was a small girl, but her heart of gold caught Marcia with open arms, always.
If she concentrates, she can listen to Antonio singing, his voice deserving of an auditorium with how grave and beautiful and just velvety and perfect it was. She can hear him singing to Italian operas and Russian concertos, she can feel the vibrations of his fingers drumming along old rock songs the lyrics of she can’t even pronounce, and the whistling and dancing that characterized him when salsa came in the radio. She can even listen to him, light on his feet, echoing a gleeful cha cha cha at reunions, inviting someone to dance with him.
If she allows herself a moment, just one single minute, she can feel Rafael and Lucas’s hands clasped against her own. Her brothers smiling at her, a devilish smirk as if beckoning her to the dark forces that possessed the three of them when adventuring themselves into the wild. Marcia could reach out, and still catch Lucas about to fall off a tree at seven, or yank Rafael back behind a wall when sneaking out into the night to the kitchen at thirteen, trying to steal desserts that were to be sent to the restaurant. She can feel Rafael’s hair around her fingers, teaching him how to braid it and care for it, and going over each step of the routine when he decided to grow it out at eleven. She can feel the warmth of her school blouse, freshly ironed by Lucas after they had a particularly rough fight the night before when they were fifteen and sixteen.
In a wild dream, she turns around and Lucero’s standing right there, paint all over her clothes, which hang over her frame as if they were a size too big for her, making her look minuscule even if she was the tallest of them all. Marcia sees pink and vermilion, yellow and blue and white and brown mixing on Lucero’s fingertips and cuffs, splashes of barely there ochre doting all over the sleeves of her denim jacket, and her cargo pants hanging over her sides, that with her pockets filled with her small notebook and colour pencils, and a bunch of pencils stolen or forgotten from school or her workshop.
In her tongue, the taste of Priya’s cooking lingers. Spices and ingredients she can never fully understand how to mix together explode into a concoction of pure bliss upon the first bite. She had always been skilled in the kitchen, and she worked during the weekends at Marcia’s family restaurant upon begging (and testing, of course) from the girl. Priya had never been good with words, much like Marcia, but she was amazing with her food, so she cooked, and made sure everyone had eaten at least one full meal a day, and if they hadn’t, she made them some and personally delivered it to them. She cared like that, unable to speak much at all, unable to hear much at all, but always, always, making sure others felt loved and cared for. She remembered all of their likings and all of their allergies, she was an expert of making them all smile with just an "I made you something".
Marcia opened her eyes, and found nothing but the screen again.
She turned around, and found no one.
A few years ago, Amadeo was here.
He moved to the capital, architecture pushing him away from everyone, his family, his friends, and most importantly, away from Marcia. Amadeo, who, despite his young age, talked wisely if given the chance. Amadeo, whose hands were bruised and scared from the small knife and raw materials he used for his 3D models. Amadeo, who, with those same ruined hands, held Marcia-Helena like she was precious. Amadeo, whose dark eyes and darker eyebags brightened like the night sky whenever he saw Amaya, or Lucero or Antonio, or Rafael and Lucas.
Amadeo, who looked at her as if she was the brightest star of them all. His sun.
Amadeo.
Oh, Amadeo.
Amadeo, who had looked at Marcia and had asked her to forget about him and branch out, explore and conquer the world. Amadeo, who had kissed her forehead, only to let go and get lost among the hundreds of people rushing in and out of the terminal, taking a piece of Marcia with him to the capital.
Goodbye, my sun.
He said.
She never got to say goodbye to him, to her boy, her moon, her Amadeo.
She’ll never get to, now.
They had lost all contact.
Marcia-Helena was twenty-three now. On her skin, delitescent were the marks of every person she carried in her heart, granting her the unique markings of love, care, affection and hurt.
She took a step forward in search for her gate, her plane should arrive soon, and before she knew it she would be out of here, out of sight, out of mind.
No more golden hours with Amaya.
No more singing in the car with Antonio.
No more chasing after Rafael with a book.
No more pranks to be pulled on Lucas.
No more surprise dishes from Priya.
No more cooking lessons at the wee hours of the night with her uncle.
No more Amadeo.
There hadn’t been anything for a while now, but a part of her hoped that maybe, if she played her cards right, she could catch up to him.
Now, after three years, there wasn’t any hope at all.
“Last call to all passengers boarding flight—”
She checked her documents, fixed her stance, took a breath, and moved on.
She held them all in her heart, and even if her goodbye hadn’t been the best, hadn’t even been ideal, she washed the memory with golden light still, for she had seen them all one last time.
Now, she moved on.
—
End.
