1993

“This is a bad idea,” Gaspar mumbled for maybe the millionth time as he flashed the flashlight into the darkness of the abandoned orphanage, the starless night a weighing canopy of dread above them. He heard Casparo’s boisterous laugh from behind him, his sixteen-year-dol twin brother approaching him from the darkness with the flashlight shining in his face. 
“What’s the matter? Afriad little Annie’s gonna appear and drag you to the fiery depths of hell?” He made a ghost-like noise and Gaspar rolled his eyes, backing away and glaring at his brother. 
“I’m _afraid _that the cops will get called on us by the locals, or we’ll do some damage, or some damaged stuff and will hurt us. Ghosts aren’t real, Sparo,” Gaspar mumbled indignantly and crossed his arms, shining the light at the secret passageway Caspar had found. 
Casapro laughed again, his dark brown eyes sparkling against his dark bronze skin and curly black-brown hair. They looked identical, except for a few facts; Casparo had a cleanly cut scar across his eyebrow (He told everyone he got it from wrestling a bear. He had just angered their grandmother’s ornery cat and got that nice little reminder of how annoying he can be), and he grew out his hair. Gaspar preferred to keep his hair straight and short and he didn’t have any scars—well, except for one minor thing: his right eyebrow was slightly lopsided compared to his left one because of an experiment involving pyrotechnics gone wrong. “Ay, you worry too much, _hermano_.”
“Don’t even try to pretend to know a lick of Spanish,” Gaspar snapped and rolled his eyes. While Casparo decided that it wasn’t something he needed to know as a kid, Gaspar knew that it was scientifically proven that knowing multiple languages helped your brain grow and stay healthy in old age. 
Casparo scoffed and ventured into the dark passageway. “Relax, Mamá may or may not have convinced me to actually learn some of the language recently. I’m tired of you and our parents talking behind my back in the dumb language.” 
Gaspar scowled and hesitated. The abandoned orphanage existed until it lost its funding in the 30’s, and now just sat around, slowly deteriorating as the years wore on. It was a large property, with white fences surrounding it, though the fences were either perfectly standing and good to go for another decade or completely collapsed; either way, they were surrounded by overgrown tall grass. It was like a sea of grass, filled of hidden surprises. Off to the side was a pathetic playground with two rusted swings, a disgusting looking sandbox filled with random crap, and a metal, weak slide next to the swings. Yet the building itself was tall, roughly three stories not counting the potential attic, and made of brick with windows evenly spaced out, however, many of the windows were either completely covered in dirt and impossible to look through, or shattered, the remnants of glass scattered around in the grass as one of the many surprises. There was double doors as the very front and center of the building, however, those were bolted. It was impossible to get in. 
But two nights ago, his older brother by seven minutes discovered something interesting while trespassing (“Out of curiosity!” He liked to claim. The selfish prick was probably trying to see if there was any treasure fo him to steal.) and had dragged Gaspar along with him to explore. 
In the back was a small shed attached to the building and the door had been torn off, which revealed a deeserted, dusty shed that probably held maintence and gardening tools. But now in the small area, all that lied was a second entrance into the orphanage. 
And his brother had just ventured into the darkness, his flashlight illuminating the dust flying around. 
Gaspar hesitated. 
He didn’t want to be called a chicken. He wasn’t chicken. People who called people chickens for not doing stuff were the chickens. 
But he didn’t want his brother to be alone if he got hurt or some crap. 
Gaspar sighed and followed inside, following his brother’s loud footsteps. This was stupid. But at least he could get hi brother out of there if he got himself hurt. “I swear, it’s like you_ want _to get arrested,” he grumbled and followed loosely behind, catching a glimpse of Casparo’s new, brown leather jacket. Their mother had gotten it for him a month ago. A week after the accident, as if that would help them forget.
“What can I say? I’ll have plenty of stories to tell my kids one day,” his brother crooned. “And you’ll be a childless workaholic virgin who never makes a legacy.” 
Gaspar rolled his eyes, flashing the flashlight abruptly in his brother’s eyes to catch him off guard. “Shut up. Unlike _you _I’m waiting for the right person.” 
“Yeah. . . . You totally aren’t just too shy to ask someone out,” Casparo muttered, smirking arrogantly. 
“Calláte.” 
The abandoned orphanage was everything one would expect it to be; lightless, empty, large, and deserted with dust everywhere. There were swinging doors with creaky hinges, the floor was dusty and slightly muddy from years of people not cleaning it and tear and wear. It was . . . Haunting. 
Gaspar frowned, hanging behind Casparo closer than he would like to admit. “Is your curiosity satisfied yet?” He grumbled, flinching at the sound of an owl hooting in the night and he tried to swallow back a whimper. 
Casparo snorted. “Don’t tell me you’re done yet,” he teased him, spotting one ajar door. “Hey, that one is open all the way . . .” 
Gaspar tensed, and giving up on keeping his pride, he latched onto Casparo’s shoulders. “We should get out of here.” 
Casparo rolled his eyes, crying out. “Are you kidding me? I’m just getting started, _hermanito_.” His smirk grew and without hesitation and bolted into the room, dragging a squeaky Gaspar with him. 
It was a long, strange room with rows of metal, rusty beds without their covers or mattresses. The windows were either cracked, dirty, or shattered and glass littered the floor along with some dust bunnies. Creepiest of it all, little baby dolls were propped up on some of the beds, their fake hair messy and dirty, their clothes gone, adn their plastic limbs covered in dirt, and their soulless eyes staring into space. 
Gaspar instantly got a bad vibe the moment they got a good look at the room. 
His brother, however, did not have that intuition. “Woah, dude, this is epic.” He grinned. “Must have been where little orphan Annie and her little friends lived in.”
Gaspar tugged on Casparo’s sleeve, whispering pleadingly. “Can we go? Can we please just go? I don’t like this . . .” 
Casparo rolled his eyes again and stepped forwards into the room with no regards for his safety. “Bah, you’re being ridiculous. Or are you a little chicken?” He mused mockingly, titling his head challengingly at Gaspar. 
Gaspar’s face burned red with embarrassment and he swallowed back his pride. “Sparo, please, can we just leave—?” 
Casparo turned to face Gaspar, already staring a tirade. “Oh, come on, you’re being a scaredy cat. It’s _just _an abandoned orphanage. Stop being so—. . .” The color drained from his brother’s face. 
Gaspar’s heart dropped. He whirled around, only to see a maybe fifteen foot tall creature with mangy hair, puppeteer like limbs and soulless white eyes staring at them. 
For a split moment, Gaspar’s soul must have left his body. 
He let out a scream and grabbed Casparo’s harshly, acting on pure instinct as he sprinted underneath the creature’s abdomen and tried to make it to the door, hearing his own brother let out a short lived shriek. 
This had been a bad idea, this had been a bad idea, this had been a—
No time to dwell on that. Holding his brother’s hand tighter, he heard the creature make a horrible gurgling noise nad clicking footsteps walking after them, like when their mother wore heels. He was trying his best to navigate the dark place and tightened his grip once again, not caring if his brother hit something. Just as long as they got the hell out of there.
He bolted out of the wya they came in from, hearing his brother grunt and they ran. 
He didn’t know how long they had been running for, not that he cared to know. He just wanted to get away. At some point, they saw a house in the distance and managed to get inside. The elderly couple helped them and called their parents but . . . They gave them some weird looks. Especially when they were telling their story (Even then, his brother Casparo, who would’ve have just at the chance to exaggerate and be praised, was deathly silent). 
. . . The elderly couple told them that no one had seen anything like that before. 
The creature had vanished. And their parents had a hell of a lot to explain.

She was supposed to have a future. She was supposed to have a choice. She was supposed to be able to enjoy her life to the fullest she could. She was supposed to be able to live life the way she wanted to live. She was supposed to be free like the birds she saw soaring up high in the heavens. But she didn’t have that option anymore. She had to be rational now. She had to listen to her father now. She wasn’t free anymore. She should’ve enjoyed her freedom. She shouldn’t have poked her nose in places where it didn’t belong. She shouldn’t have let her brothers investigate. She shouldn’t have helped them. Maybe then, she would still have her freedom. Her mother’s garden was a place of solace in the hours of the night, the sparkling canvas of stars shining down on her with the crescent moon slowly vanishing with every moment, soon to tear the night of whatever decent light it had. The blades of grass were so carefully mowed and tended to, and rocks made perfectly shaped areas for vibrant, bright flowers to thrive. Her mother always treated the blossoms with such care. Leira was starting to think it was one of the few things that provided her mother any peace. She sighed, burying her face in her hands. She could still hear Khalil and their father arguing inside—once again, about the questionable morals in their family’s history and business. Khalil didn’t seem to understand that this was their history. History couldn’t be erased, no matter how badly you wanted it to be. The arguing would never stop, that, she was sure of. Khalil and their father were both too stubborn to admit defeat, unless they weren’t given a choice. She sighed, lowering her head into her hands and trying not to break down into tears. She needed to get ahold of herself, but how? She could drop her friends, but they would find that suspicious. She could drop out of college, but that was being paid for by her father so he would be mad. She could do this, or that, or maybe even that, but she wouldn’t do any of it because she was a weak-willed coward who didn’t know the best option to make life more bearable. With a heavy sigh, she slumped back against the bench, a few trees in the corners of their yard reaching out across her view of the sky, preventing her view of the stars. She heard the faint sound of an owl hooting and her eyes snapped over to the creature perched in one of the trees, it’s yellow, wide, and intelligent eyes boring into hers as it ruffled its feathers. Seh froze. She had rarely seen owls. The creatures tended to stay away from towns. And people in general. It was a gorgeous creature, she had to admit. It’s feathers were. Soft brown with specks of beige and darker brown along its window, a lighter brown underbellyy and sharply, yellow talons digging into her branch it was perched on. The owl tilted its head quizzically, curiosity in its eyes. She sighed. “So you’re why people say I have owlish eyes,” Leira grumbled. The owl hooted back indignantly. “Are you even that smart? You have a small head, so you can’t be that smart.” The owl make a scoffing motion, appearing insulted. “I’m smarter than you. Much smarter than you,” she couldn’t stop talking, her eyes landing on the owl’s wings. Then it hit her. “But you have freedom, don’t you?” She realized and softened her tone, clenching her fists. The owl hooted again, a bit more like a chirping sound as it spread its elegant wings and spared her one last glance; then it took off into the night. Leira exhaled shakily, standing up. She didn’t want to be here anymore. She didn’t want to be reminded of what she couldn’t have.

August stared at the sight in disbelief. Piles of sand filled the former home, and the walls were dirty and washed out. What used to be a comely, large, and extravagant mansion was reduced to only a fraction of its former glory. August inhaled sharply and turned her gaze back to Dawn’s icy blue eyes—almost purple. “_This _is where my ancestors used to live?” She asked, unable to hide the scowl forming on her face. Dawn shrugged elegantly, stepping into the ruined property. The garden was dead, all of the plants having been neglected and those that survived were overgrown and hideous. The door was torn off the hinges, and the windows’ glass was cracked and shattered, some of the shards scatted along the sand. It was a large. It was a husk of what it used to be. “To be fair, it has been five hundred years, August,” Dawn murmured softly, tucking a strand of her ash-blonde hair behind her ear with a frown stretching along her almost elven features. August shook her head, crossing her arms stiffly. “I know, but _still. _Five hundred years wouldn’t break down doors and windows!” She exclaimed. The destruction was even stranger than the fact this property was in some sort of smaller dimension that was a moderately large desert oasis for her family to reside in at first. Until they went against the Guild. She slowly rolled her mind around, ogling the disastrous, almost apocalyptic scene. “Five hundred years might not but . . .” Dawn trailed off, for once, she was hesitating to speak the truth. “But what?” August demanded the older girl. Dawn sighed, averting her gaze. “After the Guild defeated the Mohaves, they ransacked their property for evidence, and people that could have been involved before the trials happened.” Once again, the sickening twist in her stomach seemed to tearing apart her insides by squeezing them and then yanking at them with ferocity. “What of the children?” Dawn frowned. “If they were old enough, they would be sent with the family once they were exiled. If not . . .” “What happened to the children, Dawn?” “. . . The younger ones were put into some of the other families of the guild. Their true heritage forgotten.” August should have expected the collected, calm tone Dawn had, but every time he heard it, she felt the same gut wrenching despair whenever it was something so devastating. She couldn’t help but whisper, “What was wrong with them?” Dawn sighed softly. “The Caldwells wanted the Mohaves punished, but the Tremblay and Takahashi families wanted to be a bit more lenient.” August suddenly felt extremely glad that whatever ancestor she had that led to her birth eventually . . . That she wasn’t the descendant of one of the children who were torn away from their families. August let out a soft chuckle, unable to help herself. “Wow.” “Wow is one way to put it.” “I have another way to put it.” Dawn raised a cautious eyebrow. “. . . I’m unsure on whether I should trust that.” August forced a light-hearted grin. “Damn my idiotic ancestors.” “And that’s why I didn’t want to ask.”

1997

He was told to leave the hospital room after he passed out seeing the crowning. So he left, with Hesperia’s permission and encouraginement. The sight still made him feel sick—and that was coming from someone who had seen too much bloodshed in his dad’s organization. 
He kept pacing along the floor, panicked, anxious thoughts running through his head. He was going to be a dad. He was hardly even twenty-two and he was going to be a dad. Damn. He had beat his own father’s record of having him and his brother at twenty-four. 
But it was a human child. How was he supposed to take care of a human _child? _An infant that couldn’t fend for themselves, who could only cry and cry when they needed something? How was he going to raise that child into a well adjusted adult? He winced when he heard the cries coming from the delivery room. He was trying to remind himself that she was in good hands. She had told him to leave. But he should be there for her. He was supposed to be there for Hesperia. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the pain she must be in. 
With a hard swallow, he kept pacing up and down the hallway, the sanitized scent stinging his nostrils. How was he going to be a dad when he was hardly even an adult himself? He wasn’t even technically with Hesperia—ugh. He hated situationships. Especially situaitonships where you had a child with the person. What was it even at that point? Was it normal? 
No, it couldn’t possibly be normal. 
His feet stepped along the tiled floor, the faint buzzing of the AC filling his ears. The lights against the white walls were blinding and he could barely keep his eyes open without feeling dizzy. Everything was too overwhelming. Being a dad was going to be overwhelming. But he had to step up. Or else he would be a bad person. He couldn’t let Hesperia and their child go through life alone when he could be there to help. 
Gaspar kept pacing, and pacing, and pacing. As if that could erase all of his fears and worries it he knew it couldn’t. 
Then it happened. 
“Mr. Madrazo?” 
Gaspar had a knee jerk reaction and whirled his head around to the door where a nurse wearing a mask was standing. He heard it; the crying and wailing of a little baby. His eyes widened. They were here. The nurse removed their mask and smiled proudly at him. “It’s a boy!” 
A boy. He was in charge of taking care of a little boy. He hadn’t even heard the crying, so wrapped up in his worries. 
Without thinking for once, he ran past the nurse, shoving her aside—rather rudely, he knew, he apologized for it late in which she just laughed and said it was fine—and in an instance, all of the worries were gone. 
Hesperia was lying in bed, her strawberry blonde hair spread along the pillows and her amber eyes were exhausted and weary. But there was a smile on her face. She was holding a small swaddled up bundle with a wisp of hair on top of his hair and a crying sound. 
All of the worries vanished when she whispered. “Do you want to hold him?” 
He was going to be the best dad he could. Bette than any other father in the world.

1965 . . .

“Take your shot, Mohave. You’ll only get one.” Agustin rolled his eyes at Rodriguez’s repetitive instructions. He had multiple shots at this point. “Again?” His voice was tinged with exhaustion, and he was trying his best not to let his arms fall down because of how sore they were. He was done with this. When was he going to fight someone? He wasn’t going to be defending himself from punching bags in the future. Carlos Rodriguez’s crossed arms tightened and his honey-brown eyes narrowed. “Yes, again.” Ever since his brother tried to expose his father’s business a few months ago, Agustin was put through the training. Well, he and Leira both were, but Leira’s was super boring. He had expected to get self defense lessons sooner because of the creature, but his mother prevented it. Helicopter mom, much? He thought with an internal scoff. “I’ve gotten multiple shots so far, Rodriguez,” he retorted, swinging his maybe five millionth punch at the punching bag, the sting of the material sliding against his fist in a familiar way. But something about the punch was off. It felt weak. The punching bag hardly moved at the force. Agustin scowled at that, disappointment crumpling up his heart. Why wasn’t he getting it yet? He had been at this for months! He should be getting this by now. The thirteen-year-old let out a loud cry of frustration and backed away from the punching bag. He had dark bronze skin, dark brown, curly hair, a long nose, with a mole on the side of his nose. He was lean, taller than his older sister already, and maybe he was too cocky for his own good. Sweat rolled down his arms despite the air conditioned room, dripping through his white tank top. Rodriguez’s eyes narrowed even more. “You won’t get more than one chance in the real world.” Agustin pouted, pulling away to face the tall, lean man with a more sinewy build. Despite his slim form, he had been in two wars. That is, so far. His instructor had darker skin than even Agustin, with a few white scars crisscrossed along his neck, straight, dark, dark brown hair that was closely cut. He was in his normal camouflage pants, white t-shirt, and combat boots. “When are you going to let me _actually _fight someone? This punching bag isn’t doing it for me.” Carlos rolled his eyes, sighing in exasperation. “Agustin, for the last time, when I think you are ready. _Ready. _You are not ready. You can’t even punch correctly.” “I so am! I’ve been doing this for months!” Agustin protested vehemently, sniffing arrogantly as he crossed his arms. “It’s just this stupid punching bag that is hindering my abilities, not . . . Not me.” “You’ll be considered ready when I say so and when your father agrees,” Rodriguez repeated firmly. “Now, add more power into the punch. Channel it all so it leaves a mark and the opponent dazed.” “What about what I think?” Silence stretched on with Rodriguez just staring at him in disbelief. Suddenly, a burst of laughter escaped his normally stoic instructor. Agustin blinked, feeling a sense of being laughed at—oh, God no. “Hey, what’s so funny?” He huffed, furrowing his brow in confusion. Rodriguez managed to swallow back his laughter, surprise in his own eyes as he tried to collect himself. “My apologies, I just . . . I cannot believe you thought _you _also has a say in this.” “. . .” “THAT IS NOT FUNNY!” Agustin cried out in offense, growling as he swung a fist at the punching bag once more, his eyes widening when he saw it swing backwards from the sheer force of it. That had never happened before. His jaw dropped for a brief moment before he collected himself enough to let out a whoop. “Holy shit. I did it.” “No cussing.” Agustin only grinned wider, his eyes sparkling in delight. “I did it. I DID IT!” He cried out louder, jumping back with renewed vigor and energy. “I gotta tell Dad. I’ll be back!” He said in a flurry of quickness, bolting off out the door of the training room through the hotel his father owned. He heard Rodriguez chuckle slightly from behind him, but he didn’t see the look of pride. He didn’t even realize his mother was at the establishment. Or that she was originally looking for him. Four years later he would find out the truth.

_1968 _

In his reflection was a pair of dark brown eyes, the color of dark, dark chocolate with streaks of yellowish-brown. In his reflection was a stern, furrowed, thick brow. In his expression was curly black-brown hair that fell down in front of his face from days of not cleaning it. In his reflection was a broad, slightly round face. In his reflection was a boy with a broad figure and dark bronze skin. In his reflection was a weary, tired, defeated boy who wanted to make the world a better place. In the reflection was a boy who just wanted to keep his love safe. 
In his reflection was all of the pieces of his father that he hated. The broad figure, the tallness, the curly, black-brown hair, the yellow streaks in his irises, and was the stern, solemn look in his brow. All of that was his father. Oh, what he would give to get rid of every single piece of his father and replace it with all of his mother. 
Khalil let out a shaky breath, slumping in front of his reflection. But things were different now. He should have known better than to do this. But he had no choice but to shoot her. He had to do it to protect Esther. He had to do it, even though it meant that his father would think that Khalil was completely under his spell. But of course, maybe he was. He just knew the truth. 
He felt sick to his stomach at the thought of that. He knew he shouldn’t have done it. But he had no choice. 
Right? 
In his reflection was a killer. In his reflection was failure. In his reflection was someone who was so driven by his emotions, he had torn his family apart despite every single people he knew begging him not to continue the arguments. But now . . . If he had just listened to his father from the start . . . Aunt Jacinta wouldn’t be dead. 
His breathing was growing shallow as he stared at his reflection in the fear, a sick feeling in his stomach. The room was spinning. Everything felt wrong. Wasn’t there supposed to be a right and a wrong? Hadn’t he been fighting for what was right? Hadn’t he been doing his best to drive his family in the right direction? It didn’t make any sense. 
Alone in his room with the cold feeling of the gun lingering in his palm, he stared at his reflection. He was a man now, wasn’t he? He was legally an adult. But he felt just as lost as he did when he was a kid. He felt just as confused. 
He hated his father. He hated him with every fiber of his being, no matter how much his mother and sister tried to convince him tot cut that monster some slack. 
He refused to do that. Monsters didn’t deserve to be forgiven. But he was a monster now . . . 
He had become exactly what his father wanted.

2012 . . .

“Race you!” August giggled as she bolted through their suburban neighborhood towards the playground, her prosthetic leg making a clanking sound against the concrete as the eight-year-old sprinted as fast as she could. However, she was still bit a slowed down despite her headstart. She heard Victor yell at her in Spanish behind her as he fruitlessly tried to keep up and she snickered, unable to stop her infectiously cheerful grin as she skidded to a stop in front of the colorful playground with its blue metal swing set, slides sloping down from the play area of a haphazardly designed castle looking thing with several floors nad nooks and crannies, benches, all placed above a ton of mulch. Young laughter and chatter filled the air and the energy seemed to seep into her. 
She loved the playground with all of her being. 
In an instance, she was running towards the swings, plopping down and trying her best to kick her feet up in the air. But she was weighed down by the prostheses. It was a beautiful sunny day, one that seemed to infect everyone with its sunniness. But she knew not everyone felt the same as her when she saw her older brothers finally arrive, panting. 
Sandro was taller than both of them, thirteen-years-old and already stone faced. Victor was only ten-year-soldier yet his almost black eyes gleamed with excitement and hope. They both had dusky toned skin, both had freckles, and both had curly, dark sandy blond hair that they had an impossible time taming. Victor was just in cargo shorts and a t-shirt with a dinosaur on it while Sandro was in jeans, boots, and his worn, brown leather jacket. 
She didn’t look like either of them. 
August frowned, thinking about to her dark brown hair, dark bronze skin, and dark blue eyes with a splattering of freckles. And most of all, her brothers had all limbs intact. 
“August!” Sandro snapped, storming off over to her. “You need to stay close to us. I’ve told you this a million times. Why can’t you just _listen _to me for once?” 
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at his irritated reaction and continued trying her best to swing. “I’m fineee.” 
Victor raised his hand, trying to catch his breath as he let out a deep pant. “I think she managed to run past a flying hummingbird.” 
August’s eyes lit up. “I did?” 
Sandro raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “Yeah right.” 
Victor shrugged, rubbing some of the sweat off his forehead as he situated in the swing next to her. “I’m serious! It was a blink and you miss it moment.”
“Sure it was . . .” Sandro muttered in disbelief and stood behind them, beginning to push them both with ease. 
August giggled as she was swung into the air, the wind rushing between her hair and fingers as she clutched the somewhat uncomfortable feeling metal underneath her fists. Her eyes sparkled like sapphires in the excitement and she let out a whoop, “THIS IS AMAAAAAAAZINGGGGGG—“
She heard Victor’s softer, quieter giggles as he was lifted off into the air, a smile on his face. 
This was their life. Sandro took care of them. He did it without complaining one bit and August probably didn’t appreciate it enough back then. She probably should have but even as she was pushed into the air over and over again . . . 
Her gaze drifted to the moms and dads at the playground. A few swings down, a dad was pushing his daughter on the swing, both of them laughing and enjoying life. At the slides, a mom caught her son as he reached the end with loud laughter and excitement. They were so happy with their parents. 
So why didn’t she get to have her parents?
Her smile slowly slid off her face. She should have her parents with them right now, pushing all of them instead of Sandro being forced to do it instead. Their grandfather should be there instead. But none of them were. When she went back down, the question escaped her lips before she really thought about it. 
“Where’s our mom and dad?” 
The energy between the siblings was sucked dry and she could feel Sandro’s hand tense as he pushed her back up. 
Victor’s smile faded and he went quiet again. he was always too quiet for his own good. Sometimes, August wished she could just get him to speak more. She liked listening to him rant on about animals.
Finally, Sandro answered her question, “Doesn’t matter. They don’t deserve to be asked about, okay? We deserve better than them and we got better.”
She would have asked what he meant. Except she kept focusing on all of the other kids with their parents instead.

In the corner of a small little bakery, filled to the brim with delectable scents that could be considered overwhelming for some. For Miguel, it was the perfect distraction on this day. He sipped his piping hot coffee with a soft, satisfied sigh as the drink rolled down his throat, burning, but so sweet with the few sugar and crème packets he had insisted on having. He nestled back against the cushioned chair, pausing as he saw his reflection in the laptop’s screen. Laptops were fairly new. But they were so much easier than the excuse of computers they had been using only moments before. The hustle bustle of the city avoided this quaint spot, a perfected blend of pastel colors painted along the walls; pastel blue on the entire thing with gorgeous images of trees in all of their seasons from the blooming blossoms of spring, to the verdant leaves of summer, to the reds and oranges of fall, and final the barren state of winter, bare but snow topped in a slightly glittering style. Hmm . . . Maybe his next collection should be season based. Miguel smiled slightly at that, reaching down and pushing the button of his laptop, watching as the screen faded into life. He typed in his password with one hand has he grabbed his delicious chocolate croissant, still warm to the touch. He bit into the warm, almost crunchy pastry’s golden-brown skin, feeling it crumble in his mouth as he felt the wheat’s taste exploded in his mouth, and then finally the ooey gooey chocolate that came right after it, creating the perfect blend of flavors. His eyes closed as he let out a soft little sound of satisfaction, and swallowed as slowly as he could before placing the treat back down on the glass china plate, pristine and clean as can be. He needed to make it last. He went back to his laptop, checking his emails. He probably should have done that sooner, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. After all, today was the . . . The fortieth anniversary of the day she left. . . . Miguel should have called to check in on Alejandra, but he knew that Cassiel could probably help her out through whatever unresolved emotions she had. He should have gotten an ice cold drink instead of the piping hot coffee he loved so much. But he hated cold drinks. Mamá hadn’t. He inhaled sharply, and stared at the emails. Maybe he should take a break. Suddenly, the cozy, comfortable atmosphere of the cafe wasn’t nearly enough to distract him from the conflicted emotions. His mother had ran away in 1966. His mother had angered their uncle. Or uncle-in-law. Whatever. His mother had died by the hands of Leira in 1968 after being caught. Maybe he really should call Alejandra. Miguel swallowed hard and forced himself to reach out for the phone, unlocking it and dialing his younger sister’s number. He shouldn’t have assumed that she would be fine just because he was. They both loved their mother. But Alejandra never bothered to try and get over her disappearance/death. Miguel had done all he could to move on, but . . . Sometimes he wished his mother had just told them what was going on instead of keeping them in the dark, alone to assume everything was fine. He hated that she assumed they weren’t strong enough to know the truth. He hated that, he hated that, he hated that— No, Miguel, he stopped himself, sitting up straighter, you shouldn’t think of her in a bad light. He had to remind himself that sometimes. He tried to focus on the gorgeous murals along the walls, but that only reminded him of the beautiful trees that surrounded his mother’s farm when they were growing up. Now it was Alejandra’s. He tried to focus on the delicious coffee, but that only reminded him of his mother’s hatred for the drink. He tried to focus on on his work, but that only reminded him of his mother’s no-nonsense, hardworking attitude. Maybe he hadn’t moved on as much as he liked to think. Alejandra finally picked up. “Hey?” “Hey,” Miguel replied softly, leaning against the table’s edge and watching as his laptop’s screen darkened from lack of use. “You doing okay?” There was a pause. Then his sister sounded befuddled. “Why wouldn’t I be? Is something going on, Mig?” All of the air was sucked out of his lungs. His sister had forgotten. How? How could she forget? Sure, she had a life and all but . . . How could she forget today was the day? Coldness settled over his shoulders. She didn’t know and she was happy. “I’m just trying to help Camilla set up the baby’s new room—did you hear? She says it’s going to be a boy!—and she was thinking maybe a Toy Story theme? Gosh, that girl is obsessed with the movie—“ Miguel barely heard the rest of his sister’s rambling about her daughter. He was just staring at his laptop, hands shaking as he tried to keep himself under control. She forgot. He should remind her, shouldn’t he? She needed to remember. She needed to remember this was the exact day their lives fell apart. Not when their parents got divorced when they were six and five, not when they watched their younger cousin expose their uncle at a dinner party, not when she was sent to a boarding school, and not when Miguel was under constant judgment for his tastes at school. Today was the worst day of their lives and she deserved to remember. “Oh, I was hoping she could do the name Alejandro, but her husband absolutely _hates _me. I still can’t understand why!” Alejandra laughed. The laugh made him stop. But . . . She sounded so happy. Could he really tear away that happiness from her? It wasn’t like she had forgotten their mother. Just what today was. As long as she hadn’t forgotten Jacinta. So he nodded along with her chatter, mumbling words of assent to keep her talking before she finally asked. “But seriously, why did you call, Mig? I’m fine.” He was silent for a moment before sighing. “Nah, just wanted to check up on you. Y’know, the brotherly thing to do. And . . . Could we meet up at a cafe later?”

Who could be trusted? That was the question of the century. A question she had to ask herself constantly every single day. The music from the party roared on, the laughter and carefreeness of a bunch of college students illuminating the night. she sighed softly, leaning against the balcony and staring out at the surprisingly starry night. Khalil was always talking about light pollution and how it was erasing the stars from their view. So why was it showing up now? Strange. So very strange. But she was hardly complaining as she basked under the silvery, luminous glow of the moonlight. She could still envision Vanessa dancing with every single man in the party except Caleb, the one who would give her the best dance he could. How she wished her friends would finally realize that they were meant to be. Leira sipped her mysterious drink and nearly gagged at the bitter, sudden taste of the beer, wrinkling her nose at the taste. No wonder her father always said that wine was more tasteful; it was certainly more sweet. The twenty year old leaned back, breathing in the cool, brisk night air. She was strangely tall for her age, maybe five-foot-nine, with long, sleek black hair that cascaded down her back like a waterfall, light bronze skin that glowed under the moonlight, though some acne scars were visible along the sides of her forehead, expertly concealed by her hair. Her eyes were a strange yellow-brown “owl-like eyes” wide and doe like. She was pretty, but she was scarily thin. No fault of hers, despite everyone telling her to eat more. Leira sighed softly, smoothing out her blouse. Maybe she dressed up too much for this event. “Oh, hey, have you seen Vanessa?” She whirled around in surprise, despite recognizing the voice. _Anthony. _A friend, a mystery, an infuriating mystery, infuriatingly handsome, Vanessa’s cousin, and much more. Deep hazel eyes met hers and a calm, placid smile graced his lips. He was tall, maybe six-foot-one or six-foot-two, with dark skin, silky black hair neatly combed, a handsome face, a peculiar birthmark or scar (She hadn’t figured out which yet) in the shape of crescent not he back of his neck, thick eyebrows, a faint Brazilian accent, and a moss green sweater paired with jeans. “. . . Where did you come from?” Leira demanded, though she tried to speak as calmly as possible, her free hand leaning haphazardly on the balcony railing. “Places, why are you here instead of where the people are?” “People repel me.” “Even me?” She paused. How did their conversation flow so nicely? So smoothly? What made her so comfortable around him? Him who she could never understand yet he understood her perfectly? “Now you’re just fishing for compliments,” she said stiffly, turning back around to the view. “She’s dancing with some loser named, hm, I think Char.” “. . . You mean Charlie?” “No, he said his name was Char. Or at least, his nickname.” “Hm, she sounds like she’s in good hands.” Leira only shrugged, quiet. Never give anything away. Even if she could see the creatures prowling around in the distance, she had to keep her composure. Never let them know what’s on you mind. A mantra that haunted her mind day and night, even when she was preoccupied with other matters. But somehow, Anthony could understand her better than her own best friend. “You seem lonely up here,” he remarked dryly, stepping up beside her and leaning against the railing; his hair almost camouflaged against the dark canvas of night. “Solitide is less stressful than conversation.” “That is true. Solitude means you can be as unfiltered as you want,” he sighed softly, running his fingers along the painted balcony railing. “The idea is freeing.” Leira paused, her gaze softening at his interptation. “That’s how I’ve always viewed it. However, without a little sound, solitude can be suffocating.” “Oh?” “Well, yes, you see, I find that without any noise, it’s just a void of you being—“ she stopped herself and sat up straight, crying out defensively. “Why am I telling you all of this?!” “. . . Because we’re friends?” Anthony said slowly. Friends. That didn’t seem to correlate with the way her eyes tended to gaze upon him a little bit longer than when it came to friends, how she noticed every little subtle difference in his appearance, how she felt a strange sense of ease around him, and how he so easily encouraged her to relax and be . . . . Be . . . . . . Vulernable. So she scoffed, putting up a mask. “Don’t think we’re friends. We’re just acquaintances,” she said firmly. She had to keep everyone as much as she could at an arm length’s distance. She wasn’t able to do so with Caleb and Vanessa as much as she would liked to—partially because she was already so deep in friendship with them, it would been jarring to split the friendships. To end them. It would have indefinitely been suspicious. At least, that was the reason she liked to tell herself. She only admitted to the second reason years later; “I didn’t want to get rid of them. I couldn’t lose more than I already had.” But she lost them either way, oth of them so much more busy with their own lives to put too much attention towards her. She hung along the edge, there with them and also not there with them. She sighed and shook her head, waiting for Anthony’s response but . . . Nothing. He was just looking at her thoughtfully, a flicker of curiosity in those deep pools of hazel, flecks of green, amber, brown, gold and so much more dusting his irises. A shiver went down her spine at his inquisitive, observant gaze. How did he do that? How did he manage to pull her into that gaze with such ease? “You know,” Anthony started with a chuckle. “I’ve never met anyone like you before.” That was not the response she was expecting. Not the response at all. She stilled, the grip on her drink tightening as she looked back at him with narrowed eyes. “What do you mean?” “Don’t you realize? You switch up so quickly, Leira,” why did she like the way he said her name? “One minute you’ll telling me all about your inter thoughts, opinions, emotions, the next you close yourself off, shutting everyone out,” he murmured thoughtfully. “I’ve never met anyone like you before,” he reiterated. _I’ve never met anyone like you before, I’ve never met anyone like you before, I’ve never met anyone like you before. _ __ He had never met a girl so trapped in her family’s dynamic and arguments and problems while struggling to remain perfect in the eyes of the public. He had never met a girl so closed off and isolated from the world because of her fatal loyalty. He had never met a girl like her because she wasn’t a girl anymore. She was a future criminal, a future killer, a future secret keeper, a future monster. “You should be grateful for that,” she whispered softly.

_1968 . . . . _ A petite woman in her early forties with long, thick dark brown hair that was pinned up into a braid, dark bronze skin, freckles, and a firm look in her gaze, was perched at the counter of a bar, the dimly lit area disguising parts of her appearance as she gently, and lightly tapped her margarita against the counter. Everything was loud and dirty and brown and crowded. The perfect disguise for her. She pursed her lips, pulling her hat down as her impossibly dark brown eyes landed on the busybody of a bar tender. A soft sigh escaped her. She had no doubt that the white bar was better. It normally was, in America. She sat up straight, inhaling he fumes of alcohol that haunted the air with ease. Miguel probably turned twenty-one last year. And Alejandra would have just turned twenty-one. That all too familiar ache tackled her once more. She should’ve been there to celebrate with them. But no, instead she had to do this. Damn Cordarius. Damn that stupid organization that got her involved more than she ever anticipated. Her sister just had to marry the damned criminal. Her eyes narrowed at that thought, at the memory of her sister insisting he wasn’t all that bad. As if. It had been arranged for goodness sake. The only good thing that had come out of that marriage was their children. She sighed, leaning back and placing the finished margarita down. “Thomas, mind getting me a refill?” She was a frequent patron, despite how that might contradict with her history. But the sickening taste of alcohol was all she had anymore. That, and the interest the organization payed her with. She If only there was something she could do about that. Thomas only nodded, easily whipping her up a new drink, his stoic, solemn eyes too depressing for such a spirited atmosphere. He slid over the new drink. “How many are you aiming for tonight? This is your third, Constancia.” _Constancia.. _ She had to fight back the urge to correct him. To say she was Jacinta Contreras. But she couldn’t. She would have to get used to being called that. A shrug lifted up her shoulders and she gratefully sipped the drink, savoring the taste. “This is my last, no worries, Thomas. I’m not that much of an alcoholic.” “What about—“ She shot him a motherly glare to shut him up. Thomas instantly. He was a Puetro Rican man, probably in his mid twenties and kept to himself. At least when it came to his personal life. She continued to enjoy her alcoholic beverage before pausing. She was getting that feeling again. The paranoid, uneasy feeling that was telling her something bad was about to happen. She stood up swiftly, pulling out her wallet and sliding over the cash. “Thanks for the service, Thomas.” He only nodded in esponse. He was quiet. Just like Khalil. Was her nephew still quiet? It had only been two years . . . _Two years. _ _ _Had it been that long already? She felt a sickening sinking feeling in her stomach and forced herself to finish the margarita quickly. She wandered through the bar, passing by a crowd of boisterous young men who had probably just recently turned twenty-one. She kept walking, trying to ignore their drunken laughter. She couldn’t even begin to imagine a time she had been that carefree. She got married at that age. Then divorced at twenty-five. Then she heard Thomas call out, “Hey, wait a minute, Constancia!” She raised an eyebrow, turning to face him again and walking back, a flash of irritation decorating her face. “Yes? Did I forget one dollar?” She asked sarcastically. Thomas shook his head, hesitating. Her joking manner faded when she saw that he was somehow more serious than before . . . He sighed, glancing around to look out for eavesdroppers and onlookers before leaning in close and murmuring, “A man came in looking for a lady of your description.” The blood drained out of her face. Oh, God no. She was going to have to relocate again. Jacinta cleared her throat, trying her best to remain neutral. “Oh?” “Well, he said you were a family member, named Jacinta? I don’t know it was weird. I just kinda said the only lady I know of that description wasn’t named that—“ Thomas started rambling on nervously, swallowing hard. He seemed reluctant to finish. Jacinta’s eyes narrowed. “And?” Thomas let out a sharp exhale of air. “When I explained that, he said kinda amused like, ‘Oh, I see. She’s not who she says she is.’” Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit— Jacinta forced herself to remain calm and she smiled tightly. “He must have the wrong person. I don’t know a soul named Jacinta—what kind of name is that, anyway?” She scoffed. Thomas only shrugged helplessly. “Good day, Thomas.” She quickly walked out of the bar, her mind racing. After two years, three months, fourteen days, and twenty three hours with thirteen minutes on the line so far, Cordarius had finally tracked her down. And she doubted it was to invite her to a party. Jacinta slowly reached down to her trench coat’s pocket, feeling the cool firearm hidden in her pocket. Just for protection. And just for protection, she was getting out of town. Maybe people would question her sudden disappearance but she had to be smart about this and not get hurt. The streets were dark and the street lamps hardly did anything to illuminate the dank part of this drab city. Oh, how she missed her home. She hugged herself tightly as she listened for noise. There was hardly any cars in this part of the city, despite the streetlights put in place. Everyone avoided this place like the plague and . . . Well, what was to be done about that? The concrete was damp from the early downpour, leaving dirty brown mud everywhere she went. She hated the city while her sister loved it. She should probably be more careful about what she said but . . . What if she couldn’t run anymore? What if she just apologized to Cordarius and he let her go back to her family? _No, _the other side of her said vehemently, you can’t just surrender, not now.

But would she ever be able to surrender? To see her children again? To watch them grow up?
. . . 
She didn’t want to live like this anymore. She needed to be there to watch them grow up. 
Jacinta stopped and spoke aloud in the supposedly empty street. “Get out of the shadows, Cordarius, I know you and your cronies are hiding there,” she said loudly and bluntly, her hand resting not he pocket with the gun. 
Silence. Then just as she predicted from an alleyway—or a few, actually, dressed in black. Most of them felt faceless to her. They were all just people who decided working for a criminal was a good idea. Or they were manipulated into the job out of desperation. 
But they weren’t the main threat. 
Cordarius Mohave stepped out from the shadows, honesty looking bored and out of place in his perfectly white button down suit and black slacks, his strangely owl-like, yellow brown eyes landing on her with the slightest flicker of triumph. He was tall, maybe six-foot-three or six-foot-four, with light bronze skin, and curly black hair that he kept long enough to let the curls free, but short enough he didn’t look like a damn hippie. He smirked slightly. “Been a while, Jacinta. We’ve missed you.” 
No, they hadn’t. At least, he hadn’t. She clenched her fists, forcing herself to stay calm as she turned to face her brother-in-law, determined not to let his arrogant confidence deter her. Or his huge amount of back up. 
“You want me dead.” 
“Dead is a bit over exaggerated. I can’t _kill _my wife’s sister,” he sighed with disappointment, as if he had been imagining all of the creative ways he could torture her to the point of excruciating pain enough to make her heart stop. The mere thought was sickening. Jacinta took a deep breath. 
“But you want information.”
Cordarius smiled with fake sweetness. “Exactly. Come on, Jacinta. Why don’t you just come home? Your nephews and niece and sister and son and daughter all miss you,” he cooed. 
Her heart ached at the thought of seeing them all. But if she wanted to see them, she would have to give in to him. She would have to listen to his every single order no matter how much she didn’t. She would be stuck. She would be the fly trapped in the spider’s web.
But perhaps that was the best way to get through this. 
She smiled back sweetly. “I’ll consider it.” 
His expression darkened for a nanosecond and he let out a deep sigh. “Oh, come on, do not be difficult. It’s been two years! Surely you’ve gotten it out of your system—“ 
“I’m not a rebellious teenager like Khalil. How is he? Still shouting at you for the countless people you’ve murdered?” She replied coolly. 
Cordarius’s entire polite demeanor vanished. She knew that would get to him. “That is your fault you know. Men, grab her.” 
The last thing she remembered was cool cloth being wrapped around her mouth and her vision blacking out. 
Damnit. 



For a first time kidnapped, she was eerily calm. Strapped to a chair in a dark room, all alone with a blindfold over her eyes and a gag in her mouth. She could feel the wooden chair below her. 
Twenty three times. In the span of thirty six hours, she had been interrogated twenty-three times with every threatening and painful method used on her imaginable. 
But she couldn’t crack. 
Seeing Cordarius again had reminded her just what she was fighting for, and she knew that she couldn’t just give up so easily. She wanted to see her family  again, but she also knew that this disgusting monster had ruined countless other families. He couldn’t win. Not for as long as her heart beat. She refused to let him win this battle. 
For the twenty fourth time, she heard the door open. Loafers against the floor filled the air and she knew he was back. But there was a second pair of feet . . . Her gag and blindfold was ripped off just as she heard the disbelieving words, “Tia Jaci?” 
Her eyes widened in horror when she saw Khalil. 
He was nineteen now, and behind Cordarius who looked as clam and collected as ever. He was the splitting image of both of his parents, his mother’s dark bronze skin tone and dark brown eyes, his father’s black curly hair, and broad figure. He was frozen as they stared at each other. 
“I told you not to speak, son,” Cordarius said languidly. 
Khalil didn’t listen, bursting into chatter. “We Why is she here?! She’s alive? Why—“ 
“I _said _don’t speak,” Cordarius cut him off harshly. “Unless you’d like to see Esther’s head ripped off.” Her nephew went silent and Jacinta felt her heart drop. 
No. 
Oh god no. 
Cordarius smiled with satisfaction at Khalil’s obedience. “Much better. Now, your aunt has been rather uncooperative . . .”
Jacinta couldn’t speak. she wanted to speak but no words would come out. 
“So she must die. And since you have yet to prove yourself . . .” 
No.
She could see the paranoid fear and panic on her nephew’s face. 	“Either shoot her, or Esther will be killed.” 
Silence. 
Jacinta knew she had to make the sacrifice now. 
She forced herself to close her eyes. “You’re a monster, Cordarius.” 
“You’ve both said that numerous times.”
She didn’t want to see the look on her nephew’s face. But she had to. She knew he would hesitate. She opened her eyes mouthed, “do it.” 
Khalil was frozen. She mouthed it again. 
The last thing she ever heard was a gunshot and a terrified strangled sob/scream.