Guns & Roses (WATTYS 2017)

twenty nine - bless & mess

Shit. 

Shit shit shit shit shit shit sh-

"What was that?" Rafael asks, and I can hear the slam of his feet on the ground as he stands up quickly. 

There's a moment of silence, except for the beating of my heart in my ears, blood and fear pumping through me. 

I'm scared to breath. 

I'm terrified that they can hear my racing thoughts. 

"I didn't hear a thing." Luka says through gritted teeth. I can only imagine what the scene above me looks like. Luka's sharp glare at Rafael, daring him to leave the room. 

"Sit down, Rafael." Luka snaps, his voice suddenly turning dark, a tone I've never heard before. So much like his father.

The sound sends shudders down my spine, my body beginning to shake. 

Rafael's feet return to the side of the couch, and it sinks in. He's down. 

I want to exhale in relief, but I don't trust my nose not to be an asshole again. 

"Where were we?" Roman says gruffly, clearing his throat with a thunderous noise. 

"I can't seem to remember." Rafael responds, a hint of idiocy and drunkenness dripping from his tone. 

Just ask the question again, Luka. 

Ask him where my mother is. 

But he doesn't hear my silent plea. 

They begin to ramble on in Spanish, words fly around my head and never find a solid place to land. And I am still stuck, my stomach pressed up against the layer of dust and soot underneath the creaking couch. 

I don't know how much time passes between each laugh, cough, or grunt from each man, the slipping metal sounds of Roman's wheelchair moving to each side of the couch, as if he's pacing. 

But I do not hear Luka's voice more than once. 

Now more than ever I wish I wasn't underneath this vapid structure, that I wasn't helpless, as per usual. 

Luka's suede-covered feet still lie in front of my face, shifting every now and then. 

An idea strikes me as the end of his pants leg lifts up, revealing a small patch of skin. 

I wiggle about for a moment, allowing my right arm to escape from underneath my stomach. I reach my pointer finger towards his ankle, and very gently touch it. 

He jumps slightly, but doesn't make a sound. The conversation around him doesn't stop, so I proceed. 

Using my finger, I slowly trace the letter "A", slightly dragging my nail along the smooth skin of his ankle. 

I wait a moment, then, with the same movements, trace an "S", making the curves deliberate and obvious. 

Finally, a "K". 

ASK. 

He doesn't move, nor does he speak for a long moment. 

Maybe he didn't understand. 

This is ridiculous. 

I stretch my finger out again, ready to start the process over again. 

But then, he speaks. 

"Rafael, Evan, enough of this small talk. Where is the woman?" 

The bubble of speech around us stops, popping sharply.