fight for me

two: batman

marcel.

four weeks.

it's been four weeks.

it's been four weeks since the world became unrecognizable.

my dad was dead, i didn't recognize my family and micheal, my fighting manager, was pissed at me for not showing up for training.

i didn't tell him what happened. i didn't tell anyone. with being in heat for not showing up for fighting, missing school, and maria not coming out of her room unless for food, usually at 3 in the morning,

shit's been hard. really fucking hard.

so to get everyone off my back, and make sure i don't graduate and get grey hairs at the same time, i've decided to go back to school. because, unlike my mama and hermana, I don't grieve. i don't dwell.

it wastes time.

when my parents told Maria and me that we were moving from México to the states, i dudnt grieve. even if everyone here thinks i'm either a drug dealer, illegal or somehow related to fucking "Maluma" or "Daddy Yankee".

I sat with my loud thoughts in my bedroom placed in the attic. a single fading lamp faintly shining the room, a double sized bed in the middle of the small-sized floor, facing a blank wall with a door attached to the old hardwood floors to get out.

my low, black bed frame standing against my one big and run-down bay window, which gave me more natural light from the moon as I read my alarm clock.

2:54 am.

i had to wake up in less the 4 hours. who needs sleep anyway?

as soon as i suddenly felt my eyes quietly droop, i hear a faint click of a door closing from beneath me. my eyes shoot open.

maria.

i haven't seen maria in a week, i've been too scared to reach out. what do i even say?

"Hey, Maria, I had a dream we came back from a fantastic fight and then we pulled up to our house to see our dear papa dead with a gunshot to his head...oh wait-"

i slowly creep out of my bed and open my floor-door a bit to see maria fixing herself a bowl of cereal. she sits down on one of our run-down barstools.

as she starts to indulge in her fruit loops mixed with honey nut cheerios, (my mom usually mixes them once we're low on both) i try to get closer to the door and slip out so i can finally talk to my best friend,

but just as I'm about to slip my foot out,

the door creaks. and I mean CREAKS. imagine if a hyena-kettle hybrid yawned.

that's exactly what it sounded like.

as soon as my floor-door decided to perform a full-length show of what notes to sing to break glass, maria whips her long wavy curls at me with wide eyes before quickly grabbing her cereal and blanket she has draped over her shoulder and runs back to her room, dripping milk as she runs.

i quickly jump out of my room, neglecting the ladder my dad had built for me there, to catch her right before the door closes. She still closes up just in time.

"Maria. Maria, please come back out." I knock.

no answer.

"Maria, please," I say again, softer.

silence.

I slide down the door in defeat.

I hesitate to say anything. I'm never good at this talking thing. I'm an introvert, everywhere really. other than fighting, or with my friends, who get me, my social skills aren't only lacking but non-existent, someone asked me where McDonald's was last week, and I said: "No sorry not interested."