Isabela chatters with Carmen Garcia as she helps her make a floral arrangement for her wife.
Donkeys bray in resignation as Luisa grunts, hefting them onto her shoulders for the hundredth time.
A baby cries shrilly over nothing at all.
Dolores winces as she adjusts her headband to cover her ears, grateful for its red color. It doesn't do much to stop the sounds, though, but then she supposes she can't expect much from a strip of cloth when pitted against her gift.
There's only one thing that does stop the sounds, and she's heading towards it now, no matter how much trouble she's going to be in later. And it will be a lot of trouble, no mistaking that.
Dolores is the family's warning system for when they're needed, and by whom. Taking time off like this, in the middle of the day when there's work to be done and people to help - they're going to notice. And Abuela is not going to be pleased.
But she'd hardly be a lot of help as she is right now. She needs to -
Needs -
She cries out softly, a squeak of displeasure, as a boy screams in victory over some hard-won game.
The sound pierces her aching ears and makes her head spin.
To her surprise, she lands on something soft instead of the floor. Blearily, Dolores registers Casita shifting the couch to a spot in one of the quiet corners of the house. Then, anticipating what she needs before she even knows she does, the house rattles over a waste bin.
Dolores is confused for only a moment before she's hurling her guts out into the bucket.
It's ages before she stops heaving, and even then she's trembling and dazed. Casita nudges a glass of water at her and she takes it, downing it in one go and then pressing the still-cool surface against her throbbing forehead.
Camilo is cackling, shapeshifting into Tio Augustín as he distracts some bees from the real Tío Augustín.
Mariano Guzman is reciting some of his romantic poetry to himself.
The baby is crying even louder.
Mirabel is singing about their family to the village children again.
The last one makes Dolores smile. The children have been asking for that song more and more lately, what with Antonio's gift ceremony happening tomorrow, and Mirabel, the sweetheart that she is, always obliges.
The gift ceremony. The one that's tomorrow. The one where her little brother gets his gift.
She wonders if it's wrong to pray he ends up gift less like Mirabel.
She's no fool. Dolores knows Mirabel hasn't got it easy, but honestly, she'd rather Antonio be left out than have a gift like this.
On a logical level, Dolores knows it's wrong to think that, that it's incredibly ungrateful, the way she feels about her gift. Her gift has helped the family so many times - the time Luisa got lost returning from donkey duty, the time Camilo was stuck in a ditch because he was too preoccupied with his theatrics to look where he was going, every time someone's needed comforting. It's helped the villagers so many times, more than she can count, it does every single day.
She also knows she's not alone in having problems with her gifts. She knows her Mama struggles with her emotions, that Camilo has problems with permanence, that Luisa is always waiting to crack.
But all this knowledge doesn't change her feelings. It doesn't change the bitterness she feels at being labeled the town gossip ever since she got her gift as if she can control what she hears and what others say. Doesn't change her annoyance every time someone glares at her sideways, wary of being listened in on. Doesn't change the times this happens.
Which reminds her.
Dolores stands on unsteady feet, a handheld out to brace herself as the backdrop of noise intensifies with her consciousness. She could try to focus on one sound, latch onto it like an anchor, but she doesn't have the strength to do it. She never can when she's like this. Her mind is scattered, surely breaking down, and she can't -
She just can't.
She needs to get to her room.
Later, doesn't quite know how she does it. For all she knows, she didn't; maybe Casita just took pity on her and shuffled the floor tiles and stairs to get her there.
But right now she's standing in front of her door, and relief washes over her. She sighs, before listening for one last time, to make sure nobody needs her right away.
The priest is asking Isabela if there's any plant that helps with hair growth.
The baby's been placated and is now babbling happily.
Tio Bruno just put a character in a coma in his latest telenovela.
Ah. That had been her favorite character. Shame.
Tio Bruno is, hands down, Dolores's best-kept secret. Her mind is usually brimming with too much - too many threads from people's lives, too much knowledge, just too many things that need to be let out, so they stop cluttering her thoughts - that she hardly even realizes when they've made it out her mouth.
But she's kept Tio Bruno's secret. It's her biggest accomplishment, and nobody's ever going to know.
When she was younger, new to the sudden responsibility of her job, she'd fantasized about escaping and living in the walls with her favorite Tio. She'd given up on that when she realized it wouldn't make her stop hearing everything.
Satisfied that everyone's fine, Dolores finally stumbles into her room with a groan. Her ears sting, wetness dribbles down her neck, and her hands shake as she closes the door as quietly as she can.
Finally.
She almost collapses onto the bed, soaking in the reprieve from everything. Despite this being her room, she's rarely allowed to be here, needing to keep an ear out all the time.
Her room is a soundproof cave, with wide stone arches, luxurious furniture, and a friendly echo.
Dolores likes the echo. It means there's no sound here other than what she chooses to make.
Her hands have stopped shaking so much by the time she gets up and walks over to the counter in the corner of her room. There's a basin of water waiting for her, one that's always magically refilled on days like these, and bandages and ointment sit next to it.
Dolores gingerly takes off her headband and turns her head to survey the damage in the mirror.
The soft skin around her ears is ripped and bleeding from where her nails dug into it in vain, instinctual attempts to block out the sounds. Apart from the trickles of blood running out of them, her ears themselves look fine.
Dolores shrugs with a small squeak.
Not too bad, then.
She sets to work cleaning and dressing her wounds almost mechanically, her mind numbed at last.
She knows from experience, the scratches around her ears are going to scar. That's okay. Her headband is good for covering those. She's not worried.
She's not worried about healing properly, either. When she feels better, she can go downstairs and grab one of Tia Julieta's empanadas.
She should probably be more worried about the scolding Abuela's going to give her for vanishing, but she can't bring herself to care.
The room echoes her movements back to her, and Dolores squeaks, unhurried.
