• proceed?

THIS IS A STORY OF VIOLENCE

the means do not justify the ends.
but the beginning does so.
and it is not the end -
not quite, yet.

choose.

give me your verdict.

• who goes to prison?

ALMA

“sounds wonderful.”it rolls off of their tongue, and they catch it right before it trickles down to the floor – would it, too, burn through the floorboards, land on a forehead, and make it of their brains molten tissue and empty thoughts? you wonder with pointed care, you think of that – all of those bodies, sprawled downstairs, with coin-sized entrances on their front, a third eye made to blind the other two.“it means soul, you know?” yes, you do. “because you are full of it.”irony is, after all, what they feast upon – and they never grow tired of showing it down your throat.explaining serves you much of the same as their hands cupping your cheek do – it is the way one must tell you of things you know, and touch you in ways you despise. the half spoken words at you, the half glance –in their ignorance, a way of survival. you countthe difference between you the same way the madam counts the gold coins piling on her counter; and your skin splits open the same way dawn breaks, as you scrub and scrub and scrub and scrub.nothing could ever free you from the stench that they leave against your skin.is it worth it?to survive, when there was a nowhere to be, a nobody to come to. to live, when there was to reminiscing of what you once where, what you could have become. to exist, when they no longer do – because you were supposed to, because that is your burden.is it worth it?there isn’t an instance where your eyes are open for what happens to your body. just like there isn’t a moment where your mind is there for it. in every single one of them you imagine yourself, far – where the roaring of waterfalls deafen your ears and the warmth of the soil licking your feet.you are – sitting by the dinner table, sweet corn served on a plate in front of you. your grandmother’s lips against your temple, your father’s voice humming the song from the other room. you are — cooking but fire, your middle reaching the warmth before anything else does, they move inside of you and you hum the same tone you once heard many years ago.too long ago.they wake up to the sizzling, when you had actually thought the smell of burnt flesh would be as nauseating to them as it is to you. but by the time they notice what had been going on in the corner of your shared space, three butterflies has already been imprinted, and the fourth one was in the process of coming out of its cocoon.what is it said about children who love the flames? they have been scarred, they have been marked – and still, they come back for more. you were born from the fire, but when you soul died that day, you had never been returned to it. your remains had never found peace in the place you used to call home. your spirit had never gathered with the ones that had gone.you were a piece of wood adrift in the ocean, when all you sought for was a pyre to burn for eternity.a haunted place in the shape of a girl.you will remember them — and any of those who touch you will be haunted by the memory of the unknown. what they find is — you, clad in sweat and gripping the spoon darkened by the flames and incandescent in its core. they still watch you, in doubt of what’s to come — as you lower it down against your navel.each oval is a section of a wing. each oval, a plea.gods demand saxrodxe, and your own has been bathing in the blood of your people with only you left as the temple of the undead. there was nothing of theirs to build you — nothing for people to look at and revere, respect, remember.you sear their memories in you as you repeat their names. — like a prayer.mama, papa, abuelita. mi cariño, mi cariño, mi cariño.the horror of ignorance sets them in motion. and the fear of the unknown keeps them at bay. there was only one decision to be made.after all, a pretty vase can only serve purpose, as long as they are not chipped.throwing you out causes such a commotion that what is missing is not noticed. one whispers of what you could be, another laughs in disbelief. they are gone, no one was left. what she is is mad. it doesn’t matter what is said, your departure is anrixipated.you are left to gather the few belongings that you can call yours – but you take as much as you believe should be yours.still clinging with sweat, in your blood-stained gown, you leave the managerie with your pockets heavy with the good you claimed as yours.call it their first offering — just to not call it reparation money.

CHANTICO

smoke fills your lungs and it’s the only time you feel alive. once you heard that tar ran in your veins, even though all you left behind were crimson footsteps when a slab of obsidian had decided to make you prey on its sharp ends.you rub your gums. you think of the poison making your way through your system – not poison, he would say, aid. enhancement; what you need. poison, you say, and you rub once more – for he is gone, and the fragments now of your mind lodge themselves on the soft flesh of your tongue.what was it?you stab him three times – plexus, carotid, left eyeball. nobody ever tells how blood feels sprayed on your face, or how the knife will slip from your grip and end up on the floor, sometimes it will end up carved on your foot.there’s a bite in your laugh every time this happens. whenever you either stab someone — or yourself in the process. isn’t this the price? and eye for an eye, a foot for a foot, anything paid in the same coin – in the same wavelength. wasn’t it how things are supposed to be?after he’s on the floor, you wipe your hands against his shirt. you twirl the ribbon of his soul around your fingers and wonder what you will have for dinner — you think of walking up the hill, skipping stones and you follow the scent of sweet potatoes being roasted by the fire of your stove. you think of their laughter as you come home, coated in someone else blood.mija, ve a banãrse!you love them.you loved them.what was it?there's a soft sob coming from the corner, and the little girl crouches behind the barrel with mirrored splatter of red on her face as well. have you been painting together? grabbed bowls of granada seeds and squeezed it with your hands, staining all over, all over, all over. why does she cry so much?memories of soothing her while she wails in similar agony are still so recent that it makes your own face wet with tears you no longer knew you could shed. my daughter, do not weep. you whisper, over and over, even though no words come out of your lips. those were memories pierced together, yes, but also they serve as fodder for something else – something you cannot quite recall.you want her to hold your hand – but you remember your own flesh no longer has those to seek out for yours. you want her to follow in your steps, but you know she no longer can stand.if she ever came to do so, to begin with.what was it again?there is a girl and she weeps by her father’s lifeless form. blood stains your feet, and her hands – her voice is so hoarse she can no longer scream.there was a girl and she wept as she had been tied to the mast – in her desperate frenzy to go back to a place that was nothing more but ashes of burned marrow.there will never be a girl to weep in her mother’s arm – or her mother’s mother before that, or the third fold of such a title. there will be no after for her, there will be no soon for her.some girls have no epilogues.you want to make sure to give others the same end.

• go back

ATZI

the rocks where you perch yourself remind you of stacked skulls of those who once were. limestones darkened by time and lack of contact – you realize that anything that has not been touched for a long time becomes prolific. a place for things to grow, a place for things to be buried under.your body stifles the moment chapped lips come in contact with the water running by your feet – and soon you are gasping for air, your own tempest turning inside an empty stomach. nevermind the things floating in still water, nevermind the smell coming from the bottom of the shallow streak. thirst was like a ravenous beast – it never discriminates.but it is still too long without anything to keep your eyes open. you learned of thirst, and how the madness it induces; but if the former is a monster, then hunger is a silent plague. inside of you grows a hole, the size of a durazno pit – it is contrasting to how small it seems in the infinity of its depth, and how all it does is make you weaker by the second.as the days pass, you realize that the quenching of your thirst does become a new ritual, and in that, there was still a reminder of your role to be played. a prayer balancing over the creek that never runs, the communion on the water that never moves, the growth of the pit in your stomach that never stops. hunger becomes your being, and after a while, there wasn’t much left for your thoughts other than muse on that alone.you find others like you, the same hollowed eyes and hunched backs, scraped knees — from nature or trade; anything that would make the tree seedling inside of them sprout. you see them do it all, and you see them spiral from it all. when the world is not expectating, everything becomes easily justifiable.of that type of oblivion, you are done being fed off.it was a ritual, after all — you find a loose rock by your makeshift altar, and there is no need to sharpen it, no need to clean it. at night, they gather at the same spot — all the same, them in their foul words and the dread shared among each other. they laugh and feast on the misery taken from one with less. a parted bread shared between two, fingers cakes with dirt and blood. your blood. shed after looting the only ounce of dignity you could still have when protecting the one thing you had found to quiet your stomach after weeks in search of.but if they lived by something darwinian, you’d give them something machiavellian.the pit in your stomach cracks as loudly as the skull of the first.there was no longer hunger — only a different type of wanting. you only see the astonishment in the face of the other. bewildered surprise as the mighty fall before their eyes and another rises in place. you didn’t want glory, you didn’t want fear — no. you were famished, and all you wanted was to eat.all you needed was to eat.you think of thread and needle. you think of what they would do — which parts of theirs would become one with the world they leave behind. you think of curating, you think if there’s a place for thieves and killers, or criminals of all kinds.you wonder when you will meet them again, there in a place where nothing rots but our earthly desires that never came to be.by the darkened limestones that reassemble the skulls of your family, you rinse your hands in the putrid water you’ve once convinced yourself drink it to be an act of holy consumption. there was nothing more you could satiate you at that time — and there won’t be much laid ahead of you either.you watch as blood merges with water, you dry your hands on your garments, and take a bite of the bread that barely has a mouthful of it left. stale, dry — does it taste good?you fear nothing will ever again.

• go back

CONSTANZA

there isn’t much to be told of the life you lead as someone without a past.who are you?thief. murderer. monstress. so wretched to the point of divinity. the one with scrapped knees from honoring the ones you miss, burned hands from an aching heart that once loved, the scarred womb as a warning — an omen. a marked grave.who are you?daughter. mother. generation after generation all culminating in one body, one fracture mind. what is left of them to remember? you traded your memories for power — you muddled the one thing that has survived in order to quench the thirst that could never be ended.who are you?if memory is your betrayer, your heart is your damnation. there is nothing there but cinders — not even enough to keep yourself warm. you rub your gums, you touch your scar, and you repeat the names to which faces can no longer be pictured.coins fill up your pockets, your chests, and the crevices of a house so big a whole family could inhabit it — but it’s only you, it will always be only you. you sit on a pile of it, your own mountain of everything that glitters and shimmers, enough to bring madness to rulers and jealousy of thieves.who are you?every piece of your making is worth gold. the same hands that were trained to stitch the dead for their eternal slumber, now let the organza and velvet run through their fingers. the same lips that fervently moved in prayer, now whisper for the silence of the soon-to-be gone. all that you’ve learned, and all that you use – can it still be considered a sin if it is for your survival?you burn the daughters of kings. you laugh at the faces of princelings. you rob the one who dares to conquer death. you waltz with whom no one shall mention.who are you?daughtermothermonsfressgoddesskillertailorpriestsschild.you are nobody.

• go back

CHOOSE ONCE AND FOR ALL.

TRY AGAIN.

I HEREBY STAND TO SENTENCE THEE.

you are of many faces, of many names. you are, by nature and by trade, of many crimes of many possible sentences.but why, of all things, your greed is the one to be put you on a stake?“your honor, i simply believe i should not be of the blame here.” in that moment is shows how she beckons all of those in the court house – as her velvet words uncoil on the oak desk, the council leans closer, they dare the serpents of her tone to wrap around their necks – they almost wish she could snap it with her words alone. some mutter in agreement – how come.but then most observe the spell unfold with raised eyebrows. have you wondered where she came from? isn’t the way the vowels and consonants fold on her tongue peculiar? haven’t you seen her…“you see, i am not from here.” it is called an appeal, after all – the one she approaches sat on the chair, feet daring to prop on the table, no defendant on her side. “what type of national program could i possibly benefit of.”"ma'am you can't smoke in here."she looks at you for a minute longer than it makes it comfortable, a slow puff of her cigarette is drawn before she flicks at you, still smoldering.“we are talking about over $6 millions.”“well? i am not a citizen, how could you prove it.”“you just submitted papers to buy an estate.”there is a moment of silence as she nods, a small laugh pulling the corners of her lips upwards.but not even her smile is something that brings comfort. even that feels like a threat.“in all honesty, that wasn’t worth $6 million coins.”the slam of the hammer punctuates her sentence. the sound of the shackles around her wrists sounds graver than it should.she bolts forward, laughs once more. "of everything..."and it is seen in her eyes, that the sentence she got, was the lightest one that could have ever happened to her."tax fraud? really now?"

• who are you.

XOCHITL

there was no one to greet him by the front door of the estate. the dogs did not bark, the kids did not laugh in the backyard, and it seemed as if the birds did not chirp from their spots in the olive trees. silence had never been what he expected as a warm welcome, but sometimes he wonders if he is actually deserving of such – perhaps so. neglect being paid with neglect.the horse paces slowly, and confusion still colors his face. it lingers there for another moment as both realize no one is coming either for a greeting or for a cube of sugar. what an odd sensation it is, to be met by a ghost town within your own walls.when inside, there is only the one who takes his coat. they greet him with the softness of a plume, eyes cast to the floor. he can see the anxiousness in their features, even though his attention falters in staying there much longer – traveling across their body with a sly of his mouth.it causes them to blush, and you bark out a laugh. “run me a bath. i’m starving, and the children will soon be home.” an order said with certainty of only one of those things; but they do not question, bowing down and rushing to where his chambers were.he realizes after a while, that everything seemed to be left in a rush. even though pristine in terms of cleanliness, there was something odd about the disarray of the estate in general – something he could not quite put his finger on. he bathes in rosewater to rinse the char and blood off of his skin, he dresses in fine silk to alleviate the weight of the heavy garments.and still, he cannot quite figure it out.the bed still had the imprint of where his wife last laid – books and a wooden horse in a corner, to which if he let his imagination run farther enough, he could still see it rocking from the weight of his little heir boy.and all the while, the servant lingered right around the corner. well instructed, he had noted – probably the orders of his lady; even though it surprised him as they caught they sneaking glancing at him – bare torso, bare neck, bare back; as he dressed, as he inspected the corners in longing and wonder.about them, he did not want to let his imagination run too far.“dinner will be ready soon, sir.”his mind is no longer in that type of hunger. part of it is thinking about what time they would return home, what would they be having for dinner, and what would come after. of another type of craving, another type of want.the table was set for four of you. candles glistening on goblets of gold, bouncing on the hilt of the sword hanging on the wall above your head – glory would too feast that night. his first successful mission welcoming yet another safe return home.“do you have any idea where they are?” his hands caress the tablecloth, appreciating the fine material, the delicate finish – in the same breath after gulping half of his wine, he inquires the servant once more. “is this new?”if they have any property in knowing so, he has no idea – but it does feel out of the ordinary, foreign to his touch, foreign to his memory. “you have a great eye, sir. it is curated leather, handwork from a place of a name i can’t quite recall. i’m not sure if you do, either.” his gaze does not move under kitted eyebrows, but his stomach protests, and the aroma of the food makes his brain foggy. “i see… and when–”“they will be joining you shortly.”the marine captain is not used to being interrupted by those who are here to serve him. his brows furrow even deeper, but his tongue feels too heavy and her libs are too relaxed to endorse any type of adverse reaction. he thinks of the hot meal they serve him, thinks of the days in the ocean, thinks of how many times he had envisioned said moment.the first bite of the stew is exhilarating. usually, he would wait for his family to join, but it was a fit of childish-like behavior, he had the impetus to start their family dinner without said family. respect – that was what was lacking in that house, and honor to the one who brings them all.he finishes his first bowl and snaps his fingers to be served his second course.the tenderloin is finely sliced, and the gravy over the steamed vegetables is simmered to the point of perfection. he was no chef – he had no experience in the kitchen, but he could tell the care that was put into every single meal.“was this all you?” he asks in between courses, eyes trying to meet the servant’s. “it is delectable… what is your name? we shall have you preparing our meals every night.”all he gets in response is a low chuckle as they disappear into the kitchen once more only to resurface with another tray.“yes, it was me, my sir.”they place the tray in front of you. lift the cloche.what he sees, makes his stomach turn. not because of the horror of such action – he was known among his crew as the collector of such trinkets. stringing them in fine rope, hanging from the buckle of his belt, still dripping in blood.it’s not the ears arranged on the plate, no. it is the earrings that adorn two of them – gifts from him. his wife, daughter, and son.“xóchitl is the name, sir.” they sit beside you on the head of the table, caressing the tablecloth. “but like the place where I learned how to make this, i don’t believe you remember.”he remembers his daughter’s letters. of telling him of the ordinary, and then of the arrival. of her thank you for sending someone who understands her, someone who sows little dolls and plays house with her. someone who teaches her brother how to horseback ride, someone who talks with her mother when she feels most concerned.he also remembers the deep red of each letter, of the change of rhythm in her words – on the frequency in which each letter arrived.it sinks in his stomach, then, that the absence of theirs had been long cultivated – he just failed to notice. if his limbs were heavy then, they were slabs of marble now. his tongue glued to the roof, impossible to form any word other than guttural gargles coming from his numbed throat.what he cannot comprehend is the how. the odds of survival, the chances of making it. weeding out the corners of that profane island had been enough work to fill his pockets for this generation and a couple of others to come – and yet, they approach with the eyes that finally meet him, making him see what they had not shown him the entire day ever since his arrival.what they hid was not coyness.it was void.“i hope you enjoyed the meal.” poisoned, he had been poisoned. they approach him with nothing but their fingers, coiling around the hair on the nape of his hair, threatening to wrap around his throat. “i hope you never forget.” their voice crawled into his ear, the tears rolling down his face.“how painful it is to have all you love living inside of you.”they speak in a tongue long dead, one that he killed with his own hands, one that he strung ears around his belt, looted houses, ravaged families – and laugh at a joke only they understand.“even though you will shit them later.”

• WHAT DO YOU WISH FOR?

WILL YOU GET ON YOUR KNEES ONE LAST TIME?

what would you wish to the one that lives behind your prayers?real gods demand blood — but her altar there’s nothing but soot and ashes, not even a soul to whisper her name in fervor, not even a pan to be sliced in offering. from goddess, to myth, to object.hilarious, you think.real gods demand sacrifices — but what has all of that for?beware hungry children, her lover, Death, is selfish and has chased her since the dawn of time. envious and all consuming, killing all who dare to seek what is his.what is theirs.La Reina de los Muertos. Aquelas de muchas caras. La Señorita Venganza.Orphan, Widow, Mother.para tí, mama. para tí, papa. para mi amor, para mi ninã. para ti, abuelita.if it is sacrifice that they demand, you will give her one that she won't forget.blood will be shed.

xochitl wish is simple — but at the same time not that much. it comes from a place much darker, from a place she inhabits now after falling from grace. the despair and brokenness that came after her people were wiped from history only served as a cheap bargain, something that barely tipped the valance of justice in a war that wasn't their.she mused for long enough. what would someone ask, when they have nothing to expect from? what would you ask to the one person who had been deaf to your pleas all along?genesis had other names to her — to them. they had many gods, but she had been the patron, she had been the one whose offerings were often rich in number and quality.she wishes for her death — but not simply like that.xochitl wants a sacrifice, she wants her blood being shed, genesis head on a spike. divinity coming undone by her own blade.only then, she will call it justice.