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There is no rest for the wicked, my dearest.
It’s an old and simple truth, one of those rarely questioned - when the noise of the day dies down and darkness falls over the desert, the men of this land are left alone in the quiet. No matter how far they go on their Harleys trying to outrun the demons in their heads, there is no escape from them. No relief.
Marisol - no, Isabela, or maybe she preferred to be Marisol, oh, does it even matter - she used to hum in the evenings, old folk songs her mother and her mother’s mother hummed as well. The sound was sweet, gentle, and yet audible in every corner of their little house in America, a house that was supposed to be the safe haven for them all. Marisol/Isabela, Felipe rarely thinks of her in the terms of a name, what is a name? No, Felipe thinks of his dead love just as that - his love, his dear, his wife. The name does not matter, the woman did.
Anyway, Marisol/Isabela hummed for her husband, as if those songs about longing and coming home, about devotion that could trick the devil and about death who was merciful, as if they could chase the demons of his past away. Sometimes they did, and Felipe hummed with her, sometimes he spinned her around and around in their kitchen, Angel’s laughter ringing in the cool evening air that carried the scent of flowers.
EZ will never admit it out loud but he doesn’t remember the sound of his mother’s laugh anymore. The scent of her blood, the horrible stillness of her hands - yes, his memory has etched those in excruciating detail. But the sound of her voice escapes him, tormenting him night after night, almost there, almost in his ear but never close enough.
“I’m fine,” he’ll tell his brother in the morning, drink his coffee, and pretend he got more than three hours of sleep. Hell. Three hours is a luxury these days.
Angel will look at him but won’t say anything because his son’s crying wakes him up at night, that ghostly echo of a sound, as if begging not to be forgotten. He wishes he could forget. And so the older of the brothers - the middle child who doesn’t even know it - tries to drown his sorrows in the women who don’t matter, in booze, and smoke, and fast rides.
Nothing stops the phantom cries in the darkest hours.
Taza could tell the Reyes boys all about longing. About decades of long nights that seem to have no end, and about how at one point what used to be a nightmare starts being reassuring, longed for, and even desired.
Che dreams about David. At night, when there are no other noises but cicadas and dogs barking far away, it’s easier to remember that throaty chuckle of his, the scent of cheap smokes and pinewood that clung to his hair, the salty taste of his skin. Taza lives again through the good memories, having abandoned the bad ones in the long shadows of his years filled with grief and guilt, worked through and accepted. As Che sleeps, his subconsciousness allows him the comfort of the long talks with the man he loved, both real and imagined, and the memory of gentle weight settled on his chest.
“You would have liked them,” he tells the shadow who is not there, stuck between dream and reality. “They’re better than I deserve, they’re true brothers.”
David never answers. Sometimes, the wind brings a faint echo of his chuckle.
There are many ways to deal with the demons. Some try to ignore them but it’s a fool’s hope, pretending they’re not there is not going to make them disappear. Others make their peace with whatever it is that haunts them, they domesticate the monsters under the bed.
And then there are the naive few who think they can outrun them.
When the nightmares in which he waddles through the dark screaming for Aidan and always finding his tiny cold body too late - when these nightmares get too much, Obispo goes to the desert. He rides far enough that there are no other lights but his, and when he finally stops it’s the perfect darkness, and the starlit sky above him seems endless. Unseen by any eyes he falls to his knees even though he doesn’t believe in anything anymore because no God could be so cruel to take Aidan’s life on purpose. And there, only there, under the boundless horizon filled with stars that were there before him and will be there long after he is gone, Bishop allows the feeling to return.
If he screams himself hoarse, even voiceless - the empty desert will not tell a soul. Only the echoes of his anger, his despair and grief ring out over the rocks and bushes. As they return to Obispo, they bring no comfort.
He screams until there is nothing left, until his hands are bleeding from sand scrubbing away the feeling of Aidan’s limp body under his fingers and until he has no voice left, not even to beg for the stolen years, and hugs, and laughter. Calm and filled with light-headed emptiness, Bishop goes back home and sleeps like the dead, alcohol sour on his breath.
The night sees it all. There is safety in her darkness, secrets that can never be spoken out loud in the garish light of day. Without their kuttes these men are just like all others, stripped of the intimidating power and ritual.
Neron doesn’t run, or hide, or ignore his demons that take the shape of dead friends, of brothers in arms ripped apart by hidden bombs and shrapnel, of legs carelessly left by the side of the road. They don’t come often but when they do, they bring children with eyes gouged out by the crows, and terrified women hiding death between the heavy cloths. Creeper knows it’s probably post-traumatic stress, battle fatigue, however you may want to call it - he calls it the shit he never worked through, was never allowed to speak about. Who is there to speak about it with, anyway? Bishop will pour another glass of whiskey at the mere mention of the Middle East. Coco will get that faraway look in his eyes.
No, Neron will not burden his brothers with the things he has seen, the things he has done.
When his head is too troubled, he seeks solace in books.
He’s not the type, he knows, and works of Kant or Sun Tzu go over Creeper’s head - but whenever he visits the butcher’s shop Felipe silently slides him books about warfare and accounts written down by the soldiers, and Neron finds out that bloodshed is the same no matter if it’s Somme, Bastogne, or Baghdad. There is a reassurance in the timelessness of the war, in how it doesn’t change the way it crushes the souls of men.
He never says anything but Felipe knows the eyes of a soldier haunted by what his own hands have done.
Riz used to play his guitar and sing his worries out. Taza can sometimes still hear it in the still, morning air of the Templo when the rising sun starts to shine through the stained glass - it’s because Riz was a creature of light, not made for this world.
With his gun strapped to his belt, and a knife along his thigh, Hank runs. He starts when it’s still dark and cold outside, when all the restless spirits have already passed but no early birds yet sing. Winding paths or wide roads, it doesn’t matter as all are still empty. There are no screams in his ears, nor shots or begging - all Hank hears is the sound of his own breath, in and out, in and out, and the thumping of his feet. There is a rhythm to it, and with each mile he leaves behind the jumbled mess of his thoughts clears, things fall into place. Hank hated this, at the beginning, the sweat running down his back and the ache in his feet - but soon it became necessary for him to reach that tranquility, and for sight to become clear enough so he could predict the next moves on the chessboard.
He turns to head back home when the skies are bright.
While in the Templo, Taza likes to slide his fingertips of the intricate carvings on the table itself, the wood smooth and warm under his touch. This is how they met Gilly when the two of them - Taza and Bishop, the president and his VP without a club or even a table, let alone people to sit around it - first came to Santo Padre. The local butcher (because, of course , is there anything going on in this town Felipe doesn’t have an eye on?) recommended Gilberto when they asked for a carpenter, and sent Angel with them as a guide.
There was not much in terms of a design sketched out, no talk about mythology or meaning. Gilly just knew what was supposed to be on the table, and he carved it with love pouring into the wood all the grief for his little brother who was lost to cancer, and he did that with echoes of shots fired in Afghani desert land still ringing in his ears. By the time Gilly finished adorning the last of the chairs, his - and Angel’s - year as a prospect was long over.
Now, every time he touches the table Gilberto thinks about his brother with a touch of sadness-tinged warmth. He still carves little bits and pieces, locking his sorrows and dark thoughts away in the handiwork. These days Gilly worries about another one of his brothers, and prays to whoever may be listening Coco makes it through.
Coco, it seems, slips further and further into the dark with each passing night.
EZ recognizes that darkness all too well and shies away from it, the fear of his own limitless potential for violence too potent to not be paralyzing. Gilly and Angel exchange worried glances but helplessness binds their hands as Coco’s demons devour him alive.
“We’re enabling him,” Gilly says one evening, not turning his eyes away from his beer. Angel doesn’t say anything, just shifts uncomfortably on his chair, still looking at the door that shut behind Coco’s back a few minutes before.
“He’s a fucking adult.” There is no force in EZ’s voice, no belief in his own words. None of the men comment. In their silence, Coco escapes into the chemical relief, the death-like stillness of oblivion.
There is no place for sentiments in this wasteland, my dear, and each must fend for themselves. And if they can’t? Oh, don’t be naive, you know what happens - haven’t you seen it time and time again?
They will survive.
None of these men will talk about the voices the night wind carries, nor the shadows in the corners of their bedrooms. There will be no benefit of giving voice to the trauma of losing a child, a sibling, a friend. They have all spilled blood, their hands are sticky with it but they have been raised to be men, and men do not show any weakness, and they do not need any support, oh, but don’t they know a building without support will always collapse in the end?
And so, they will survive this night. Maybe even the night after that.
But the dark will get what is owed to her.