Blood of Gato

Leticia slammed the trailer door shut and stood still for a moment, straining her ears against the weighty silence of the night. It pressed on her like lead. Inside, the air carried a faint trace of lavender, of dried herbs… and something heavier, something guilty, as though her own remorse had seeped into the walls.

She kicked off her boots in the narrow entryway, the dull thud of their soles echoing through the hollow space. Without taking off her jacket, she walked into the cramped kitchen. The weak bulb dangling from the ceiling flickered twice, as if it too wanted to reproach her.

Leticia sighed so heavily it sounded like her lungs had finally given up on holding the last scraps of strength inside her. She was ready to collapse right there by the sink. But instead, her body betrayed her: hands moving on autopilot, she reached for the kettle. Routine was the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely.

"Tea," she muttered, her voice low and edged with drawl. "Mm-hm. Little ol' cure for guilt, huh? Sure, why not, chère."

The kettle whirred to life, and the sound mocked her with its sheer normalcy. She found herself staring at the glimmering coil of steam rising in the dim kitchen light. In its twisting shapes, his face surfaced again.

William.

That crooked, wary smile. And his eyes—those very eyes that had locked on the group in that final instant, in the moment he realized he was alone with the wendigo.

Leticia's nails dug deep into her palms, forcing her fists tight.

"Damn it..." The words rasped out, broken through the accent. "He had a family, Les. Mon dieu, he had a family…"

The kettle hissed, and she flinched as though someone had caught her confessing a crime. She grabbed the mug—an old one, the lettering faded from years of use. Her hands trembled as she poured. And suddenly, the boiling water didn't look clear anymore. It was red. Red as blood. Fresh, streaming blood.

She clutched the mug too hard. The ceramic cracked with a sound far too like a spine snapping. Shards scattered over the counter, some skittering across the floor. Boiling water splashed over her hand, and a jagged piece bit into her palm. Pain flared white and immediate.

"Mais of course," she hissed through clenched teeth. "One more damn casualty, huh?"

She yanked the shard free. The skin knit itself back together even as she watched. Too fast. Too smooth. Too unnatural. With revulsion, she stared at her healed palm as though it belonged to someone else—someone she hated.

Dropping to her knees, Leticia began gathering the broken pieces. Each one scraped her fingers, whispering you break everything you touch.

Her breath caught. One fragment was missing.

"Oh, non… not now." Panic edged her voice as she searched—beneath the table, under the cabinet, sweeping back the thin rug. "Where the hell… ah." Her fingers brushed it at last.

She lifted it into the light and froze. Words were printed across the fragment: To the best mom in the world.

Her lips twitched, caught between a laugh and a sob.

She sat at the table, the shards spread before her like an accusation, and whispered:

"You know, Will… I'm a shitty guide. The worst ya ever coulda found. Who else gonna lead folks straight t'their deaths, huh? That's me—Leticia goddamn Bennett." She wiped at her eyes with her sleeve, forcing a crooked smile. "That's who."

Her voice echoed too loudly in the silence, as though the trailer itself disapproved. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she half-expected William to appear there—just behind her—grinning that jagged grin, laughing under his breath.

"But… if it counts fo' anythin'… I'm sorry, bébé, you hear me? I'm sorry for every last bit of it." Her voice dropped, husky with grief. "I might be a monster, mais I ain't hollow. I feel things. Lord, I feel too damn much."

Her fingers moved with slow precision, piecing the fragments together as though stitching up the ragged fabric of her own soul.

Glue smeared her skin. Her fingertips clung to the ceramic. She didn't care. She only kept whispering:

"We gon' fix it. Again. Always fix it. As if that ever make a difference, chère."

Something shifted at the window. A scrape, a shiver of shadow—maybe just the branches outside, maybe only her reflection in the glass.

Her heart plummeted. For the first time that night, she couldn't tell whether she was truly alone.

She shot to her feet so fast the chair toppled behind her. A few shards of the broken mug clattered back onto the floor.

"Who's there?!" she barked, snatching up the nearest knife from the counter.

Silence answered. Just the steady rasp of crickets somewhere in the grass outside the trailer.

Leticia clenched her jaw. A laugh tried to escape, but what came out was only a cracked, strangled noise.

Still, she sat back down. She gathered the scattered fragments again, staring at them for a long beat as though answers might be carved in the porcelain.

"If you decided t'show up here as a ghost," she whispered into the empty space, her lips twitching, "ya could at least have the decency not t'wait till I'm high on glue fumes, cher."

She dropped her head onto her folded arms, right there on the table. The shards, the torn tube of glue, and the fractured message of the old mug lay scattered before her like an unfinished mosaic. Near the lamp, the broken body of a moth twitched once, still lured by the yellow bulb's fading warmth. Her eyelids sagged, heavy, and before she realized it, sleep dragged her down like a lead blanket.

The dream was thick and suffocating: shadow on shadow, someone else's screams tangled with the sound of her own. And then—sharp, blunt, insistent—knock knock knock. It tore her out of the dark like a hook through the chest.

Leticia jolted upright. The lamp buzzed and flickered. She blinked, the room swimming in her sleep-blind eyes. Beyond the window: nothing but the same starless dark. The rational part of her whispered, branches, wind, nerves.

"Sleep," she mumbled, yawning, pushing herself upright with slack limbs. "Tha's all I need, jus' sleep. 'Fore I go plum insane…"

But she had only taken three steps toward her bed when the sound came again. Louder this time. Heavier. As though someone was drumming against her skull from inside the walls.

The last fog of sleep ripped away. She froze, holding her breath.

And then—light. A warm, golden drape of light spilled under the cracks of the door. No ghost glowed like that. Too solid, too warm. Too… familiar.

Her pulse crashed through her body, deafening in her ears.

"Well, I'll be damned…" she breathed. "Kid? You… you actually survived?"

The knocking pounded again, quick and impatient now. And then a voice, muffled but real, snapped through the night:

"Les! Open the damn door—I know you're in there!"

Every nerve in her spine went rigid. Her hand slid to the doorknob on reflex. No. Impossible. The wendigo never left survivors. Never.

Slowly, she turned the lock. Her chest tightened as she pictured blood, ragged flesh, the empty grin of something not-quite-human. She yanked the door open.

And stood frozen.

William.

Soaked to the bone, rain trailing from his hair and dripping from the edge of his torn jacket. His shirt was stained dark with a crusted blood that wasn't fresh but suggested horrors she didn't want to imagine. He looked like he'd crawled out of hell itself—but his eyes. His eyes were blazing. Alive. Terribly, impossibly alive.

Leticia almost dropped the knife. Her eyes went wide, breath shuddering out of her.

"Well, bébé," she stammered, her accent thickening as she struggled to breathe, "if you's a ghost or some kinda revenant, ya oughta know—you lookin'… disgustin'ly attractive, William."

Her mouth twisted in a crooked attempt at a smile, and she even gave him a shaky thumbs-up.

He snorted, lips curling into a smirk so sharp it could've cut her open. A sarcastic tilt of his chin—thanks for the compliment, mentor of the year.

He stepped inside.

She immediately stepped back, palm flying up, as if her bare hand could conjure a magical barrier between them.

"Listen… William." Her voice quivered, same as her hands. "Ya gotta be furious, I know. I'd be too. Who wouldn't be, after… after that? We did kinda… well… leave ya. But—" She jabbed a finger into the air, tone quick and defensive, like a guilty kid caught lyin'. "I mourned you, cher, I swear it! I wept, Lord knows I did. I was halfway plannin' a rescue run, sure as sunrise. Jus'—well—timing bein' what it was—hormones, cycles, women's issues… you get it, don't ya, bébé? Bad damn timing."

She babbled faster and faster, backing away with every word. He closed the distance step by steady step, eyes locked onto hers.

She squeezed her eyes shut, spine pressing against the wall, and let out a miserable, broken laugh.

"Fine! Go on, then. Jus' do it quick, ya hear? Don't draw it out—I ain't no fan of long deaths."

Silence.

Nothing.

Her teeth ground together as she braced for pain. And then—his voice. Not snarling, not monstrous. Just heavy. Exhausted. Angry. Human.

"Leticia. For God's sake." His voice cracked, raw. "What the hell were you thinking leaving me back there?!"

Her eyes flew open.

No monster. No hollow fiend with a taste for blood. Just William—sodden, battered, looking like hell, but alive. His anger cut through, yes, but anger was human. Anger she could live with.