@neotropical / tribulation.
      DAWNS IN CARRION always seemed embedded in magic to Marcelo. Especially when he was a young boy. It didnât matter if it poured the whole night to nigh flood â at some point between four and six the morning would hit all at once like a hastily pulled curtain, and within seconds it would dry up the grass and desiccate the pavement. Within minutes no trace of water would be found. To the naked eye, it looked like a straight up mirage.
AdĂĄn Valenciano called it transmutation. Berenice Reyes called it the veiling. When Marcelo was eleven, waking up extra early just to see it with Alba and EliĂĄn, they called it the neighborhoodâs light switch, which is what Carrionâs kids still call it today, because thatâs what it looks like, and because they like that story better. Thatâs the story Ysmael Reyes gave them.
And who turns the switch? They â EliĂĄn, Alba, himself â had asked, then.
Who else? Ysmael would return, his smile wide, his eyes knowing. Who else, if not La Divina herself?
Itâs a good story. Part of it involves how Carrion came into place, a peculiar neighborhood in a county filled with all kinds of weird tales. To this day, he isnât sure if itâs true â it seems just the type of thing his father would embellish, or obfuscate â yet, heâs never tried to ask, either.
And now, now that heâs sure that he would get a truthful answer â he doesnât feel like knowing.
His eyes remain in the pool water, instead, ignoring her. Never mind she showed up seconds after the sun did. Never mind it feels like nobody â not one soul in the entirety of Carrion â is awake to witness this daybreak, with the exception of them. He waits for the darkness to disappear in its entirety, his eyes on the water as it goes from blue to white. He waits in silence and blinks away at the radiance when it arrives.
âLlegĂł un cierto momento en que la celebraciĂłn dejĂł de ser sobre mĂ, y empezĂł a ser sobre beber,â he goes finally, as he reaches for the ashtray sitting on the grass besides the chair and picks up a cigar. He lights it after a few seconds struggling with the bic. âPero no los puedo culpar, Âżsabes? No es todos los dĂas que visita La Locura. No lo vĂ, pero sĂ lo sentĂ. En el aire, en el humo.â Marcelo could smell the endorphin rush and exhilarated blood that could only be the deityâs work. Now, how to interpret it? A display of satisfaction, perhaps â a new regente, much like a new dawn, always denoted the beginning of a chapter of Carrionâs story. Â
âY no te vi a ti.â He finally looks at her, his head tilted. Perhaps a few years ago -- or a week ago -- he wouldâve sounded affected, but not anymore. Something was taken from him that first night. It got drained alongside his blood. And he hasnât slept since that time he passed out, thinking about it. âNi te sentĂ. ÂżEstabas aquĂ?â