CAUGHT

TWENTY FIVE

After Raksana left, Antonio cornered Clarina in the kitchen. Lifting her up by the waist and placing her on top of the island. Standing between her spread legs.

"Did she do anything to you?" He asked, looking into her eyes, patient.

"No, she didn't Antonio. We talked."

"About what?"

"Us being friends. We're going to start on a clean sheet." Sounded easy and convincing with words. In truth, she was worried, anxious, and unsure if they could be normal friends.

He held her gaze for a moment.

"Is that what you want?"

"She's your sister Antonio. Your blood. I'll make  an effort."

He frowned " I don't want you tolerating her in the name of us sharing blood. I love my baby sister, however, I know her well enough to spot her shit."

It didn't help her frantic mind to hear Antonio speak that way about Raksana. His words sounded like a warning and confirmation that maybe Raksana had something up her sleeves.

" I already agreed to make friends with her Antonio."

It was silent for a few  seconds. His eyes were unreadable.

"Is that what you want Clarina?" He asked again.

Hating the fact that she was  now second-guessing herself. Unsure, and doubtful, those feelings now mercilessly nipped  at her.

Was it what she wanted?

She had made friends  of sorts with  his brothers. The Twins had won her over with their charm, unapologetic words, and the light way they carried themselves.  Marcelo's words usually crossed her mind at random moments whenever she spoke to the twins.

"Because they haven't shown their  side of 'cruelty'?"

The twins  vividly let her know where their mind was when it came to dark thoughts. Back when  she had applied for the jobs, they told her to inform them of  whoever gave her a hard time.

She didn't bite into their offer. Especially after one night of them sending her pictures of dead people. Some burnt because of the acid that was poured on  them, and the body disintegrated. Others bones sticking out, and one's neck was sliced open. Clarina couldn't sleep that evening.

The not-so-funny thing was, they were asking her if the pictures could pass for dark art. It went on the second day when she ended up calling them over the phone   on their   group chat of three  and offered to pray for and with them. She had sincerely been that disturbed and bothered and knew in all her world views that God could maybe be the only thing that would help them or turn it a tone down. A tone down because everyone did have sickening thoughts that they harboured, the difference carried between those that went the extra mile to tame them from being reenacted and becoming a reality.

Thankfully, they didn't do it again. Instead,  their texts and calls  become their primary way of enlightening her about their killings and death. No more media. It was now verbal and it was to their lack it seemed because she had an avidly active imagination. This was done at a minimum though after they realised the effect and strain to keep on with conversation concerning the topic.

Marcelo and her held conversations. No, she wasn't over that  kick when they had met. But she got to see the way he  reasoned at times. If he was playing nice and you reciprocated with the opposite, he'd play the opposite as well  ten times back. They didn't talk as often. It took time, but they got there. He never apologized for the kick and she dropped it, hopefully, well at least that's what she chose to believe bearing the fact that the two of them were never in the same presence as often. Less than a handful actually. And based on  experience from a Rodriguez whom she saw and lived with, she knew Marcelo never would. It was justifiable in his eyes.