Now, almost twenty-five years later, I owe it to my brother as well. It happened as I was coming home from my job at a local tavern; even us 'Half-Breeds' have to earn money somehow, and there are certain people who gain great pleasure from gawking lewdly at a tamed animal. I don't mind anymore, or so I tell myself. Let them make lewd conversation about my chest, under their breath where they think I can’t hear. I know I can cave theirs in.
It had been more crowded than usual on the streets that day. I had tried to avoid a knot of people—as one does when one is numbered among society's rejects and wishes to avoid causing unnecessary scenes—by sidestepping into an alley. But someone had stepped in after me, shoving me harshly to the ground, further into the alley, and before I knew it I had been surrounded by large men with leering faces.
I don't know where my brother came from, nor do I know how he got to me. He works some distance away, in a library, where he can learn quietly on the side since our kind are barred from most forms of education. Maybe he had been coming to meet me, or maybe he felt he needed to follow me home sometimes. Whatever the case, I had blinked once in terror and Alejandro had been there, between me and the men.
I have never seen him so angry; he defended me furiously, snarling and snapping, his body a frenzied blur as he fought off my assailants. At some point they must have realized that sheer numbers were not enough, because they brought out their guns towards the end.
I confess now with no small degree of pride that my brother took twelve of their bullets before they dropped him to one knee, but it tore my heart open when he at last went down. I wish that I could have stood beside him as he fought, but the unexpectedness of the attack had stunned me, and I could only lie on the ground while he'd absorbed all the punishment intended for me, and then more for interfering. The police, summoned by some blessed passerby, had saved him, arriving and dispersing the mob before they had beaten him to death.
The rest is a fog for a while; I can't remember any of it clearly. The article hidden in the recesses of the newspaper says that I lay across his body, screaming, until the ambulance had arrived. Abuela says that I didn't leave his side until he'd been released, and that I'd even forced my way into the emergency room, despite the vehement protests of the doctors. My mother says that I'd brought him home, which is probably true, though how I managed such a feat is also lost to me.
I don't think they would have released him as early as they did had he been just another human. They said it was because he healed abnormally fast; I think it was because they were afraid of keeping one of us for too long.
But he is sleeping now, his head resting in my lap, his long body stretched across our couch. I run my fingers through his thick hair, my nails scratching gently across his scalp, because he says it feels good. Sitting like this, quiet and peaceful, I can't help but shove my rage at what has been done to my brother aside. But I will not always be able to sit here like this, and my anger will return.
I am Elena de Mercado, and I hate this place.
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