𝕋𝕙𝕣𝕖𝕖 𝕁𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕖𝕤

Miguel had no idea what was going on, how she could literally be so wrong over everything. His mind debated once again if this was some kind of trick to get him to act more passively– but it didn’t seem to be in her kind of style. Plus, under all the denial there was a genuine feeling to her concern that just didn’t fit that story.

“Ernesto never had the guitarra– I’m not stupid.” he argued, feeling for the first time in forever his temper rise. “I died, you think I don’t remember it!? I relive that all the time!” as much as he tried to shell himself up to avoid it. He kept having to relive those memories on the dime. Seeing something that brought them to the front of his mind was so common anymore. “Don’t tell me I’m wrong. I know what I saw.” he argued, pulling back this time. His head was pounding, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“Héctor killed De La Cruz! That’s why I’m still here! Because he wouldn’t let me go home!” he forced out, though the issue of his light-headedness was getting worse and worse. “Just leave me alone, por favor… I don’t wanna talk anymore.” it hurt, and he felt like he was going to be sick and faint all at once. This was too much, everything was just too much right now.

Imelda was beginning to worry that there was something wrong in su cabeza. For him to think these things, something must be very wrong, dangerously so, worryingly so. It would be one thing to be confused, from the shock of such a young death, but so much was confused, so much that could not possibly be thought up. Imelda wanted to shake him, to shake out these mistakes and mentiras, and make him see the truth, make him see right. But shaking him would do no more good than shouting at him. 

“No, no, Miguel, no,” Imelda felt tears sting her eyes at hearing that their boy could even think for una segonda that Héctor could ever do something so terrible. She had believed he had abandoned them, that he had put music before his family, but even in her darkest moments she could not have believed him capable of something so terrible. So how could Miguel? “No, I will not leave you alone, not when you are like this, when you are…..” She took his face in her hands and turned him to look at her, praying he would not pull away, that he would see her expression and listen. 

“Ernesto murdered Héctor because he wanted to come home to me and your Mamá Coco. When you realised this he tried to kill you, an entire concert hall saw him throw you off the ledge…if Pepita had not caught you….” The thought still made Imelda shudder, how close it had been to Miguel hitting those stones. A painful yet harmless fall for a skeleton, but for a living boy? Fatal. “The whole thing was filmed by–” Imelda stopped, realising a potential solution to break through this locura that was infecting Miguel. This Miguel Imelda did not recognise, a Miguel so diferente from the boy she had seen every día de muertos and met on the most recent….

“Come with me, mijo,” She took his hand with all the firmness and affection of a loving and insistant abuela, “I am going to show you what happened” 

It was the exact same thing, just a different story. What was the difference between ‘Its for the family’ and ‘It didn’t happen’? They both were just trying to sweep everything under the rug, after all. This family seemed good at sweeping all their issues under the rug, and he was just accepting that it would happen. When she told him he was wrong he just stared, expression wall-eyed again as he pushed his opinions down. It had always been a good source of defense and now was when he really needed it. It would be so much easier to just nod along and pretend like he was paying attention than to actually continue to fight. He didn’t want to fight anyone. He was just tired now.

In his head he could tell her exactly how she was wrong-- how Héctor had come home, given his Mamá Coco four younger siblings, and how he had become famous. How their family was now beloved for not only Héctor, but the generations of musicians, dancers, actors, and composers that had come after him. The only thing that got an actual rise out of him was when she mentioned Pepita. The youngers frame stiffened with a sort of fear, making him seem almost smaller. He didn’t trust that one anywhere near him. He couldn’t help it. It was hard to avoid, but he did his best.

When told to follow he let himself be lead, as though he couldn’t handle himself. Though when he closed in on himself like this he really couldn’t handle himself.

“I never took your foto. Or anyones.” he argued, hating himself for not being able to just tune everything out like normal. But nothing about this was normal. None of it made any sense, and it was hard to try and make it make sense.

When asked to recount what happened he shifted, uncomfortable with reliving the night he died. But he could, if he had to. He wanted to clear everything up, so if thats really what had to happen? As much as it made him shudder he could handle it. He just had to get it over with as quickly as possible, then he wouldn’t have time to dwell on the worse details, right? That’s what he was hoping anyways.

“…I wanted to play music. Like Papá. I wanted to be famous, but I ran away.. ‘cause abuelita wasn’t happy with me.” because he planned to run away and leave the family behind, but– “I tried to steal Papá’s guitar from your graves…. a-and I ended up here?” he felt like he hadn’t even lived through these events, and like he was recounting a story he heard in a book or something. “I met… Ernesto. He said he could help me get to Papá so I could get home. I followed him for awhile, but he wasn’t… good? Dante took me the rest of the way.” he breathed– now this was the hard part. “I spent some time with Papá Héctor, but then Ernesto came back. They argued for awhile. I figured out what happened and Papá… he…” he couldn’t say what had happened. Not that part. There was still a primal fear in remembering seeing Pepita, in seeing what she did to Ernesto. He couldn’t move past it. “Papá wanted me to keep Ernesto’s murder a secret… but I couldn’t!” now he was starting to breathe more heavily, feeling a wave of unwanted emotions and fear. “….he locked me in a room, and I died.” he forced himself to finish, voice barely over a whisper at this point as he slid to the edge of panic, barely able to keep himself coherent. 

Now that was more than simply forgetting something, this was remembering things entirely differently. Worryingly so. How could Miguel not remember he took her foto or that Héctor needed his to be retrieved. She had only ended up on that stage in their search for that foto, trying to take it back from Ernesto. 

“Our graves?” Imelda shook her head, “I– Héctor, the guitarra was–” Imelda kept stopping herself mid sentence for there was too much that was wrong, too much to correct, it was all wrong, Miguel was not just saying things incorrectly; he was inventing! “Ah-ah-ah” Imelda shook her head firmly, “You took the guitarra from De La Cruz because he” The mere pronoun had hatred burning into it, “took it from Héctor” Stole his guitarra as well as his life. That was adding insult to injury! 

“Ernesto’s murder?” Imelda shook her head again, “No, Ernesto is the murderer, Miguel. He killed Héctor and he never even told me that he had died. Ernesto is the one who tried to kill you, twice, to keep you quiet, not– Héctor would never do anything to you, to anyone, not in a hundred years, nunca.  Why are you– how could you— Ay, something is very wrong. You cannot believe--” Or quizás he could not be their boy at all. But that was not possible….

“Miguel, look at me, look at me, mijo,” She instructed with gentle firmness, “I do not know what is going on, but I promise you, Héctor would never hurt you, Ernesto De La Cruz is a dangerous man, and we did send you home, your life was más importante than anything, más importante than our memory, más importante han any foto. We sent you home and you, you helped Coco remember, you helped Héctor live on. I do not know why you are remembering things so differently” And she began to wonder if he should be here at all, “but we will find the answer, lo prometo” 

Miguel had no idea what was going on, how she could literally be so wrong over everything. His mind debated once again if this was some kind of trick to get him to act more passively-- but it didn’t seem to be in her kind of style. Plus, under all the denial there was a genuine feeling to her concern that just didn’t fit that story.

“Ernesto never had the guitarra-- I’m not stupid.” he argued, feeling for the first time in forever his temper rise. “I died, you think I don’t remember it!? I relive that all the time!” as much as he tried to shell himself up to avoid it. He kept having to relive those memories on the dime. Seeing something that brought them to the front of his mind was so common anymore. “Don’t tell me I’m wrong. I know what I saw.” he argued, pulling back this time. His head was pounding, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t bother to argue, if only because he was beginning to tell that it was pointless. She wasn’t listening to him explain, and he really didn’t have it in him to keep going back and forth like this. Instead he just shook his head, denying what had been said to him. He wasn’t stupid, he remembered very well what had happened, even if it usually didn’t seem like it. His own death wasn’t something he could forget, or push away easily.

“…What does your foto have to do with anything?” he questioned despite himself. They had dozens of foto’s of both her and Papá. If not from the families personal albums than from the literal hundreds of videos, albums, and news articles that were made about them both. He didn’t understand why that was relevant, and it only added to the obvious confusion of the situation. So he didn’t question further, only put his head down with a soft sigh of acceptance that he was not going to realize what was going on any time soon.

“…Sí, lets go?” he felt tired, and this was a good excuse to try and find a way to not have this conversation and instead to avoid it, even if he was curious. He stiffened in the hug, but made no move to pull away.

“At first mi foto had everything to do with everything,” Imelda insisted as she led Miguel the short distance home, “You took my foto and they wouldn’t let me cross the bridge and I….” She had not wanted to be trapped on this side, trapped on Día de Muertos like the nearly Forgotten…having no foto was one step closer to being forgotten. It was easier to pass down a story when there was a face to put to a name...it was why people were generally more remembered now than they had been a hundred years ago. Her own padres had been Forgotten….they had died when Coco was too young to remember them, and Imelda’s memories were few enough, and without a foto to keep them in her mind, those few memories had been lost a long time ago and when Imelda’s hermanos had died also….there had been no one left to remember their padres or their abuelos or tell their stories….Imelda was now the eldest Rivera in the Land of the Dead and a veces it made her wonder….

“But your life, mijo, is más importante than a foto or crossing any bridge. Siempre” She looked at Miguel with concern as they walked and she kept him close to her side just in case he decided to run off, for he seemed…not himself. Why could he not remember? Why did he think things so differently? And how could he possibly have been here months? 

Imelda stopped walking abruptly and turned to look at her great-great-grandson with solemn preparation. “Miguel, tell me everything that happened that night you came here. All of it. From our first meeting until sunrise. Tell me”

When asked to recount what happened he shifted, uncomfortable with reliving the night he died. But he could, if he had to. He wanted to clear everything up, so if thats really what had to happen? As much as it made him shudder he could handle it. He just had to get it over with as quickly as possible, then he wouldn’t have time to dwell on the worse details, right? That’s what he was hoping anyways.

Miguel was just at the point of beginning to close himself off, or at least trying to. The complexity of this situation left him unable to build that little shell around himself, and it made his skin crawl in a horrible way. She seemed so confused, and seeing such a face on someone he knew to be rock solid and infallible was such an odd and disturbing concept over anything else. It left him even more vulnerable than before.

When she yelled out the question he jumped half a mile, fear coming onto his face. He felt like he was going to be sick, instantly recoiling back. That didn’t work out though, considering his wrist was grabbed and he was yanked forward. He didn’t pull away, letting himself be yanked around like a rag doll. When asked what she did do he felt his stomach turn. “I-I stayed here, with you guys? With the rest of the family…” he whimpered out. “After E–” he didn’t want to say his name. Not to remember that night past what he already was.

“…lemme go, Por favor. You’re confusing me.” he didn’t want to say hurting. Hurting sounded so bad.

“No, no, Miguel, you did not. We sent you home”  Imelda insisted firmly, “We would never have failed to send you home, mijo, never, that was más importante to us than anything else, then mi foto or Héctor’s, any of it, was getting you home and home safe” Imelda remembered how angry she had been when she realised he taken her foto off the ofrenda, but soon she had stopped caring about that, she had only cared about finding Miguel and getting him home. 

“I am confusing you?” Imelda asked in disbelief. It could have almost been comical if not for the severe confusion of the situation. “Mijo, I am worried, none of this is right, you are not–” Imelda pulled him even closer, her hands on his cheeks, as she looked at him with warm concern. “We need to correct whatever it is that has happened, why this is all so wrong, Miguel” Quizás Héctor would know…he had been around longer in the Land of the Dead than any of them and a veces he knew things she did not

“Come home, mijo, and have something to drink and we will sort all this, lo prometo” She brushed his hair lovingly, before hugging him again. She just wished she knew what this was.

“...What does your foto have to do with anything?” he questioned despite himself. They had dozens of foto’s of both her and Papá. If not from the families personal albums than from the literal hundreds of videos, albums, and news articles that were made about them both. He didn’t understand why that was relevant, and it only added to the obvious confusion of the situation. So he didn’t question further, only put his head down with a soft sigh of acceptance that he was not going to realize what was going on any time soon.

“...Sí, lets go?” he felt tired, and this was a good excuse to try and find a way to not have this conversation and instead to avoid it, even if he was curious. He stiffened in the hug, but made no move to pull away.

That did it for him– something was really wrong here. As if that was not obvious before. “You never gave me your blessing.” it was funny, how he suddenly had so much in him to argue. Expending this much energy was usually out of the question these days. “Papá refused to give me it.” he knew he shouldn’t talk so poorly of the people who essentially took him in. But maybe this encounter gave him just a little bit of fire.

It was weird, like neither of them remembered things the same. A bit of observation skills could tell him that something was amiss, but it couldn’t reveal what it is. To him the most likely reason would be some kind of ploy, but also that didn’t seem like something they’d do. Especially not to him.

“….a few months?” he shook his head { he wasn’t quite sure how long it had been since that night }, trying to appear more stern, but in the end he just looked tired. He was tired. There was a reason he didn’t usually have in-depth conversations with people anymore. Well, beyond his own need to protect himself from what other people may have to say to him. In that case this was beginning to wear down on him again, leaving him debating when would be the best time to just check out until she gave up on trying to continue talking. 

Imelda really pulled back then. If he remembered nothing else, he would remember that she gave him her blessing, and he would remember that both she and Héctor were the ones to give their blessing together in the end, that it had all been so close, that if not for Miguel arriving in the Land of the Dead and being sent back to the Land of the Living, so many mentiras would not have been found and Héctor would have been Forgotten for something he had never done. 

Miguel would remember all that, no matter what. And he would not think that Héctor would refuse. 

“Months?” Imelda screeched in horror. No, they would have known, that was not possible. Someone would have alerted them; Family Reunions could make mistakes, sí, but not that much. “Ay, what is going on? You–” She pointed at Miguel, “– there is something not right aquí. Héctor and I, we both....” Without warning, she grabbed Miguel’s hand in order to pull him towards her to get a better look at all of him. She tried to see if he was an impostor, someone pretending to be Miguel, but aside from his eyes, he was exactly as she would expect him to be. But los ojos...they were diferente. Something in them was different.

“If we did not give you our blessing, what did we do, Miguel?”

When she yelled out the question he jumped half a mile, fear coming onto his face. He felt like he was going to be sick, instantly recoiling back. That didn’t work out though, considering his wrist was grabbed and he was yanked forward. He didn’t pull away, letting himself be yanked around like a rag doll. When asked what she did do he felt his stomach turn. “I-I stayed here, with you guys? With the rest of the family...” he whimpered out. “After E--” he didn’t want to say his name. Not to remember that night past what he already was.

“You never said that to me.” it’s blunt and to the point. Not with the intention of being rude, but instead with one of confusion. She never really spoke to him about love, instead about protecting the rest of their family. It was always about guarding their secrets, never about actual love or care. He forced himself to calm down either way, not wanting to go back down that dark path that seemed to constantly haunt him. 

This encounter was just leaving him shaken for no good reason– as though kindness was unheard of in their situation. Of course Mamá Imelda and Papá loved him they just loved everyone else too, and had to protect the entire family, not just him.

“I-I’m just confused…” he finally replied, shaking his head as though to clear the bad thoughts from himself. It didn’t work, but it was a nice effort.

Imelda blinked, pulling back, entirely surprised that Miguel did not remember a conversation that had been so important to both of them.  “Sí, I did, Miguel,” Imelda insisted, “I gave you my blessing and I told you that my condition was to never forget how much we love you”  It had given Miguel the blessing to go home freely, the ban on music lifted, and he had Héctor’s foto…so much had happened in so short a time…how could he not remember that?

“That can happen when people first arrive aquí,” Imelda reassured him, crouching down a little to try and make herself meet his eye level a little better, “People forget how they died or they find it too strange…but it is easier when there is your familia to help you. And you have that, mijo…we all love you and we will help you.” But her words didn’t shake the worry that something was not right, something was wrong here, wrong with Miguel…and he wasn’t answering her preguntas how she would like him to answer them. It was only making her feel worse.

It was weird, like neither of them remembered things the same. A bit of observation skills could tell him that something was amiss, but it couldn’t reveal what it is. To him the most likely reason would be some kind of ploy, but also that didn’t seem like something they’d do. Especially not to him.

It was obvious she was concerned, but the concern didn’t feel double sided like normal. It was confusing at best. The conversation was making him more and more anxious, leaving a cold ball in his stomach. He ed to calm down, but this entire encounter left him feeling odd  Why was she suddenly being so nice?

When her hands went to his shoulders Miguel didn’t actually argue, instead stiffening up some.This was a lot.

When she brought up his Papá the boy almost nodded– if only because of the horrid sort of dependence his had on him. At the same time, though, everything felt weird, and for some reason he felt like that wasn’t going to change. So instead of answering he just stared blankly, eyes wide with confusion yet again.

“Miguel….” Imelda tried to make eye contact but it was like trying to look into stone. Even when looking directly at him, she did not feel as if he was looking back. Had losing his life effected him so much? It was a shock for everyone to find themselves at llegadas, to know you were in the Land of the Dead, and a veces the younger they were, the harder the shock, pero...Miguel knew his familia, he knew they loved him and would be here for him….that should help as it helped all of them….

“You have your familia, mijo. Remember what I told you? To never forget how much your family loves you….we are here,” Imelda reached out again, to cup his cheek and could not help but be saddened to feel bone instead of flesh

“Tell me..” She encouraged, “What are you thinking in that cabeza of yours?” 

This encounter was just leaving him shaken for no good reason-- as though kindness was unheard of in their situation. Of course Mamá Imelda and Papá loved him they just loved everyone else too, and had to protect the entire family, not just him.

“I-I’m just confused...” he finally replied, shaking his head as though to clear the bad thoughts from himself. It didn’t work, but it was a nice effort.

“This is how I always act?” if this was some weird attempt at getting him to change it was a horrible one. He was sure that some kind of therapist she had hired had put her up to this. There really wasn’t any other explanation in his mind. It was so out of the blue for him to think that she was actually being kind to him without some ulterior motive to it. It was almost like she had never seen him before. Like when he first died and everyone fretted over him and stared as if they were seeing some big tragedy.

It didn’t even occur to Miguel anymore that everything about this was some big tragedy, and that he had been treated unfairly.

When she opened her arms he just stared in confusion. Of course he knew what she was offering, but it felt so out of place that he couldn’t accept it. “N-No gracias?”

“No, no es,” Imelda argued, shaking her head a little. She knew her Miguel, she knew him from every year she had seen him on Día de Muertos and from the Día de Muertos when she had spoken with him, held him, worried for him, helped him, learning more about him than she had any of her other familia that she had never known in life. 

The refusal to accept her hug only confirmed that was something was even more wrong than she had realised. Miguel always, always accepted her hugs. 

“Miguel,” She reached out, attempting to grab him gently by the shoulders, “I know you must feel muy-- it is–” Ay, she was losing her words. She took a breath, “Would you prefer to talk to your Papá Héctor?” Héctor had a skill for bringing out a smile where no one else could, “Do you want me to bring him aquí?”

When her hands went to his shoulders Miguel didn’t actually argue, instead stiffening up some.This was a lot.

When she brought up his Papá the boy almost nodded-- if only because of the horrid sort of dependence his had on him. At the same time, though, everything felt weird, and for some reason he felt like that wasn’t going to change. So instead of answering he just stared blankly, eyes wide with confusion yet again.

This entire encounter was odd. Usually he was addressed with an aloof annoyance at best, especially from the families matriarch. So having such a concerned look cross her face left him a bit rattled. Usually that sort of affection was reserved only for his Mamá Coco and her siblings, after all. 

“I don’t understand what you mean.” he replied to the question, canting his head slightly to the side. It was enough to get him out of his thoughts at the very least. If it was over him grinning a tiny bit– that just seemed a bit cruel to point out. It was easier to just recoil in on himself than to try and explain anything, so thats what he did, an almost distant look in the boys eyes as he tried to avoid any actual confrontation.

“You do not– you are not yourself, Miguel,” Imelda explained, “And that you are here when….” Taking her courage in her hands, Imelda reached out to touch Miguel’s face and pulled back in horror almost immediately. The touch of bone was undeniable. “Ay dios….” Her words came out in a sad sigh as she continued to look at Miguel, a pain in her throat. No wonder he was acting so strange, why he was so…

Why had they not been told? Why had the Department not let them know? He was her great-great-grandson; they should have known.

“Ay, Miguel..pobrecito...no wonder you are–Ven acá ven acá, mijo” Imelda encouraged, opening her arms for Miguel to fall into as he had many times before. 

"This is how I always act?” if this was some weird attempt at getting him to change it was a horrible one. He was sure that some kind of therapist she had hired had put her up to this. There really wasn’t any other explanation in his mind. It was so out of the blue for him to think that she was actually being kind to him without some ulterior motive to it. It was almost like she had never seen him before. Like when he first died and everyone fretted over him and stared as if they were seeing some big tragedy.

It didn’t even occur to Miguel anymore that everything about this was some big tragedy, and that he had been treated unfairly.

Imelda could not stop looking at their boy. ‘Is that weird’ was a pregunta that she could answer a dozen times ‘sí’, but it was not the expression that was strange, it was everything about him. He was…diferente. The strangest was that he was here at all; Imelda had thought that it was make-up again, like last time, but…even Héctor was not that good at painting. She was almost too afraid to reach out to check, to see….

“Yo…creo que I am surprised enough, Miguel,” Imelda decided, hand reaching out and then pulling back. “Cómo…..” She stopped mid-question and chose another, still not daring to touch the make-up that looked like it was not make-up at all,  “What is going on, mijo?”

This entire encounter was odd. Usually he was addressed with an aloof annoyance at best, especially from the families matriarch. So having such a concerned look cross her face left him a bit rattled. Usually that sort of affection was reserved only for his Mamá Coco and her siblings, after all.