Thought Catalog - Cicada, Ladybug (Chapter 13) lyrics

Now the white co*k's against the chicken wire, nipping at the organ unraveling from its stomach, its underbelly a mixture of gray, grime, and gruesome. Rex, still on his back, still black, still flat, has his right paw fisting toward the sky, but his left leg, as though it has too many knees, zigzags down to his rib cage ripped open. It looks like a gaping mouth. Pillar's tonguing his cheek and wiping the sweat off the large ‘13' on his belly. I'm staring at Rex's feathers spewed around him, like an outline on the street. They're the color of Izzy's hair. I don't know what Tick's doing. I don't want to. Then Pillar says, “Didn't think he could actually die.” SNORT, SSSSSSSPT, Tick hocks a loogie into Rex and says, “He's a f**in' fighter. He's ‘pose to die. You stupid b**h.” CRRRRR, EEEEEE, SHATTER. “EVERYBODY GET THE fu*k OUT!” someone shouts from behind us. I whirl around to witness Spyder in front of the screen door. He's handsome in his red and black plaid. Pillar begins to speak but again, Spyder shouts, “GET THE fu*k OUT!” Then he aims a finger at me—top-half dark, bottom pale. “But you. You stay.” Tsk, tsk comes from Tick alongside me. I'm a camera losing focus as the hazes of Pillar and Tick fade toward the gate at the side of the house. At the edge of the yard, Pillar peeks over his shoulder and his eyes puppy dog at me. “OUT!” shrieks Spyder, so he nods a goodbye and caterpillars away. Vanished. Remember what Spyder did to that dog? “INSIDE, KAYDA!” Then the screen whines and Spyder specters back into the house. “Abuela! In your room,” shouts Spyder from inside. And I've teleported to in front of the door. “IN YOUR ROOM!” Abuela climbs off the couch—the threads of the screen slicing my image of them into a grid. “César?” demands Abuela. “IN YOUR ROOM.” I can't witness her reaction because his tough body's blocking her, but I know she's refusing because his hand, cuffed at the wrist by his long—has to be long—sleeve, clenches into a fist. I can run. Get in the car and peel it. And risk them chasing you down? Shooting at the car with Izzy in it? “RESPETAME,” screeches Abuela at Spyder. And her pink slipper fluffs against the carpet with her hardest stomp, but its fuzziness is what everything isn't. Remember what he did to that dog? “In your room, who*e,” and Spyder's fingernail lasers toward it. But she's stoic, she's statue, she's statement. She makes it safe. So I lift their gray filter by opening the screen—normally it wobbles like sheet metal but now it feels heavy—and when I have one foot in, Spyder wheels toward me. His eyes flint. And his hand recedes behind his waist, then flashes out the scratch-proof and levels it onto Abuela. “IN THE ROOOOOOOM!” So she does, deserting me with him. Remember?