I am no one, I'm nothing

Capitulo Cinco

Aldonza woke briefly, as if her eyes had been kissed by an angel, the tender skin pressing against hers with the slightest of pressures, the thin, loving moisture alerting her to come back to consciousness. They opened softly, curiously, like a newborn who was seeing the wonders of the world and the miracles of life around them for the first time. She glanced around secretly, taking time to adjust to the lack of light, the thick, penetrating darkness that seemed to absorb sound, create its own futile music of the night. It created madness from promises of love, easing her dwindling fears that the feeling was nothing but smoke and mirrors, madness and lies, insanity at its finest.

She fixed her sleepy, film-infused eyes on Pedro, who was sleeping soundly next to her. He was laid on his back, his arm outstretched underneath her as his hand wrapped around to cup her shoulder, pulling her into his warmth, his aura, his presence. His eyes were smoothly lidded, his indulgent eyebrows framing his features; his mouth hung slightly agape and a discreet bought of snores crept from his figure. He seemed entirely relaxed; for once, Aldonza noticed, he wasn't worried about putting up a front for others. He wasn't the leader, the one who was forced to exert his dominating charisma in order to help them survive, in order to keep him sane. He wasn't the boss, the enemy, the cocky, arrogant one. He was merely Pedro Antonin, the muleteer who, as Aldonza had experienced firsthand, had a gentler side when he was enamored by beauty and personality.

She nudged herself closer to him, bumping her knees into his and tangling their ankles together like an inseparable knot. Aldonza was unable to decipher exactly why he had chosen to be so kind to her. Many men had paid for her services and had been rough, rude, downright mean and disgusting and brutal, as Juan had exemplified the previous evening. Most simply turned the other cheek, pretending with good Christian charity that the crime they had witnessed was simply a business transaction.

It's not like she had a choice, honestly. She was desperately spawned and simply, easily forgotten. The world would remain spinning if she had never born. She had no purpose, and yet was forced to find one, create one so that she could sustain herself, survive. It was not considered living, because to live was to dream that there were situations out there that were better, that were feasible, that were attainable. No one wanted to give that chance to a filthy whore, the bread crumbs in the feast of life that was consumed by the rich and prevalent.

Pedro was the second person to give her a feeling of anything but despair, self-hatred not of herself but of what she was forced to become to mold into her circumstances; Fernando had been the first, when he took her in from the streets during her conviction of adultery with the local Padre. He brought her to the inn, gave her a roof and a meal every day; after she was found innocent, she remained there and had been working ever since, earning a minimal wage and helping the kind old man with whatever she could. Pedro, though...

There was something unique about Pedro Antonin. He possessed a disarming smile and a captivating smirk. He was clothed with armor of languid expressions, a pistol of a smile, a helmet of pride and a bow and arrow of quick-tongued wit. Dominating and learned, Pedro was a natural leader.

He was every bit a man. Aldonza traced a lazy finger across his bicep, tight caramel skin stretched across the muscle. Her eyes licked his chest and abdominals, noticing the tiny, reddened scratches, the distinctive pattern of freckles that lined his left side in random splotches, the valleys and mountains that each individual ab created. She raised her line of vision to his face, and smiled softly at him as he closed his mouth, turned slightly towards her. His grown black longs fell over his eyes until strands were kissing his nose. Aldonza took a weighted minute to memorize his lips, the pink wonders; the bottom was slightly larger than its top counterpart, and stuck out like a dirty pout as he slept through the restless evening. Bringing her hand up to his neck, she pulled herself closer until she was yet again pressed up against him. Still she wondered why, why God had been so lenient with her after years of turmoil and treachery. Would it last? Or was this all a cruel dream? Would the pounding of the innkeeper's fist wake her from this luxurious dream with a cry of morning? Would the cock crow at the crack of dawn, signaling her to start the day's chores? If she were to pinch herself right now, would she wake up, truly arise from her corpse-like existence in this remarkable heaven, to face reality?