fail by design

disappearing and consequences

The earliest memory Camilo recalled came in flashes. There was a book, gold accents covering the front. Glimpses of messy children's drawings and a soft voice always came to mind.

He no longer owned such a book. Despite this, he knew exactly what memory it was, and where the book was located. It was hidden deep in Abuela's closet, in a chest, locked with a key, the title reading "Camilo the Chameleon's Tales".

______

The book wasn't allowed to be viewed. Anything relating to his father wasn't to be spoken of.

______

Memories came in hazy fog: curling into a green fabric, dark eyes softening with every sound that spilled from his child form. They transformed into a man, messy hair, and a tired, yet content face.

It was filled with Abuela telling him to "go outside, connect with the village children" when he had no interest in doing so. What was wrong with staying inside with his familia, away from questions asking "who even is your dad?" and being told to stay quiet about the subject.

It was dealing with a snide comment from said abuela when his father gifted him a ruana exactly like his own, chameleon's replacing hourglasses. Then years later, being gifted a similar fabric, only a different shade. "An appropriate shade."

It was his father watching from the sidelines at the age of five, making his way up to a sacred candle, touching a door, flooded with the sensation of belonging, but still not being able to interact with his own family "Until all the guests are gone, Camilo. You don't want to be seen as a rude host now, would you?"

It was overhearing a conversation between his Abuela and the candle late at night, hearing, "We'll find a use for his gift. He won't be as useless as his father." He wasn't useless. His father wasn't useless. He was only five. How could a child be useless?

It was running his finger across worn stitching for the next ten years, on a green ruana with chameleons, reading,

" Bruno y Camilo"

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Bruno's disappearance was met with surprise, horror, and a solution. In that exact order. No longer was it papá , it was now being scolded if he didn't refer to his tío properly. It was barely being given enough time to process through the fact that his father was gone, he was never coming back.

He was told to now refer to Tía Pepa as "mamá", and Tío Felix as "papá", Dolores was now his "hermana''. And five years later, it would be calling little Antonio as "hermano".

It took him less than two years to figure out that he had to play along, unless he risked being punished. Before, he could enter Tío Bruno's tower with ease, and no one would stop him. He had the realization a week before the incident. The incident involved him sneaking across the top floor, and running into Mamá on his way.

"Where are you going, cariño?" Judging from the tense look she shot at Tío's door, Camilo knew he only had one chance to get out of this. And so he played dumb.

"Mamá! Mamá, who's door is that?" and with a look of confusion, he pointed towards the door he once visited every day.

Mamá sighed a breath of relief, before her look darkened.

"We do not talk about Bruno."

And so it began.

The room was boarded up the next day.

Camilo stopped trying.

Camilo bore this sudden weight the way he always did. He pretended not to notice suspicious glances thrown his way by the adults, called his new family by their proper names, and moved on. He was an actor; he could do this.

That didn't change the fact that at the end of the day, he'd break down though.

He'd make his way through the auditorium that contained his bedroom, trying not to be too loud despite how the silence echoed louder than noise.

The wings were filled with prop boxes, costumes, and half-written scripts. It was here, where he'd stand center stage, before giant mirrors descended onto the apron, leaving a small boy to stare at his reflection. It was here, where he would take out his notes that he took throughout the day, and imitate the village people in hopes of making someone happy.

But it would always end the same way.

He'd grow tired, make his way downstage closer to the mirrors, before sitting down and transforming one more time. Brown eyes, tired face, shaggy hair. The gold ruana and chameleons would turn green and be replaced with hourglasses. It was here, where he'd try to imitate a voice he barely remembered.

With tears running down his face, he'd speak the last sentence he remembered hearing. "Buenas noches, mi camaleón. Te amo."

The nightmares began when he was seven.

He was hungry. It was way past his bedtime, and he knew he'd have to be quiet to make it to the kitchen without Dolores hearing him. He'd studied every creak of the stairs and tiles until he finally dared to try.

He would end up successful, before screeching to a halt when he hit the kitchen. Bathed in an eerie green light, a monstrous figure made its way across Casita's floors, grabbing whatever food it could reach.

He could make out faint details: Long matted hair. Hunched back. Rats. So many rats. One stood upon the figure's head.

He made the mistake of taking a step back.

The figure spun around, and the last thing he remembered was glowing green eyes, and his name being called before darkness enveloped him.

He didn't speak of the event. Not necessarily because it terrified him that much (it did but that wasn't the point), it was the fact that the facial features reminded him too much of someone he remembered.

The first time he shifted into that form, he cried for hours.

He couldn't unsee his father as a monster that would terrorize his dreams.

As he grew older, he was able to shift between forms faster and faster. Now at eleven, he spent the next few years having a conversation between his forms every night. As Camilo, he would excitedly recount every moment of happiness before shifting into Normal-Bruno and would respond in likeness (it didn't help when he ended, that the silence seemed louder than normal).

Despite the unspoken "We Don't Talk About Bruno" rule, Camilo never failed to sneak downstairs in the middle of the night, lighting a candle for Bruno's birthday every year.

He never said tío. He didn't say papá either.

That was his life. He was content.

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All until Mirabel.