theysayitsonlyapapermoon:

Stories of Héctor and Imelda throughout their lives, and, for good measure, their deaths.  All featuring some variation of an apology.

For whatever reason, they had to apologize a lot.

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1910

“I expected this sort of thing from your brothers,” Sor María tied off the bandage wrap so it remained snug and trimmed the loose end with a deft pair of scissors.  She had been saying that all morning.  

Imelda tried to open and close her fists, relishing in the painful bruised sensation it caused.  “I didn’t start—"

“It doesn’t matter who started what,” Sor María covered Imelda’s wet hair with another towel and began ruthlessly scrubbing it.  “We all must take responsibility for our own sin. There’s no blaming other people for your actions.”

Imelda groaned under the towel.  María yanked it off, leaving her hair standing up in all directions, arguably more of a black mess than how she came in.  “I want you to apologize to that boy,” she continued, “both in person and in prayer. ¿Entiendes?“  Her long billowy sleeves covered Imelda’s face for a short minute while she tried to re-part the girl’s hair.  She began to methodically brush it out while it was still damp.

Imelda seethed at every snag.  She was more than old enough to wash and brush her own hair.  If anything this incident proved she was capable of taking care of herself.  She absently kicked her legs in the air, just centimeters from touching the floor.  Two large, square bandages were bound over both kneecaps.  The scrapes still stung.  Her muddy, ruined dress hung in a shapeless mass over the lip of a small bucket next to the bathtub.  Her mud caked shoes were in there too.

If she concentrated in her mind she could still hear the satisfying, twanging crack the guitar made when she had swung it down.

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