My Favorite Camren One-Shots (Part 2)

Immortal Love

Camila’s late abuela—may she rest in peace—always told her to pray. Not only when she needs something from God; only those greedy, ungrateful do that. No, she should always pray; when God gives her blessings, when she’s sad, when she’s scared.

And right now, she isn’t scared. No, she’s petrified.

So, she prays softly under her breath, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

Please, God, I’m sorry that I haven’t prayed to you lately. College have been a pain in the ass—sorry, I mean, college have been kicking my butt and I’ve been really stressed lately, I know that isn’t much of an apology but—

“You’re religious?” a familiar voice says and Camila feels the chills down her spin that has nothing to do with the below average temperature in the room. “You haven’t been this religious since the first time we met.”

She opens her eyes. The room is small and dark, the only source of lights comes from a pair of candles on a table, the soft glow casting shadows across the face of the young woman staring down at her.

Camila swallows thickly and licks across her chapped lips and repeats the same plea of the last many hours.

“Please, let me go,” she begs and tugs helplessly at the ropes biting into the delicate skin of her wrists, “Please.”

The eyes flash and in the candlelight glow, there’s something intimidating in them that has Camila cowering.

“No,” she says, “I’m never letting you go. Ever again.”

Camila takes a shaky breath and closes her eyes once again. She thinks that if she prays hard enough, then perhaps she’ll wake up and discover that this is all a nightmare.

++++

The dark, grey sky outside matches the atmosphere in the shoe-box apartment, it also matches the state of Lauren’s mind.

Her throat feels dry from the screaming, eyes dry and itchy and red from the crying, her knuckles are raw from when she punched a fist through the wall in rage and frustration.

Now Lauren sits on her bed, clutching a small, ragged teddy bear to her chest. It smells like her. She never grew out of cuddling it in bed, Mr. Tiger she calls it affectionately, because she’d gotten it when her family first immigrated to the country and she had yet to grasp the English language, confusing tiger with bear. She always says it makes her feel safe and at peace, soothes the homesickness and gives her hope.

Lauren wonders if she’s feeling homesick now, if she’s got hope, if she’s scared. The thought of her, scared and hopeless somewhere with Lauren helpless to help her is too much to bear. Fresh tears glaze over her eyes and she muffles her sob into mr. tiger’s thin fur.

She glances at the phone lying next to her. It’s silent. It’s been silent for too long. No news. Good or bad. It’s been over 24 hours and Lauren feels like she’s died one hundred times over.

If she strains her ears, she can hear soft voices coming from the kitchen. Murmurs of concern. Soft footsteps approach and Normani appears in the door, worry etched into her face, a plate of curry rice in her hand.

She crawls onto the bed next to her, movements careful as if she’s afraid to startle Lauren.

“Starving yourself isn’t going to help anyone, Laur,” she says and holds the plate of food out for Lauren to take.

Lauren ignores her. She stares blankly at a point in the wall. She can’t eat, even breathing at this point seems like an obstacle she barely overcomes every second.