Chapter Text
He was 15. Slumped on the bathroom floor against the tub. An orange needle cap rolled away.
A blue band was freshly untied from his arm. His head bobbed forward, eyes barely cracked open.
Heeled footsteps stomped toward the door. Then she banged.
One, two, three. He didn’t even flinch. That was how out of it he was.
“ARLO. ÁBREME LA PUERTA.”
He didn’t respond. He was absolutely doped, drooling thickly.
The door wasn’t locked. She burst in and took in the sight. Her face burned red. And she wasn’t scared, horrified, or heartbroken. No—she was angry.
She snatched him up by the shirt. He was dead weight. Unable to move on his own. Her yells boomed throughout the bathroom, the acoustics causing an echo.
“ARLO ELIJAH MONTOYA. HOW DARE YOU SHOOT UP IN MY FUCKIN’ BATHROOM?! You think I’m gonna BURY YOU over PERCS and NEEDLES?!”
His body slumped like a ragdoll. He couldn’t even raise a hand to wipe his face. He wasn’t crying. But his mouth was foaming. It wasn’t just drool anymore.
“Do you WANT to end up like your PRIMO?! POR DIOS, ARLO! You want your little sister to watch you be fuckin’ BURIED?! I lost MONEY BECAUSE OF YOUR BULLSHIT. REHAB CENTERS I PAID THOUSANDS FOR!! I SPENT THE LAST OF OUR RENT MONEY FOR YOU!”
He mumbled something—just barely over the bubbles coming out of his mouth. He looked like a broken dishwasher with the way it was foaming out.
“Mami…-”
Her face twisted in disgust. She shoved him back onto the floor. His head cracked against the edge of the tub. He fell slack against it. Warm crimson liquid pooled at the back of his skull.
She spat out a venomous whisper.
“You need help. Just like your father.”
He croaked out another small, wet plea. She didn’t hear. And even if she did, she didn’t care. She never did.
“Help—Mami…”
She scoffed with a sharp glare.
“You fuckin’ pissed yourself. Take a damn shower.”
He gurgled helplessly. A dot of blood appeared on the inside of his arm. He let out a noise that sounded like a drowning sob. He choked a bit, murmuring anything he could to get her to come back.
“Mami… I—love you… plea—I’m sor—”
He’d tried to babble something further, but was interrupted by more foam rising out of his mouth. She left the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. No look back.
There was no care—only anger.
He was alone.
Just like he thought he’d be.
The floor was cold. That was the first thing he registered.
That and the quiet.
The kind of quiet that felt hollow, like everything had been sucked out of the room when she left.
The only sound left was the wet, rattling drag of his breath and the occasional drip from the sink.
His vision pulsed in and out.
He couldn’t lift his head. He tried, but it flopped to the side like it had been disconnected from the rest of him.
His arms didn’t work right. Neither did his legs. His mouth still fizzed—slowly now. Sticky and warm.
Moving felt like every ligament was tearing like Twizzlers fresh from the pack. But he did it anyway. He needed to stay awake. Stay awake. Don’t die.
Slowly but surely, he hurled himself into the tub. The bile in his throat rose.
He couldn’t lift his head far enough to throw up outside the tub. He was lying in a pool of God knows how many liquids, fumbling for the knob.
The water came out like his mother’s shouts. Cold and unwarranted. But it helped a bit. His head felt like a cut watermelon. And the back of it was getting even warmer.
Shit.
I’m gonna die.
I need to move.
I am going to die.
He was now soaking wet with water, blood, vomit, and everything above. His body thumped to the floor with a wet slosh.
His fingernails dug into the tile. He didn’t care about the pain.
He just needed to survive. He slugged through the hallway. Then the living room. Then his room. Bedside table. His phone was charging, waiting to be used.
His arm could barely reach up, but he fought hard enough. The phone flipped open, the Dora sticker on the back of it now stained with blood. He didn’t call 911. He called another number. One that wouldn’t judge.
Tía Luna.
The line didn’t stay silent for another second. She picked up in a heartbeat.
“Hola, Arlito chiquitito.”
He coughed on the other end, still gurgling the rising fizz.
“I…I fuck—fucked up…. I need… hel-help…”
She didn’t need a second plea. Her tone flipped in a mere millisecond.
She was on her way.
“…I’m coming, papi. Stay right there.”
Seven minutes was all it took. Felt like a lifetime anyway.
There was a knock. No—pounding.
Then the door swung open.
Tía Luna didn’t wait for permission. She burst through like a storm, keys still swinging from her wrist, heels echoing through the empty house.
Her breath was ragged. One hand clutched her purse—jammed full of first aid supplies. The other was already dialing 911.
Then she saw him.
Arlo was slumped at the foot of his bed. Barely breathing. His skin pale, soaked, and smeared with red and bile. His chest rose in the shallowest little stutters. His eyes were open—but unfocused.
She dropped the phone and fell to her knees.
“Oh, mi niño… oh, papito.”
She didn’t scream. She didn’t scold. She just moved. Quick and practiced. Like she’d done this before. Like she’d had to. Because this? This wasn’t a surprise in this family.
“You stay with me. You hear me? No sleeping. No letting go.”
He let out the softest, wet little gurgle. His mouth moved like he was trying to smile. It was so Arlo—even here.
“Titi… I look like shit…”
Her hands trembled as she brushed hair off his forehead, but her voice stayed firm.
“You look beautiful. You always do. Now shut up and let me save you.”
She called 911 again with her free hand. She gave the address, the condition. She said overdose. She said bleeding. She said 15-year-old boy. She didn’t cry. Not yet.
She cradled his head in her lap as she waited. Kept pressure on the bleeding. Kept her hand in his hair.
He said nothing more. But his fingers twitched once—clutching the edge of her skirt.
When the sirens finally wailed in the distance, she lowered her head and kissed his sticky forehead.
“This time, someone came for you. You’re not alone, mi amor.”