Breakfast and Ditch?

***Dru’s POV***

*Crack.* Lightning through my thighs.

*Crack.* Fire along my spine.

The numbers bled into static, the countdown dead—but the crescent scar pulsed, a metronome counting breaths Louise couldn’t steal. Above me, Louise’s face contorted—a funhouse mirror of the mom who’d taught me to braid hair, bake snickerdoodles, lie to CPS with honeyed *“Yes, ma’ams.”*

“Look at me!” She grabbed my chin, her breath reeking of menthols and communion wine.

The tenth lash peeled skin. Louise’s aim had improved—this one caught the tender hollow between shoulder blades, where the whip had split me open at fourteen. Blood slicked my spine, warm as the bourbon Louise used to clean my wounds before church.

“Konte!” (“Count!”) she hissed, her voice ragged with exertion.

I choked on numbers that weren’t days. *Seven lashes. Eight. Nine…* The world narrowed to the whip’s arc, the *crack* echoing off cinder blocks, the copper tang of my own ruin.

A crow cawed—three notes, sharp and discordant—as it slammed into the basement’s lone window.

We both froze.

The bird righted itself, talons scraping the grimy glass. Its eyes glowed red, twin embers in the dark, fixed on mine. Louise staggered back, the whip trembling in her grip. “Mwen pa bezwen èd Papa Legba!” (“I don’t need Papa Legba’s help!”)

The name hung in the air, familiar and forbidden. *Papa Legba.* Gran’s stories whispered of the crossroads spirit, but this thing’s gaze burned—hungry, impatient.

“Move!” Louise lunged, but the crow cawed again, the sound warping like a warped vinyl record.

The crow tilted its head, red eyes bleeding into molten gold—warm as the peppermint gum Dad always tucked behind my ear. Louise froze, the whip slipping from her grip. “Li pa pou ou,” the bird croaked—“She’s not yours.”

Louise lunged, her scream raw as a rusted hinge. “Mwen se manman li!” (“I’m her mother!”)

The bulb overhead shattered, glass raining down as shadows pooled—not darkness, but absence, the void where Dragon’s roar should’ve been.

The eleventh lash never landed.

*Or it did.*

Pain transcended flesh, becoming a cathedral of static. Louise’s screams dissolved as the crow’s wings filled the room, their rhythm syncing with my pulse. The basement door yawned open, sunlight bleeding down the stairs. A silhouette stood there, backlit and blurred, the scent of peppermint and bourbon cutting through the rot.

“Pa lage (Don’t let go),” a thick Creole accent spoke.

The voice rumbled like thunder over a creek I couldn’t name. *Dad?* But Dad was ash. A story Louise told through gritted teeth. *“Ran off with some whore,”* she’d say, sloshing bourbon into her tea. My temples throbbed. Hallucinations. Had to be.

“Nou pa fini, ti fi.” (“We’re not done, little girl.”) The words weren’t Louise’s. They came from everywhere. Nowhere.

Then, nothing.

Not peace.

Not yet.

Just the merciful hollow where pain couldn’t follow.

*Click.*

The bulb died.

Somewhere, a crow hit glass.

*Or maybe it was just my skull.*

*602 days left.*

*******Somewhere deep in a Louisiana Bayou*****

***Anonymous POV***

Sitting in my garage, grease-streaked hands tightening bolts on my Road King’s new pipes, I let the phone ring. *Too early for Ti Blan’s report.* But instinct prickled—the same itch that’d saved my ass in ’05 when Hurricane Katrina tried to drown New Orleans.

I snatched the phone. *“Report.”*

“Boss, she’s here—the girl with the moon scar. Louise is spiraling. You said to call if…” Ti Blan’s voice crackled, tiny with fear.

“Kote li ye?” (“Where is she?”)

“Basement. Thermal cam’s picking up… Boss, it’s bad.”

I slammed the phone down, my thumb brushing the crescent moon welded to my gas tank—*Lou Nwa’s promise*. *Louise... sakre salòp sa ale nan lanfè ak tout mantalite’w!* (“Damn that bitch to Hell with all your lies!”)

Gwo Pistolee answered on half a ring. “Nou pare?” (“We ready?”)

“Mount up. We ride at dawn. Mobile by noon.”

The new pipes could wait. Some storms couldn’t.

******

***Dru's POV***

The cafeteria’s fluorescents hummed like dying flies. Dragon slid into the seat next to me, reeking of motor oil and *something herbal*—sage, maybe, or the bitter tang of rue. He dropped a paper bag between us, grease bleeding through the bottom. Inside: two tamales wrapped in banana leaves, still steaming.

“Mrs. García sold the last ones,” he said, nudging the bag closer. “But if we leave now, I’ll save you the chicken one.”

I picked at my oatmeal, Vicodin blurring the edges of his lie. “Since when do you care about tamales? Trying to play hero?”

He leaned back, boots propped on the chair opposite. The movement pulled his shirt collar askew, revealing a faded red thread around his neck—*protection against evil eye*, Louise would’ve sneered. “Since you stopped eating,” he said, eyes flicking to the untouched milk carton. “And I’m no hero.” He tore open a sugar packet, sprinkling it over the tamales like fake snow. “Just came to steal the princesa for the day.”

Across the room, the football team chanted over syrup-sticky pancakes. Normal noise. Normal kids. Normal lives where mothers didn’t braid leather whips between PTA meetings.

Dragon’s knee bumped mine under the table. “Vamos. (Let’s go.) One hour,” he said, nodding at the exit. “I’ll take you somewhere quiet. No cameras. No…” He mimed a lashing motion, fingers snapping like a whip.

The Vicodin dulled the flinch, but not the memory—Louise’s whip still sang in my bones. “She’ll call Ray.”

“Ray está ocupado (Ray’s busy),” Dragon smirked, pulling a parking ticket from his vest—Ray’s truck, towed from the BP lot at 6 a.m. ”Until noon).”

Ray. Deputy Dawkins. The cop who’d “responded” to Louise’s 911 calls since I was eight, always leaving with a Bud Light in his squad car and a wink at Hank.

The tamales’ aroma cut through the cafeteria stench—cumin, masa, a whisper of azahar (orange blossom). My stomach growled. Dragon’s smile sharpened.

Ms. Chestang hovered by the trash cans, her gaze darting between us. Dragon stood abruptly, chair screeching. “Thanks for the tutoring,” he said too loud, tossing a battered Spanish textbook onto the table. *Remedios Caseros: Medicina Tradicional* (Home Remedies: Traditional Medicine).

I stiffened. The cover photo showed a woman grinding herbs in a molcajete (stone mortar), her hands wrinkled but steady. *Marisol.* The name surfaced like a bruise—Dragon’s muttered curses when his bike backfired, his fist clenching whenever someone mentioned curanderas (healers).

He gripped my elbow, voice dropping. “You need rest, Dru.” Not a request.

The bell rang. Students surged toward the doors. Dragon’s thumb pressed the pulse point at my wrist, checking what? My heartbeat? My will?

“A quiet place,” he repeated, softer now. “Nada más (Nothing else).”

But the tamales, the red thread, the book—all threads leading to a truth he wouldn’t name.

I let him pull me up. The world tilted, whip welts screaming beneath wool. Dragon steadied me, his palm scorching through the cardigan.

“The helmet?” He nodded at the pink helmet under his arm.

“Where’s yours?”

He grinned, all danger and dimples. “Heroes die pretty, princesa. I’m the storm.”

The bike roared to life in the staff parking lot. Dragon didn’t head for the highway. Instead, he wove through overgrown back roads, *kudzu* slapping our legs. We passed the cemetery where Dad’s ashes were never buried, the abandoned gas station where Hank used to stash his meth. A patrol car idled in the weeds—Ray’s, judging by the “PROUD TO SERVE” bumper sticker peeling beside a Confederate flag decal.

“Almost there.” Dragon shouted over the wind.

The house appeared like a mirage—a shotgun shack with turquoise shutters, laundry flapping on the line. Palo santo smoke curled from the chimney. A woman stood in the doorway, her silhouette framed by dried chilis and a crucifix. Her eyes locked onto mine, wide and wet, like she’d seen a ghost.

Dragon killed the engine.

“You said tamales,” I slurred, swaying.

He caught me before I fell, his hands gentler than they’d ever been. “I said I’d help you.”

Marisol clicked her tongue. “Ay, mijo. Qué le hicieron a esta niña?” (“Oh, son. What did they do to this girl?”)

Dragon’s grip tightened. “What cowards do.”

The screen door creaked. Somewhere, a sparrow sang. The scent of azahar bloomed—not from the tamales, but from Marisol’s wrists. Orange blossoms. Familiar but the memory escapes my clouded mind. My knees buckled.

*602 days.*

Marisol’s hands paused over my scars, her frown deepening. “Esto no es nuevo (This isn’t new),” she muttered, tracing a jagged welt. “Old scars hurt worse.”

“S’fine,” I mumbled, Vicodin thickening my tongue. “Can’t feel it. Louise’s pills… make the red eyes go away too.”

She clicked her tongue, her gaze darting to the crow’s reflection in the mason jar—its red eyes glinting like stained glass. “Espera (Wait).” She vanished into a kitchen reeking of burnt cinnamon, returning with a chipped mug. Herbs swirled in steaming atole, the smell caramel-sweet but laced with something bitter.

“Bebe esto (Drink this),” she ordered, pressing it into my hands. “It will steady you.”

I gagged at the first sip—bitter epazote and floral flor de manita clawing my throat—but warmth bloomed in my chest. The room stopped tilting.

Dragon’s voice sharpened from a muffled hum to words: “¿Funcionará?” (Will it work?) He hovered in the doorway, jaw tight.

Marisol didn’t look at him. “It always works,” she said, watching me. “For those who are ready.”

“Did you… poison me?” My tongue felt less like cotton.

“Poison cures poison sometimes,” she said, almost smiling. Her milagro necklace gleamed—a tiny crow, not a cross. “Ándale (Drink up).”

I obeyed. The numbness in my legs faded, whip welts prickling back to life. Through the window, the crow spread its wings, red eyes winking once before dissolving into the pines.

“Where’d it go?” I whispered.

Marisol tucked a quilt around me, her voice softer. “A vigilar (To watch).” She glanced at Dragon. “Y tú—ve a buscar árnica (And you—go fetch arnica).”

He hesitated, eyeing the empty mug. “¿Está segura?” (You sure?)

“Safer than your driving.” She shooed him out, then turned to me. “Duerme (Sleep).”

“Can’t,” I slurred, eyelids already sinking. The atole’s warmth fought the Vicodin fog, but not enough. “Crows’ll… tell Dad things. Papa Legba’s always… whisperin’ to him… Saw… the gold eyes… like Dad’s…”

Marisol froze, the quilt slipping from her hands. “¿Qué dijiste?” (What did you say?) Her voice cracked like dry kindling.

“Saw… the red eyes first time Dad left,” I muttered, words tangling. “Louise said… said he’s listenin’ through ’em. Makin’ sure I… stay wicked.”

The crow’s shadow rippled across the wall, its gaze now gold—gentle, patient, his.

Her face blurred—dark eyes wide, lips moving soundlessly. The crow’s shadow rippled across the wall, red gaze fixed on me.

“It’s not your father who listens, child,” she whispered, but I was already sinking, the room dissolving into static “It’s him who protects you.” Somewhere beyond the dark, I heard her add, “Y Louise miente (And Louise lies).”

***601 days left.***

The countdown didn’t matter here.

******