The Wailing Woman

32. Dead Woman Walking Pt. 1

TW: Swearing, blood, and violence.

I walked past the buzzing lamplights as the plastic bag in my arm swung back and forth. I bought trash bags, but I also bought chocolate bars, chips, and tamarindo candy. I've other hidden snacks in one of the kitchen cabinets that I'm also planning to eat because I simply cannot deal with my emotions for the rest of the night. But I'm thinking of telling Dilara about Grimm and his situation. I don't know why I didn't admit to her earlier that I was looking for something.

My cheeks sting from the cold wind. I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my sweater. I'll tell her all about it as soon as I get home. I'm almost there but I look ahead and notice two men standing near the next lamppost I have to pass. They seem to be having a conversation and look harmless, but my stomach tightens as I get closer.

My feet maneuver from the sidewalk, and I start walking across the street. Footsteps follow behind, my steps quicken as I—

A hot flash almost grazes my skin, I stumble backward. My head snapped toward the burning fence, and my eyes widened. "We've been waiting for you." 

I sprint in the opposite direction until a hard clasp grabs my wrist, I look down and see a brown vine twists up my arm. Another one appears on my left arm.

I throw my hands in the air, tugging the vines, but I'm roughly yanked back like a doll. A pair of arms crossed my body and before I could scream, the harsh vines enclosed my neck and mouth. 

I try squirming away until the warlock presses his mouth against my ear. "It's rude to walk away from someone who is talking to you."

Nausea greets me like an old friend. "Gentlemen, please don't be too hard on her. She has to live a little longer before I kill her." The man walking slowly said. 

He had an accent similar to Refugio and for a brief moment, I miss hearing where my home once was. But this was not the welcome I used to receive. As the man got closer, I took in his appearance. He has short brown hair and a scruffy beard. He is wearing a long black trench coat. I notice the wrinkles near his eyes, he must be older than thirty, maybe mid-40s.

I continued to squirm. "Tranquila, tranquila." (Relax, relax.) He raises his leather-gloved hands in a mocking surrender. He then directs his hand toward the fire and mutters something under his breath, soon the fire is nothing but smoke. He turns toward me, his eyes shimmering in the way when you have won a prize.

He grips my chin, tilting my head to the right. He examines, "Tienes sus ojos. Tienes los mismos lunares. Supongo que tienes su sangre." 

I try to scream but the vines tighten around my mouth and muffle any sounds. He bared his teeth, "Calladita te ves más bonita." (You've his eyes. You have the same moles. I suppose you've his blood. You look prettier when quiet.)

My screams were buried. My teeth bit down on my tongue until I tasted metallic, and rage spilled. 

I want to kill him. I want to cut his eyes out but let them hang from their sockets. I want to pluck his teeth out. I want to scream so loud that not only would his ears bleed but his organs would explode. And the more I fantasized about his death the more I believed I could make it happen. My magic could do it.

He must've sensed it because very quickly he uttered, "Praefoco."

The vines slipped from my mouth but a deep pressure squeezed my throat. Whoever held me dropped me like a parasite and my body collapsed to the ground. Forced-out chokes come out, sharp and painful. I blinked as spots began to appear.

He uttered. "Ojalá que tu padre aparezca...cuando estés muerta." (I hope your father shows up...when you're dead.)

Hot tears prick the corners of my eyes. My father's problems should be his, not mine. I did nothing but be born, I wanted to shout but my lungs were cut.