Bruja

⠀↳⠀2.12

( E i g h t e e n )

Despite it being the second night they were sharing, they already knew which spot was theirs on the bed: she was on the right side near the door, and he was on the left side near the window.

Laying on his left side, he faced her with his vibranium arm tucked under the pillow. His right hand was barely touching the corner of hers as she remained still on her back, her thumbs tucked under the sheets in a tight grip.

Like watching a movie, she could see herself walking in the dead quiet halls of her home—her old home. It was dark outside, and the lights were dim and flickery, giving it a candle-like effect. She knew the house like the back of her hand, but every corner she turned felt like an endless maze.

Faint whispers scattered the walls of a new hall, each sounding muffled. She was able to make out a few words in English and Spanish, warning her to leave or hide. She wasn't going to do that—she wasn't going to hide. She was going to keep going.

Reaching the end, the sight made her stop in her tracks. The front door was wide open and dead bodies scattered on the polished floor. Their dark clothes were stained with blood and shined from oozing opened wounds. The weapons used were all bent and broken, making them completely useless.

"Muñeca."

Doll.

She gasped and grabbed for the wall. Chills ran down her spine at the whisper feeling a little too close to her ear.

Looking to her left, she saw nothing but the flickering light. Looking around, not a single living person could be seen. She put a hand to her chest to feel her heart racing. Not many things scare her, but this one did something to her.

She took a few steps forward to see a gold mirror hung on the wall, cleaned and untouched. In front of it was a light wooden table, and in the middle was a clear glass vase of five red roses. Upon close examination, two of them appeared to be dead.

She looked at her reflection to notice a blurred figure standing behind her. Nothing about it made her feel uneasy—if anything, it did the opposite: it made her feel comforted by its familiarity. Turning around, she saw no one. Looking back into the mirror, the figure could be seen standing at the entrance of another hall.

She knew that hall.

"Papi?" she assumed the familiar presence. Her eyes widened at the sight of his face now unblurred. He was strangely unharmed. "Papa!" She skipped over the bodies on the floor and ran to him.

The closer she got, the more he started to change. He went from appearing unharmed to having a bloody nose and a swollen eye. His arms began bruising, and an exposed knife wound began to reveal itself on his leg.

She reached for his arm, but he disappeared, leaving her to grab nothing but air.

She wanted to call for him when a whisper stopped her: "Mija."

My daughter.

She immediately turned to where it came from. At the end of the hall stood her mother with her hand held out and a smile on her face. She still looked the same as she remembered: beautiful and happy.

"Mama," she called before running to her. Maybe if she ran fast enough she wouldn't change and disappear. "Mama, no, don't—!"

A bruise started to form around her mother's neck and her eyes turned bloodshot. Her warm skin turned cold and pale, and blood caked under her cracked nails.