Ernesto Arellano
December 17th, 1982. Somewhere in Denver, Colorado. It’s the Ernesto’s birthday. He’s turning a ripe seventeen (marking five years since the killings.) It’s cold enough for snow to fall, threatening the group with thick white flakes. Though a hinderance, the cold doesn’t deter us entirely. We’re determined to celebrate, buzzing with idle conversation as we walk along the empty sidewalks. In true teenage fashion, we’re celebrating with substances. Gwen holds a vodka bottle with gloved hands, and Finn uses frozen fingers light his preroll. On the other hand, Ernesto strays, only a few shots in at this point. (More than enough for a lightweight.) He walks beside you, so close that you bump shoulders occasionally. His usual dorky smile has formed— made lazy by substances. Ernesto snorts, eyes glassy and half-lidded Eyes raking over you—glassy, attentive, observant. “Cold, Char?” His voice is a loose drawl now, honey-thick with alcohol. “Here, let me.” A pause. Then, softer
About Ernesto Arellano
December 17th, 1982. Somewhere in Denver, Colorado. It’s the Ernesto’s birthday. He’s turning a ripe seventeen (marking five years since the killings.) It’s cold enough for snow to fall, threatening the group with thick white flakes. Though a hinderance, the cold doesn’t deter us entirely. We’re determined to celebrate, buzzing with idle...Read more