hold em tight.

—-

Pieces stuck together, disillusioned and disenchanted, it lingered on the table of which it was set on- and forgotten forever. 

And if you were there that day, you could probably still recount the heat you felt, the beads of sweat you did not even know of dripped slowly down your forehead.

1973, Tangara De Sahara, Kansas.

With the fire only becoming more violent due to the strong passing wind, the black thick tar went into the sky as if to escape. Almost “on top” of the buildings and fire was the hill of which Riquelme and his men stood on.

He kicked his feet back, and rolled down the hill, holding his rifle as he basically slid on his tread boots.

‘Riquelme’ stared into the distance,

At the boys burning the fire, he could recognize only 1,

‘Vento fala’ looked back at him, he had one thought,

‘Riquelme…’ and he looked worried.

‘?’ Riquelme had no idea why the boy was scared.

From the back of Vento Fala, he appeared, locking eyes with Riquelme, holding what seemed to be a new model of a pistol, or an old one?

‘I had… never seen anything quite like that before.’ It was small and silver, but the rounds were huge.

Hernan held the small silver pistol by his side, smirking as he pushed Vento aside,

‘This kid… who exactly is he’ a random hooligan at first? 

No…

‘Hes so much more than that.’ He looked to Riquelmes hands, which held a beretta. 

In his hand, was a saviour of his people, the ‘Cais.’

—-

He was frightened by the new gun, and he did not know It soon enough.

Riquelme knew everything about guns in the city, or he thought he knew.

But this was something he had never seen in Brazil before,

‘A WESTERN???’ He pulled his own trigger back as he began to spray at the figure of Hernan in the distance, 

‘POPPPPPPPPP’ he widened his eyes, almost stopping in his tracks as he felt a new kind of shock drip onto his soul, this bullet sound was mechanic, and it almost sounded like metal shattering and rubbing against each other.

Hernan held the boys by the shoulders as he sent them off, silencing Riquelme as he stood in shock, something even he did not want to do, It was ‘unconscious’

Sweat dripped down both of the men’s foreheads as the boys ran off, far away from the fire.

They faced each other as the heat began to condensate, the sweat spreading from their palms to the metal surface of their guns.

They faced each other as the fire blowed and twisted like ribbon,

Sweat dripped down his cheekbone, and he broke.

“Who are you?” Spoke Hernan.

‘Palma.’ He knew it.

“Who are you?” Spoke Riquelme, 

‘Some kinda terrorist?’

Hernan kept the grip on his gun tight.

“Youre a Brazilian nationalist… arent you?”

…”I don’t think that should matter to you”

Both of their hairs swayed, the same exact direction.

Riquelme looked at Hernan,

“Cause here- we’re the same man.”

Hernan raised a brow. 

“The land we live on… it’s the same.”

Hernan’s chest raised up and down, he breathed heavy as his grip trembled on the gun- not out of fear.

Riquelme looked at the gun he was holding, and drew some pictures in his head.

“That gun… isn’t a new model.” He recognized the framework,

“It’s a pathetic remake” of an old revolutionary gun.

“It is effective, and that is what matters” spoke Hernan as they stared at each other, the heat surrounding them.

They both raised their guns and pitted their feet, avoiding the fire and shooting.

They were nowhere to be seen after, and the houses continued to burn, the heat making an illusion in the scenery of the sky around.

The illusion continued, and it bled into Trems mind.

He panted and held his knees as he looked to the school burning on fire, the principals voice being loud, as he screamed with the very last of his life.

The illusion of the smoke mixed like smooth milk, and it created a scenery Trem had never seen before,

He felt delusional and mistaken, seeing these disfigured memories. 

‘I’m not… the person’ he begged, his forehead growing more sweaty ,

He could barely notice the haze of figures of men running away from the cops and the firemen, a shootout beginning as chars fell on his black head of hair like snow.

He felt a hand grip his own,

A soft gentle hand, and it brought him back to Sophia.  

She was crying, sweat dripping down her face, 

And they began to run into the distance, far , far away from this trouble.

&

Trem ran in a haze, he could feel his bones crunching, the fire only beginning to fade away from his mind-

Than he was greeted with something greater than he could ever think of. 

The neighbourhood had burnt to a crisp, and it had felt like watching an eternal movie with no commentary or narrative,

It was almost quiet, as the fire violently melted over the houses, like he had been watching an extinction unfold.

It was serenely silent, the fire making the only crackling sound,

It was unaware it was burning,

It was unaware it was violent,

It was unaware it plundered and raped,

And it was unaware it was terrifying,

And that was the scariest part of them all. 

Trem could see the smoke entering his nose again, and the ground below him blurred,

He saw faint metal shine, a small pistol. 

As the sun began to peak and shine bright from the day, it almost blinded his eyes, mixing well with the mangled mess of violent aching fire, it acted like its father.

Trem reached out for the gun, his mind barely working to gather a clear thought,

He reached a hand out,

And he grabbed nothing.

He stumbled back, gasping for air in Sophia’s arms,

He had no idea, but his mind was too poisoned to focus at all of this at once.

Trem gathered the last willpower he had left, and looked around for some sort of life in this limbo, 

But his boys were gone, and Riquelme were nowhere to be seen.

And it saved him,

It was almost an illusion, like the sky mocking him, 

But a house in the distance,

Blue like the sun he once knew, a faint memory of only seconds ago clouded and suffocated by the memory of fire and smoke inhalation,

Was far unaffected by the fire,

He gained a clear mind, and walked fourth to the house, opening it and throwing himself inside, the shadow of Sophia following him.

He crawled on the floor, heaving and wet as he screamed and tried to find water,

His thumbs and fingers were cut as he slammed around cabinets, various knockers falling out,

He felt a dull ache of pain.

He reached the bottom cabinet and opened it, throwing the sketchbook far, opening a page.

He found water, an old case bottled, and chugged it as it rode down his throat.

His eyes turned to the open sketchbook,

And there was a sketch drawn by an artist,

Of him and Riquelme,

With Sophia in the background, holding the same gun that was his illusion.