September 11, 2024, 02:36 PM
Thiago staggered through the heat, his movements erratic, each step a laborious effort against the weight of his own body. The green had mostly worn off, leaving his mind ragged and raw, nerves frayed like old rope. A dry, acrid taste coated his mouth, his limbs trembled with every breath. The sun beat down on his back with a cruel intensity, and he squinted through the blinding light, sweat stinging his eyes.
Then he saw her.
A dark figure, silhouetted against the pale, shimmering surface of the oasis water. She stood at the edge, lean and sharp, like a shadow that had come alive. Thiago’s heart seized in his chest. His pulse quickened, blood rushing through his veins in a panicked rhythm. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, his mind spinning in the dizzying aftereffects of the trip.
His vision blurred, and for a moment, the world seemed to shift around him — the harsh desert light dimmed, and the edges of his sight flickered like a flame sputtering in the wind. He blinked hard, trying to clear his head, but the figure remained, a ghost against the sun.
His throat tightened, fear mingling with a deep, gnawing despair. The stories had always been there, lurking in the back of his mind, tales of the woman who wept for her lost children, her cries echoing through the night. She would find you if you were alone, if you were lost. She would find you if you were desperate.
He dropped his head with a limp neck, then caught himself and shook the tangling in his hair of his shoulders as if trying to pull himself back to reality.
But the figure didn’t move, didn’t dissolve into the haze like the other visions. She remained, still as a shadow, her silver eyes fixed on him, unblinking. Thiago felt his stomach twist, a deep, nauseating dread crawling up his spine. He stumbled closer, his steps uneven, his breath ragged.
Yet in the back of his mind, doubt festered like an open wound. Was he dead? Was she here to take him, to drag him down to whatever lay beneath the water's surface? The superstitions that had always danced at the edges of his thoughts now swarmed his mind like a cloud of locusts, relentless and consuming.
He stopped at the water's edge, staring at her, waiting for a sign — a word, a movement, anything to confirm whether she was a vision or something far worse.
Then he saw her.
A dark figure, silhouetted against the pale, shimmering surface of the oasis water. She stood at the edge, lean and sharp, like a shadow that had come alive. Thiago’s heart seized in his chest. His pulse quickened, blood rushing through his veins in a panicked rhythm. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, his mind spinning in the dizzying aftereffects of the trip.
His vision blurred, and for a moment, the world seemed to shift around him — the harsh desert light dimmed, and the edges of his sight flickered like a flame sputtering in the wind. He blinked hard, trying to clear his head, but the figure remained, a ghost against the sun.
La Llorona…he whispered, the name slipping from his cracked lips like a prayer or a curse. He took a hesitant step forward, his legs weak, as if the ground had turned to quicksand beneath him.
His throat tightened, fear mingling with a deep, gnawing despair. The stories had always been there, lurking in the back of his mind, tales of the woman who wept for her lost children, her cries echoing through the night. She would find you if you were alone, if you were lost. She would find you if you were desperate.
He dropped his head with a limp neck, then caught himself and shook the tangling in his hair of his shoulders as if trying to pull himself back to reality.
No... no, no eres tú.he muttered, though he wasn’t sure if he was convincing himself or her.
No eres real. No eres…His voice wavered, trailing off into the dry air.
But the figure didn’t move, didn’t dissolve into the haze like the other visions. She remained, still as a shadow, her silver eyes fixed on him, unblinking. Thiago felt his stomach twist, a deep, nauseating dread crawling up his spine. He stumbled closer, his steps uneven, his breath ragged.
No estoy muerto,he called out to her, voice breaking.
No estoy...
Yet in the back of his mind, doubt festered like an open wound. Was he dead? Was she here to take him, to drag him down to whatever lay beneath the water's surface? The superstitions that had always danced at the edges of his thoughts now swarmed his mind like a cloud of locusts, relentless and consuming.
He stopped at the water's edge, staring at her, waiting for a sign — a word, a movement, anything to confirm whether she was a vision or something far worse.
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