He feels as though he's been scraped raw, inside and out. A nightmare of fire on his flesh and another before where he felt that burning and sickness in his guts. His head aches bad enough that he wonders if he actually did blackout and crack his head. One touch to his front teeth confirms that. He's missing one. He got sick as hell, dreamt of it, and the headache is from crashing down into the dirt road hard enough to knock a tooth out. That meant Ernesto should be nearby.
"Nnn- Nesto...? Ernesto?" With a groan he sits up and he knows then that something's wrong. A single bed, but that's not the problem-- they were a pair of músicos on the road, it wasn't pleasant but it saved them money to share. No, it's the rest of the room that's the problem.
In all the months he'd been on tour, the hotels all bleeding together in his mind, this is the first one he'd been sure he was entirely new to. No sensible place would put up, in a guest room, such a blatant depiction of hell. Red decor, that, he didn't need to see the note in order for the shiver to run down his spine, but there it is. Lying, theft, con-artistry, indulgence in impure substances, neglect of prayer and church attendance... okay so he wasn't a saint, but most of those were one-off things, and some were plain untrue. He doesn't recall turning a blind eye to anything. There were worse sins besides.
But there is a worse sin there on the list. It's enough to fill his heart with dread, making it sink under the heavy weight of it. Abandoned wife and child. It's there, written in blood. Even as he hears himself moan with fear, "No... no, no, no..."
He makes it to the hall, heart racing. Down to the lobby where-- "Madre de Dios...!"-- a monster, a demon, a hallucination surely, sits. He rushes past, out the door, praying now of all times for mercy. The hellfire reflects back in his wide eyes.
He stares, numb with horror, right up until another demon grips his wrist (causing him to cry out) and shoves a broom into his hand. He's told to get sweeping, and almost as though in thanks for not being stabbed with the broom, he stumbles over to do so. Badly.
Reach Up High I
He wishes he'd thought to beg and bargain before being shoved and locked in the room. He would have, unquestionably, but it wasn't until the door was closed and locked that he'd really seen what was in there. He mutters, Ay Dios, ay Santa Maria... but for the moment, any actual prayer escapes him. He grew up with nuns, how could he forget, he asks himself, but his panic continues to hide it all away.
And then someone else is shoved in. The papers appear, bringing the urge to snatch his back and hide it away. Then come the knives. And then the voice. His stomach turns and he looks up to meet the eyes of the one who's joined him.
"... Hola," He croaks in a voice that doesn't sound like his own.
Follow Me Down II
His guitar came with him to this... place. Somehow. His guitar, and some other things, including a change of clothes out of the charro suit. It was a miserable reminder but a relief all the same. At least there was still music in hell. The thought regularly summons all manner of thing between a laugh and a sob.
In any other place, a brush with a figure like that wouldn't go unnoticed, but here there are worse things. He doesn't even notice the difference really. He already feels worn down, hollowed, depleted. But eventually, it takes him like a fever. Anyone reaching for the jukebox is stopped as he frantically begins to plead.
"Let me play for you, I can do much better for you than that old thing! You'll listen to me won't you? Please, anything you want! Just a little while! A bit of your time, please--"
Anyone dodging around or passing by is met with the same persistence.
"Wait! Wait! Don't go! Let me play for you! I can write you a song! You'll like that, right? Please, just stay for a moment, don't walk away..." His voice cracks in his frenzy, a desperate smile plastered on that sits just shy of a pained grimace.
Héctor | Coco | OTA | cw: altered mental states, probably eventually blood, Major Movie Spoilers
He feels as though he's been scraped raw, inside and out. A nightmare of fire on his flesh and another before where he felt that burning and sickness in his guts. His head aches bad enough that he wonders if he actually did blackout and crack his head. One touch to his front teeth confirms that. He's missing one. He got sick as hell, dreamt of it, and the headache is from crashing down into the dirt road hard enough to knock a tooth out. That meant Ernesto should be nearby.
"Nnn- Nesto...? Ernesto?" With a groan he sits up and he knows then that something's wrong. A single bed, but that's not the problem-- they were a pair of músicos on the road, it wasn't pleasant but it saved them money to share. No, it's the rest of the room that's the problem.
In all the months he'd been on tour, the hotels all bleeding together in his mind, this is the first one he'd been sure he was entirely new to. No sensible place would put up, in a guest room, such a blatant depiction of hell. Red decor, that, he didn't need to see the note in order for the shiver to run down his spine, but there it is. Lying, theft, con-artistry, indulgence in impure substances, neglect of prayer and church attendance... okay so he wasn't a saint, but most of those were one-off things, and some were plain untrue. He doesn't recall turning a blind eye to anything. There were worse sins besides.
But there is a worse sin there on the list. It's enough to fill his heart with dread, making it sink under the heavy weight of it. Abandoned wife and child. It's there, written in blood. Even as he hears himself moan with fear, "No... no, no, no..."
He makes it to the hall, heart racing. Down to the lobby where-- "Madre de Dios...!"-- a monster, a demon, a hallucination surely, sits. He rushes past, out the door, praying now of all times for mercy. The hellfire reflects back in his wide eyes.
He stares, numb with horror, right up until another demon grips his wrist (causing him to cry out) and shoves a broom into his hand. He's told to get sweeping, and almost as though in thanks for not being stabbed with the broom, he stumbles over to do so. Badly.
Reach Up High I
He wishes he'd thought to beg and bargain before being shoved and locked in the room. He would have, unquestionably, but it wasn't until the door was closed and locked that he'd really seen what was in there. He mutters, Ay Dios, ay Santa Maria... but for the moment, any actual prayer escapes him. He grew up with nuns, how could he forget, he asks himself, but his panic continues to hide it all away.
And then someone else is shoved in. The papers appear, bringing the urge to snatch his back and hide it away. Then come the knives. And then the voice. His stomach turns and he looks up to meet the eyes of the one who's joined him.
"... Hola," He croaks in a voice that doesn't sound like his own.
Follow Me Down II
His guitar came with him to this... place. Somehow. His guitar, and some other things, including a change of clothes out of the charro suit. It was a miserable reminder but a relief all the same. At least there was still music in hell. The thought regularly summons all manner of thing between a laugh and a sob.
In any other place, a brush with a figure like that wouldn't go unnoticed, but here there are worse things. He doesn't even notice the difference really. He already feels worn down, hollowed, depleted. But eventually, it takes him like a fever. Anyone reaching for the jukebox is stopped as he frantically begins to plead.
"Let me play for you, I can do much better for you than that old thing! You'll listen to me won't you? Please, anything you want! Just a little while! A bit of your time, please--"
Anyone dodging around or passing by is met with the same persistence.
"Wait! Wait! Don't go! Let me play for you! I can write you a song! You'll like that, right? Please, just stay for a moment, don't walk away..." His voice cracks in his frenzy, a desperate smile plastered on that sits just shy of a pained grimace.