The Forgotten...? ••• 𝐂.𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐥

(26) 𝐍o time.

Narrator's POV:

"We need to leave. Now!" Señora Abuela screeched. Fingers tightening around the candle, she dashed to her room as everyone stood, moulded to the ground in fear. When the elder heard no movement only ragged, uneven breathes she twitched involuntarily before she spoke up.
"Everyone! Pack now, the essentials. Time is not on our side, we must hurry." She urged, she held her hand in front of the fire that burned at the wick of the candle, protecting it from the wind as she ran up the stairs.

It took a few seconds to fully comprehend the gravity and seriousness of the situation at hand but when something smashed and clattered to the ground, the herded group scattered. A few dashing to the rooms on the lower floor whilst others ran up the staircase. Mirabel and Dolores were two of the many that did fly up the stairs, everyone going to separate rooms.

Mirabel had her possessions but not many of them held much sentiment or importance to survive outside of her town. And that's when she half realised, she was leaving the confines of her home—again— but this time she would be going much farther than just the river outside of the mountains of Encanto. She would be leaving. Probably for good. She could feel the coils wrapping around her throat it was as if she had a large bubble in her throat, she felt the crushing sense in her chest and she clutched her shirt with such ferocity the girl feared it would tear.

Hearing the multiple clatters of objects and furniture, she tried to pull her mind away from the harsh truth and somewhat vowed she would come back to that sadness when she had time. Not because she was a perfectionist—because she wasn't— but because she knew that it would come back, the feeling, the thought. Even if she pushed it away and kept pushing, it would come back. It was something she hadn't come to terms with yet, the inevitable future, the past that could always—and mostly, always did—resurface.

Roughly smushing her hands to her face, wiping away the damp, only smearing her tears as she did so, not eliminating them from view as she looked at her reflection. In a framed photo's reflection. It's as if her brain snapped back into the right mindset again, fear and panic, controlling her every move, which somehow came in handy. Mirabel didn't mean to rip the nail out of the wall when she took the framed photo, she apologized to Casita as she felt the floor bored rumble slightly. It was almost in humour inducing sense but the sombre, frightful mood that settled over Mirabel was steering her head away from anything besides the time limit they had. Venturing around the room she continued to yank draws open and throw clothes and essentials, or in truth— sentimental objects and trinkets she had gathered over the years—in one of two bags, she had found lying around.

She heard her má swing the door open, which in all honesty she didn't know was closed, and with Julieta's frantic gaze settled on Mirabel, the young 17-year-old knew it was time to leave.

"Mirabel! Mira—ah, Hunny we have to leave now. Come on, come on." Her mother rushed, grabbing the girl's forearm and dragging her to the doorway of her room. One she might not see again, even though it was stupid, she couldn't help but feel so distressed about leaving. Her town, her home, Casita, her people. Her entire life had centred around this town, its people and the miracle candle. If she were to leave she would be free of all those burdens but at what cost?

As everyone came and merged into a huddle in the centre of Casita, they dropped some belongings and necessities, some by accident and to let them out of their hands so they can shove them into bags and satchels they found. The banging at the door, the window, and walls were blocked out, nothing more than white noise to the family now as they received the harsh blows of anxiety when sudden quietness settled. Even though the relentless noise outside was terrifying for everyone within the home, it indicated where the attackers were and that gave the Madrigals some sort of advantage, some odd sense of relief.