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BDL #68 - El Mariachi
Dec. 2nd, 2005 11:08 pmTitle: Las Mañanitas
Author: Jaguar
Rating: PG
Fandom: El Mariachi (El Mariachi / Desperado / Once Upon A Time In Mexico)
Summary: El Mariachi contemplates the self-percieved wreck of his life as he prepares to leave the sanctuary of the church.
Contrary to what the weasel had implied, Mexicans weren’t that short. And he was hardly the biggest Mexican they had ever seen.
But he was adequate at filling a doorway, which he did with a vengeance.
The church was not plentiful with windows, and the candles barely cast a glow on the floor much less shone with any kind of brightness. He didn’t mind. It wasn’t that he liked the darkness out of some illiterate need to match his soul. It wasn’t even that dark, either. But the muted light was softer on his senses, and gave him a kind of rest he was never able to find in actual sleep.
His fingers found the sharp ends of steel guitar strings and poked them endlessly till they bled, just a little. He rarely used steel guitar strings for anything acoustic. This wasn’t even his, he’d picked it up off a dead man trying to get close enough to him to kill him. Not that he cared, but the man had interrupted his sulk.
He knew what he had to do. He was afraid of doing it.
Not what he had to do. Yes. He had to do it. She wouldn’t approve. But she was long gone.
“Estas son las mañanitas que cantaba el Rey David…” His fingers found the tune the same way his mother had found the tune; by instinct. How many generations had sung the Mañanitas from parent to child? He smiled.
He was still standing in the doorway, and it was deep enough to shade his eyes from the sunlight. Which was good. It was the heat of the day outside, bright and baking. An hour when any sensible mariachi would have been a la cama. The days when he had been a sensible, simple mariachi were long gone. Gone with her, the first and second times he’d tried. He’d tried so hard, too.
Third time lucky? Third time would not be any sort of charm for him, he wouldn’t take that risk. He’d gone through enough friends, enough loved ones, enough brothers both adopted and born to last a lifetime. Some of them he’d killed, some of them he might as well have killed, some of them he’d gotten killed. Confessional was a long litany of his crimes. But he was afraid to walk without at least a pretense of asking forgiveness, even if he had never believed it would be forthcoming anyway.
“Our father,” he hissed. Grated. Too many whiskey nights and screaming. “Who art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name.”
It was time. It was more than time, but he had to wait until he was ready. If he didn’t, he would be off his game and spoil the whole thing. Get more people killed. Wouldn’t want that on his conscience. One day it would be too much, then, boom.
“Perdóneme para lo que hecho,” he murmured. “y para lo que tengo que hacer.”
El Mariachi took a breath and stepped into the sunlight.
Author: Jaguar
Rating: PG
Fandom: El Mariachi (El Mariachi / Desperado / Once Upon A Time In Mexico)
Summary: El Mariachi contemplates the self-percieved wreck of his life as he prepares to leave the sanctuary of the church.
Contrary to what the weasel had implied, Mexicans weren’t that short. And he was hardly the biggest Mexican they had ever seen.
But he was adequate at filling a doorway, which he did with a vengeance.
The church was not plentiful with windows, and the candles barely cast a glow on the floor much less shone with any kind of brightness. He didn’t mind. It wasn’t that he liked the darkness out of some illiterate need to match his soul. It wasn’t even that dark, either. But the muted light was softer on his senses, and gave him a kind of rest he was never able to find in actual sleep.
His fingers found the sharp ends of steel guitar strings and poked them endlessly till they bled, just a little. He rarely used steel guitar strings for anything acoustic. This wasn’t even his, he’d picked it up off a dead man trying to get close enough to him to kill him. Not that he cared, but the man had interrupted his sulk.
He knew what he had to do. He was afraid of doing it.
Not what he had to do. Yes. He had to do it. She wouldn’t approve. But she was long gone.
“Estas son las mañanitas que cantaba el Rey David…” His fingers found the tune the same way his mother had found the tune; by instinct. How many generations had sung the Mañanitas from parent to child? He smiled.
He was still standing in the doorway, and it was deep enough to shade his eyes from the sunlight. Which was good. It was the heat of the day outside, bright and baking. An hour when any sensible mariachi would have been a la cama. The days when he had been a sensible, simple mariachi were long gone. Gone with her, the first and second times he’d tried. He’d tried so hard, too.
Third time lucky? Third time would not be any sort of charm for him, he wouldn’t take that risk. He’d gone through enough friends, enough loved ones, enough brothers both adopted and born to last a lifetime. Some of them he’d killed, some of them he might as well have killed, some of them he’d gotten killed. Confessional was a long litany of his crimes. But he was afraid to walk without at least a pretense of asking forgiveness, even if he had never believed it would be forthcoming anyway.
“Our father,” he hissed. Grated. Too many whiskey nights and screaming. “Who art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name.”
It was time. It was more than time, but he had to wait until he was ready. If he didn’t, he would be off his game and spoil the whole thing. Get more people killed. Wouldn’t want that on his conscience. One day it would be too much, then, boom.
“Perdóneme para lo que hecho,” he murmured. “y para lo que tengo que hacer.”
El Mariachi took a breath and stepped into the sunlight.