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With a hard tug, Camilo pulled the door to his room shut. He felt the knob click as it latched into place. Finally alone, he let out a long, slow breath until he felt like his lungs were empty. He slowly released his vice-grip on the metal doorknob, leaning forward until his forehead pressed against the cool wood of the door. Camilo stood like that for a long moment, trying to will the tears back into his eyes.
Finding himself unable to do so, he wheeled around, pulling his ruana over his head as he speed-walked deeper into his room. He cast the garment aside, letting it land in a crumpled yellow heap on the floor. With the same speed, he ascended the stairs to the large stage that sat as the room’s centerpiece, only stopping when he reached the massive mirror that made up the entire back wall.
Camilo stared at his own reflection for a long moment, feeling all the frustration and stress rush back into his body. His green eyes were filled with tears now, and he blinked hard a few times, letting them stream down his freckled cheeks. He hadn’t realized how hard he had been clenching his fists until he released them to wipe his face and saw the half-moon indents in his palm from where his nails had dug in.
Why? What had set him off? Camilo wasn’t even sure. One minute he was doing what he always did, entertaining the village children with another stellar impression of a well-known community member, and the next he was racing back up the cobblestone streets, his jaw clenched and eyes stinging from holding back tears. It occurred to him only then what had caused the sudden breakdown; he had caught sight of his own reflection in one of the store windows.
Time had seemed to slow, and Camilo recalled making eye contact with himself in the shiny glass. He had at once instantly recognized himself and had no idea who he was looking at. It was him, to be sure, but it was also Mariano, and Dolores, and José, and Rico from down the street, and Natália whose baby he tended to, and Osvaldo the delivery man, and little Cecilia with her two braids, and the piercing green eyes of his tío Bruno mid-vision, and a whirlwind of other faces and names that suddenly so overwhelmed him he felt like he was suffocating.
Camilo watched himself violently phase through dozens of appearances, cycling height and stature so quickly that he lost his balance and fell backward. He landed hard on the stone street, hitting his elbow off the carved fence of someone’s garden. He looked up to see the large group of children he had amassed circled around him, the previous glee on their faces replaced by concern on the older and alarm on the younger, all staring down onto him as he sat on the ground. Usually, Camilo loved being the center of attention. Or he thought he did. He must, right? That was who he was.
Right?
He barely remembered standing up and taking off at a full sprint towards Casita, hardly registering the throbbing pain in his elbow or the fact that his sandal had twisted uncomfortably around his left foot. All he knew was that he needed to be alone, immediately.
Wiping his eyes again, Camilo refocused on his reflection. The large mirror had been there ever since he had first gotten his room; it was a useful tool to ensure that he had every detail of someone’s appearance down. Over time he had gotten more instinctive with the abilities granted by his gift, able to replicate anyone almost perfectly within seconds of seeing them. Almost without thinking about it.
He knew when to erase himself; when to put on the mask of another person. Whether it was to help or to entertain, it was more often than not that Camilo wouldn’t suffice. The situation always called for someone taller, someone more slender, someone funnier, someone who would make everything right and then turn around and make everyone laugh.
Camilo could barely remember the time before he got his gift. There were flashes, of course, seconds in time stuck in his head. Being picked up and kissed by his Mami after slipping in the wet grass, riding on Luisa’s shoulders with his arms outstretched in the sun, looking up at his tío’s forced smile as the villagers hissed insults at him and clenching the older man’s slightly shaking hand even more tightly in his own.
Was that all there was of him? Had he spent so long believing that he was so much more valuable as anyone but himself that there was no himself to return to?
Camilo brought his hands to his face as his sniffling erupted into a wail. He smacked his palm against the glass, hard. It hurt. He did it again. The third time he balled his hand into a fist, pulled it back behind his shoulder, and brought it forward into the glass with all the grief and pain he felt. The wall-sized mirror shattered instantly at the impact, bloodying his knuckles and raining down around him in hundreds of slivers of his own reflection. Camilo dropped to his knees with it, hands over his eyes as he sobbed.
Less than half a minute later, he heard a frantic knocking at his door.
“Camilo?! Are you alright? Can I come in? Please, let me come in. Camilo?” It was his father’s voice. Another wave of sudden anger he didn’t understand ran through him, and then relief.
“Yes,” Camilo choked out, turning himself around to face the entrance to his room, still doubled over on the ground. Almost before the word was out of his mouth, the door flew open and Félix appeared, his eyes huge with worry. Through his tears, Camilo caught a tiny flash of red fabric disappearing behind the doorframe next to Félix’s ankle.
Dolores. Of course. She had heard all of it.
When she was in her own room, she was safe from the sounds and conversations of the outside world and the family, but hers was the only one that blocked sound entirely, so if she was out in the main part of the house or in the village, anything was fair game for her acutely sensitive ears.
With how quickly Félix has appeared at his door, Camilo assumed that Dolores had heard his freakout in the village from afar and immediately alerted their more easygoing and collected father, who, upon seeing whatever state the middle child was in, was less likely to completely panic and possibly worsen the situation by causing a downpour or a lightning storm. Even in his hysterics, Camilo was grateful for his sister’s thoughtfulness.
Félix shut the door behind him and rushed over to his son.
“Ah, mijo,” he said, sounding horrified. “What’s the matter? Are you hurt? Can I help you, please?”
Camilo nodded, still sniffling, and raised his undamaged hand for his father to help him stand up. Félix ignored it and got down on the floor himself, scooping his eldest son into his arms until Camilo was somewhat awkwardly sitting half on the ground and half on his father’s lap. The gesture was more than he could take. He wrapped his arms around Félix’s neck and bawled into his father’s shoulder.
“Shh, shh, corazón,” Félix murmured into his son’s curls. “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re okay,” he repeated, rocking them both softly until Camilo’s sobs turned to quiet sniffling.
He gently cupped his son’s face in one hand and scooted backward slightly until they were facing each other on the floor and could see each other clearly.
“What on earth happened? Did someone hurt you?” He wiped a stray tear from Camilo’s cheek with his broad thumb.
“No, Papi, nothing like that. I just…” Camilo trailed off. He took a shaky breath before continuing.
“I just stopped feeling… right. I don’t know what happened, everything was fine, I just suddenly… I couldn’t tell where I ended and other people began. Like I lost… like I lost something a long time ago and just remembered now. I guess. I don’t know. I don’t know,” he repeated, choking up again.
He looked up at his father and only then realized that Félix’s eyes were filled with tears of his own. He blinked in surprise. Félix almost never cried; he was always the one finding the positives in any situation and his naturally jubilant mood was rarely tainted by anything.
“Oh, mijo,” Félix said, cradling Camilo’s cheek in his hand. “You are exactly who you need to be. I am so sorry that you have ever felt like there could be a better you than yourself. It’s been a rough few months.”
Camilo nodded. Between the terror of almost losing the miracle, the destruction of Casita, Mirabel’s brief disappearance, tío Bruno’s return, and all the time it had taken to rebuild their home and their trust in their matriarch, the Madrigal family had been through a lot.
Through it all, Camilo had played the role he had always known; the deadpan snarker, the prankster, the master impressionist. The one everyone could always count on for an immediate laugh even in the most stressful moments. He always had to have a joke ready, just in case. Every second, he had been focused on how everyone else was feeling.
The reasoning behind his breakdown suddenly became perfectly clear to him. He had pushed down every tiny nagging feeling of inferiority or anxiety until they were impossible to suppress any longer. It had become such that his only value seemed to exist in his ability to entertain.
“I just feel like… all I’m here for, all I’m worth, is how well I can make people smile. And that does make me happy,” Camilo added quickly, “but I don’t even remember anything else that I like to do anymore. I can’t even remember what my favorite food is when people ask because I have to have a funny answer instead. I don’t know what I like to do because all I have time for is trying to think of the next joke. I don’t feel like… I don’t… I don’t feel like I own myself.”
“Ay, I am so sorry, Camilo. I thought we had fixed most of your hurt. I didn’t realize how much pressure you still felt, mijo,” Félix said softly, pain and regret in his voice. “We are so proud of you. You are so brave and so kind. You light up your mother and I’s lives, do you know that?”
Camilo nodded shakily. He loved his parents and they were never withholding about how much they loved him too. The gratitude in his mami’s eyes when he soothed her nerves with gentle words and a cup of warm tea; the pride in his papa's face when he watched him happily play with Antonio. They had always been there for him. They had always loved him for who he was, not for what he could do.
Félix pulled his son into another tight hug. The two held each other silently for a minute. Camilo felt a single warm tear splash onto his shoulder and soak into his shirt. He heard his father's voice from just above his head.
"We can talk more about this whenever, mijo. Anytime. You mean the world to us. We want you to live happily, whatever that means for you. Okay?"
Camilo nodded.
"Please don't make yourself do anything you don't want to. Take a break, spend time relaxing with Luisa, have Isabela give you a makeover, anything. Anything that makes YOU happy."
Camilo laughed in spite of himself. That actually sounded like... something he would enjoy. He just might have to take Isa up on that.
Félix pressed a kiss into his son’s curls and then carefully stood up amidst the broken glass. He held his hands down for Camilo, who took them. He saw pain flash through his father’s eyes as he took in his tattered knuckles.
“Your tía can take care of this, no problem. Let’s go see what she has ready for dinner and see if we can sneak a few bites early,” he winked. Camilo smiled.
“Then we can come back in here and clean this up together. Unless, Casita…?” Félix trailed off, looking around. One of the slats on the wall came loose and shook up and down as if it were nodding.
“Excellent!” Félix laughed. Camilo smiled back up at him. He really was lucky. He followed his father out of the room, Félix’s large, warm hand gently covering his damaged one. After a brief once-over from Julieta and two large bites of a healing empanada (“You don’t want to spoil your dinner!” she had said with a smile as she took it out of his grip), the family enjoyed a relaxed dinner together. Camilo sent a grateful smile across the table to Dolores, who returned it.
Pepa had given him a long, tight hug and a kiss on the cheek after supper.
“Te amo, mi camaleóncito,” she had whispered into his ear. “Siempre.” Her sun shower had gotten his shoulders only the tiniest bit wet.
After dinner, Camilo ascended the stairs and opened the door to his room again, unsure of what he would find.
Behind his large velvety bed was a curtained wall. Camilo pulled the tassels and found that one half of the wall was a restored version of his mirror. He examined himself in it, his eyes still slightly puffy and red. He smiled at himself anyway and pulled the curtain shut, then opened the other side. It was a blank, canvas-like material, and in front of it lay a row of cups filled with brightly colored paint, rivaling anything even Mirabel had.
Camilo smiled again. He pulled a brush out of one of them and touched it gently to the wall.
A swirl of color erupted where the brush touched the canvas. He excitedly pulled out another color and applied it below. The shades danced together briefly and then went still. He spent the next two hours making aimless swirls and shapes, dragging the brushes along in large strokes, applying tiny dots, and even painting his own hands and pressing them to the canvas, just enjoying the way the colors interacted. He loved the way they blended with each other slightly at the edges but kept their own strong integrity.
Out of curiosity, Camilo pulled the curtain back over the wall and then away again. The colors were gone but the paint cups remained. He grinned. This was finally something he could call his own. Something for his enjoyment. Something that existed solely for him, that he could appreciate how he wanted, without needing anyone else to witness or react to it. He only needed to make himself happy.
Camilo pressed his painted hand to the canvas for a moment, then pulled it back. In the bright, joyful yellow he had chosen was a single handprint. His own.