Chapter 2: Chapter One - "The Take of Oso"

Pronunciation Guide:

Ludivina = Loo-dee-veen-ah

Benicio = Ben-e-see-oh

Oso = Oh-so

********

I didn't mean to cancel the patron.

"What the hell do you mean 'you didn't mean to cancel him'?" my uncle Benicio asks in a rabid tone, kneeling besides the man's lifeless body, placing the back of his hand on the man's neck, hoping for a pulse, a rhythm, a beat to return, to pump against my uncle's fingers announcing a key of life still playing on.

"I don't know," I say, with no mind thinking for me, in a full panic, with trembling lips, my toes pitapatting below me, stretching my shoes from their usual size. "He walked in, grabbed a beer, and then - and then - "

"And then what?" snaps my uncle. "And then what? I was gone for five minutes, Ludivina! Five minutes!"

My uncle bends down, dropping his ear over the man's nose. But still, nothing.

I don't know what my uncle is looking, or hoping for, because the hot lead went straight through this man's cranium, right over his ears, and it would only be a matter of time now before his blood ended up under the door, flowing past the boundaries of the store and into the community, announcing the location of the scene, the location of the murder, and most importantly, the location of the murderer.

"And then he reached for the register and I just reacted—I just reached for your gun," I reply, shivering from head to toe.

"But he doesn't have a gun!" my uncle then says, shuffling, desperately, through the man's winter coat, hoping, perhaps, to possibly find a gun in order to justify my actions.

Before I can let out another word, a wave of emotion rushes over me and tears flow out of my eyes like an easy, flowing river. I place my hands over my face because I simply cannot control myself.

It hasn't even been twenty-four hours, I think.

My uncle runs to the door and immediately closes it; then he walks over to me:

"We're going to fix this," he says. "Was anyone here when it happened? Did you see anyone around? Do you think anyone heard you? Shoot! Of course someone heard you! They must have heard the gunshot!"

"We need to call the cops and an ambulance," I reply—or try to reply, at least, in-between all the crying.

My uncle lets out a small laugh when the words "call the cops" fall out of my mouth.

"They are the cops," he says, in a stern voice, while looking down at the man at the same time.

"What?" I let out, confused—confused as hell.

"You've killed a Black Catz member, Ludy" says my uncle Benicio, dropping the news on me like it was a piece of gossip I should have been aware of through some issue of Vogue, or maybe through a curriculum handbook I was not handed when crossing over. "We don't have much time," my uncle then mutters—a mutter, I think, was not meant for my ears.

The mutter causes my crying to stop, or to slow down, even for a minute:

"What do you mean?" I interrogate.

"Ludivina—you killed a member of one of the most powerful gangs in this area," my uncle states, still bending over the man, still waiting for that one breath, that one beat—that one beat of life to insert into his symphony of hope.

How can this be?

Just a few weeks ago, my grandmother told me I'd be going over to the other side of the wall for the first time because my uncle needed some help in his corner store. And being that I live with my grandmother, and she's raised me and given me anything I could possibly ask for, whatever she says goes—it was her way or no way, or as others like to say..."the highway". Fast forward to only a few hours from arriving to the other side of the wall, here with my uncle, and I've already done the unthinkable: to take a man's life. What? Is this a dream? My first job, and a job I'm doing for free, ends up like this on the first day? How?

How can this be?

"We need to erase this before one of them shows up," my uncle says, interrupting my mental breakdown, my POWO for one.

"What? What do you mean?"

"Help me!" my uncle demands, ignoring my secondary-inquiry about the incident I had just caused; the spill of all spills.

"No. No. We need to call the cops. Or I need to go back home!" I cry, making it known I knew something was wrong and this wasn't just as easy to clean up for me as it was seeming to be for my uncle.

"Ludivina! We have no time! Help me!" he says, showing me, with his eyes, that perhaps, this form of acting of his has simply become undone because of his passport status, the label over his picture used for his identity, which was unlike mine, being that his says East Wall and mine West Wall; that was his one disadvantage on me.

But just as "me" flies out of my uncle's mouth (and out of my mind), a knock on the door flies into our hide-the-body brainstorming session.

My uncle freezes. He slowly places the man's body back on the cold floor of the shop and gives me the "be quiet" gesture that every parent gives to their child whenever their child is doing something they are not supposed to be doing—like I was, currently; the gesture usually involves one finger over the person's mouth—usually, it's the index finger.

I stop my crying.

But I stopped that before my uncle told me to stop. I stopped with the knock.

What didn't stop was my heart. In fact, the beating increased. It got louder and faster. I felt my heart pouncing in a way I had never felt it pounce before, almost breaking right out of my chest, cracking my ribs and all.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

My uncle gently skipps towards the door. He creeps up from under the peephole while still keeping a distance. The shop door had a tiny crease at the bottom, so anyone standing too close to the door can be seen from the other side.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

My uncle jumps back, only a bit, just enough to still keep his balance, and his invisibility, his "stealth".

"Hello?" says a deep voice from the other side of the door.

My uncle waves me back.

"Hello! Open up!" says the voice, now banging harder than before.

My uncle points to the register and mouths the words "get behind".

I quickly, and quietly, make my way behind the counter.

My uncle's shop is small, no bigger than two-hundred by two-hundred feet, so getting to the counter wasn't the hard part—it was the staying quiet part that was hard.

I hunch behind the counter once I reach it, making myself almost invisible, if not completely invisible, from anyone on the other side.

I hear my uncle slide the door open. Not much.

The sliding lasts no more than a second, telling me he is simply peeking out.

"Sorry, we're closed," I hear my uncle say, attempting to waft away whoever was at the door.

"Are you?" the voice on the other end then questioned.

"Yes. Sorry about that. We'll be open tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow won't work," the voice replies.

"Sorry. There's another store just around the corner," my uncle argues, still wafting.

"Open up, old man."

"What?"

I want to look up. But I can't. I hold myself.

"Please. Come back tomorrow," my uncle suggests—but it sounded like a plea.

I hear my uncle try to close the door again, but something stops him.

"Come back tomorrow," he repeats.

"You're going to open-up," the voice says, with more aggression than it had shown upon starting the conversation with my uncle.

I now have no choice.

"Ludivina! Stay back!" my uncle yells as he's trying to keep the door closed.

I run towards my uncle and I try to help him push back the door but it's no use. We're—my uncle and I—overthrown with force.

The strength pushes my uncle and I back, throwing us against a stand of crisps that stood by the door. We both fall on top of it, throwing everything around us—everything our limbs could reach—cracking most of the bags with our backs.

Four men walk into the store.

They are all dressed with the same winter coats as the man on the ground.

The store is a mess.

And the men that walk in, close the door behind them.

Two of them are short.

Two of them are tall.

"Please, it was an accident," my uncle replies.

The man that was at the door steps forward, leaving his four-piece possie in the background.

"Who did it?" he wonders. "Who did it?"

One of the men behind him—the short one—lights a cigarette.

Then two of them walk up to the boy and kneel before him.

One of the men puts his hand over the dead man—the man I had killed.

All the men have the same hairstyle, which is no hair.

They are all tan too, covered in tattoos. Under their coats, I can see the same black t-shirt: a v-neck.

Tears fall from all five men's eyes. Inked tears.

Some of the men have more tears than others.

"Please. It was me," my uncle says. "It was me."

They all laugh.

"Looks like we got ourselves our first summer recruit," says one of the men.

Beats come from outside in a dance, upbeat tone. I can also hear a car engine still on.

The blood is getting closer to the door. But that, obviously, does not matter anymore.

"He's a mess," says the man that seems like the leader. The one that first knocked on the door; the one that stepped forward before the rest.

"Put him in the trunk," he then said.

The men began picking up the man. His head hung back as they lifted him, and so did his hands, dropping towards the ground.

I can tell the men are not trying to get blood on themselves, avoiding the areas where there was blood.

"So, old man. You said you did it?"

"Yes. Yes."

"Then why is there no blood on you?"

"What?"

"If you shot him, wouldn't you think there would be blood on you?"

The man then looks at me—the one conducting the in-store, in-house interview.

I look down as his look comes upon me.

I can hear the men outside ravaging through the car.

"Take out the towels from the back!" I hear one shout.

"I did it," says my uncle, redirecting the attention towards himself.

My hands begin to shake. I begin to shake. I also begin to sweat profusely.  I begin to sweat in all areas—in every possible area that one can imagine; so imagine that.

"I did it."

The man ignores my uncle. He keeps his gaze on me, directly at me.

He then walks towards me.

"Funny, wouldn't you say?" he asks.

"What is?" I reply, still shaking.

"That there's no blood on your uncle, but all the blood on your sweater," he says, looking down at what I was wearing.

I try to hold my hands from shaking. I throw them into my pockets.

"I...I...-"

"I...I...-" the man mocks.

"Please," says my uncle. "She's just a young girl."

"Perfect. We need women recruits," smiles the man, pulling me closer to him, at a distance where his breath was no longer a stranger to me.

Carbon monoxide and liquor...that's what I smelled.

My uncle moves closer beside us.

I can cut the nerves, at this point, in the air with a knife. I can feel my uncles nerves circling all around us, like his body is steaming negative energy towards this situation; like he's expecting for something to go wrong. Therefore, something is bound to go wrong because it's what the universe was asked for—or so says "the secret" of life.

With one hand, my uncle grabs the mans hand and tries to remove them from my sweater, seeing how the man had made-up his mind (half way).

"Please," my uncle says, with that same frightened voice I already felt from him; you know, that nervous, anxious, capable-to-spark-anything feeling I was getting from him.

"Ah, the blood! Watch the blood! I could hear from outside," over the tiny puddles splashing from the footsteps entering, and separating, the puddles like Moses would have (if you're religious) with the ocean.

Then, when the music got louder, and when the men outside rambled between each other about the blood, a crowd began to gather and speculate what all the noise and commotion was about.

The locals began to walk up.

A few customers that I had even attended a few hours before began to peak through the door, through the cracks of the wall of the store, through any open slit and piece they could find to look through.

"It's the Black Catz," I could hear a few mumble, in low, hushed voices; so hushed, and low, you could barely hear them even if you were the one they were mumbing to; and I only believe I can hear them because of all the adrenaline running through my blood at the moment, shooting all the increased pheromones to my hearing senses; maybe they know hearing everything right now might be useful for later actions.

I hear others then say, "they want the girl."

They can't possibly mean me? I think.

"What do you mean 'please,' old man?" the leader of the pack hunches over my uncle asking about his earlier question.

And that's when I know: they definitely mean me.

"What's your name?" the leader then turns away from my uncle to ask me.

A bigger crowd has now fully gathered around us. They're here to see the show.

"Benicio," my uncle quickly replies. "And don't worry. I'm still young and strong."

What does he mean "young and strong?" is what I'm asked.

Then, the leader snorts a "oh, alright, uncle Benny" at my uncle.

"No, really. I can fill in for her," my uncle says, growing more desperate by the rejection.

At this time, my phone vibrates. The trembling of the phone reminds me all-together that I had even brought my phone; it reminds me that I could have simply dialed for help.

Silly, silly Ludivina. How did you forget?

Those questions imposed on myself don't matter anymore, because the stranger—the leader of the pack questioning my uncle and I—also hears my phone vibrating, with my sweater already in-hand.

"Aren't you going to answer that?" he asks.

"It's okay," I say, really wanting to say "yes, yes, yes, I want to answer it and I want to go home right now!"

"No, I insist. Please, answer it," says the man.

I don't answer back. And that provokes a reaction from the man. He snatches the phone from my pocket, not caring how I was handled in the process.

"Ludivina—just do as he says," my Uncle succumbs to saying, probably freaking out inside.

The man laughs:

"Like divina?" he asks, my phone still shaking in his hand.

"Yes," I reply, lowly, in a submissive timbre.

"Ha! Well, welcome to the least 'divine'  place in the world," the man replies. "Now answer your phone."

And as I'm about to answer, the demanding man in-front of me snatches the phone right out of my hands and places it right under his shoe, where he quickly disposes of it with one hard step, which then resulted in a loud...

...CRACK!

"Oops," he promulgates.

"It's okay. It's okay. Come on. Let me go with you," my uncle repeats.

"Shut up!" the man tells my uncle, with the back of his hand.

My uncle flies towards the beer fridge.

He just about lands on it, smashing his head on the glass, cracking bits of where his skull landed.

"No!" I yell. "Stop! Please!"

Three of the men rush in from outside. They unattend to the unmoving body to assist another un-moving body.

The crowd backs up.

I'm nowhere near home.

"Ah, shit, Oso." One of the men says as he walks in to the new scene of chaos: not a dead, bloody man, but just about it.

So that's his name, I think: Oso. The man who came to clean this man's body, the man who looks to be a part of the Black Catz as my uncle says, the man who was just holding onto me until he held onto my uncle and threw him back—this man's name is Oso; in Spanish, his name translates to "bear". Great.

The man walks over to my uncle, and so do two of his goons—or what I think are his goons—follow him.

The music is still bumping from the car outside, where the man I killed now lays in the trunk, causing three of the men that now come from outside to walk-in with a strut to their step.

"Listen, Benny Boi," orders Oso to my uncle as he stands over him. He takes off his coat like he's going to use his arms or needs his body for something intense. "This is not an option," he then says, pointing at me.

The crowd gets closer now.

The music gets louder too.

"Is life worth living or should I blast myself," a few men, and some of the crowd, sing along with the beat coming from the car.

Oso then walks back to me while my uncle is still on the ground.

My uncle's breathing gets heavier, and it increases in speed.

"You took one of my men," says Oso, standing before me again.

"We gotta make some changes," sings the crowd outside, and Oso's men inside.

Oso gets closer, and comes in deep, right near my nose, assuring that I understand the next words that come out of his mouth—which are:

"And what are you going to do about it?"

I take them in, sitting, looking—looking out into the open our of the outside world not in here, trapped by Oso and his jeopardy game.

I am here, in my uncle's store, but I'm really not.

I'm back home.

I'm back to my prepubescent years when my parents were still around.

I was back on the other side of the wall with my friends, with Moritz; just this year, we were supposed to go to the prom—if all went right, of course.

But I don't know what is going right now. I am afraid, as Oso's words come out, my old life, on the other side, leaves.

Will I ever see anyone again.

What does Oso want me to say? What does my uncle want me to say? What am I supposed to say?

"I don't know what you want me to do," I finally say, looking at my uncle, looking at his face, and trying to grab any facial-signs he might be trying to give me; any things he might be trying to instruct me to do at the moment. But I see no signs, no instructions. Instead, I see my uncle slowly regaining his stature, wiping off whatever glass landed on him, and holding the top of his head, right where he had smashed it, in a way as to protect it from any other bangs or misfortunes.

Oso looks back at his goons:

They're too busy singing along to the rapper of the west.

But the crowd catches Oso's eyes.

"What shall I do with her?" he asks them -- the crowd.

They pull back, hushly.

My uncle looks at them.

Some people from the crowd, that I can see whenever I am able to swing my pupils towards that direction, are catching my uncle's eyes as if they know each other; most of them carry sad eyes, perhaps knowing my father, knowing what awaits for me.

"Huh? What shall I do with her?" Oso asks again.

But I believe the better question is: what should I have done with the boy?

Look at it from my eyes, the scene: the boy was still; he stood still in front of the register -- until he wasn't still anymore; until he reached over and tried to snatch the money...yet, he never really went for the register...he went for me instead; but going back to the scene: in the store, there is barely any space -- and that's with one person working there; so with Oso, my uncle, myself, Oso's goons, the crowd -- it looks overly pact, and maybe, finally working in its full measure...a task it had never been asked to do before....like my task.

"What. Shall. I. Do?" Oso asks again.

And there it is: my task.

Is Oso asking of me what I think he's asking of me?

The crowd stays silent. But I believe, like me, they too know what Oso is asking of me. They just don't want to say anything. Maybe they see their children in me. Maybe they even have children that have been in my shoes. Maybe those children no longer walk in those shoes -- or any shoes at all.

"What shall I do?" I answer, trying to suck up my crying, my shaking, my old life -- trying to forget my old life, my old friends, Moritz.

"What do you want me to do?" I ask again. "It was an accident," I then admit, accidently.

"Ludivina! No!" my uncle shouts.

The crowd hushes back.

"Oh!" I hear them all say, the crowd, carrying the word from one side to the other like headphones displaying the talented mixer of the album -- or mixers, because such a piece usually takes teamwork.

Can this team work?

Oso's men stop singing like they're impressed.

But I'm not doing this for anyone. I'm doing this because I have no one.

"Huh? What am I supposed to do?" I say again, taking Oso's hand off of my sweater.

My heart is pounding but if you were looking at me you wouldn't be able to tell because I'm so frozen in fear that I can't even fear fear, even if I wanted to -- and I do; boy do I do.

"Well...I need someone to take his place," Oso replies. "A man for a man. Or women."

His men laugh at that. The "women" part.

My uncle interjects before I can intercept with my reply.

"Please. I'm available. She's just visiting," he says, pretty much begging the man -- Oso -- without wanting to fully beg him in front of the crowd, but also not really caring at this point because he, like I, and the crowd, know it's too late, Oso has made up his mind.

I feel air rush into the store. The breeze zooms right by me.

The smell of charcoal comes into the strands of air that made it into this chaos.

There were moments like this I saw in movies and TV shows, or read about in books or comics -- but these moments, the one happening to me right now, had never been played before me to see in real life. And now, that it is happening, I find myself to be the subject of the scene, the destruction, the destruction for construction.

"I'll go," I let out, giving up.

This is not going to end the way my uncle wants. That is clear.

"Let's go," I say. "Is that what you want?" Is that what you want me to say?"

What am I saying? It's like something, or someone, has taken over me and my mouth, and I, have no idea what's going on anymore. Who am I? Who is this talking to this Oso man, this "bear man".

Oso walks over to the beer fridge, away from me and my uncle and his own men.

He opens the fridge, grabs a twenty-four pack of beer, and walks over to us again.

"Looks like we're having ourselves an inition party then," he says. "Come on," his hand then dictates, with a wave, telling me he was saying what I, the crowd, and my uncle, thought he was saying.

Oso pushes me once I accept his wave. He grabs me and pushes me towards the door.

My uncle tries to follow him but he's met with a steady hand over his chest.

"Not you, Benny boi," says Oso.

"Please," my uncle continues to beg. "Just leave her."

"Okay," says Oso. "I could just do a life for a life," he then says, pulling out a pistol from his side pocket and placing it right on my uncle's head.

"How about that?" he then asks me. "What do you think miss, "divine"?

"It's okay," I say, really wanting to say no, no it's not okay; no -- please call grandma; no -- please do anything to stop them.

But this is my fault. I know that much. I don't know much of what will happen when I leave with Oso and his men, but I do know that this, this whole crowd, my uncle's ruined store, Oso's dead "brother" in the trunk, Oso now placing a gun at my uncle's head -- all of it is my fault.

"Ludivina!" my uncle cries out, now being held back by a few of the people in the crowd; the same ones that were giving him sad eyes earlier; the same one's I suspected that he knew.

"It's okay," I repeat, simply repeating what my mouth had already heard; thus, not having to think again; I repeat without saying anything; I repeat without using my brain.

The walk to the car, the one that came with Oso and his men, even when Oso is pushing me forward, seems like an eternity, every step seeming longer than the last. I feel like I'm walking on death row, like I'm being guided by a correction officer on my "last mile," my last strut as a free woman, until the electric chair or the lethal injection gets me. And maybe, going with Oso and his men, going wherever they want to take me, is my electric chair, my lethal injection. I don't know. But there is no choice here.

One of the doors is already open when I finally reach the car. I'm sure we reached it within a few seconds, but to me, reaching a car door has never seemed longer.

The seats of the car are leather. They're black leather with red velvet centers.

The mark of the car is the one with the jaguar running forward. I'm not a huge car person but I'm guessing Jaguar is the name, as that is the cat that seems to be on the steering wheel, and on the hood of the car.

"Get in," Oso says, throwing his hand forward. Therefore, throwing my hand forward.

I can still hear my uncle crying.

"Ludivina," he repeats. Then, he tells himself that "it's all his fault". Even though it's not.

"It's okay," I hear a few of the crowd members tell him, a quick attempt to cheer him up.

One of them -- a crowd member -- even throws in bigger-sense-of-hope with a "maybe they'll bring her back tomorrow" comment.

And I appreciate whoever that was, still giving my uncle hope, because it's a nice thing to do. But hell, I even know there is no hope here.

I get into the car, crouching at the door to avoid another bump on my head.

If this was a normal day, a day where I wasn't going to my death sentence, I would be siked, because the song on the radio -- I think it's the radio -- is one I actually like.

"This one goes out to all the teachers out there," begins one of Oso's men, who's already in the car, with the song.

The kids that say to be these "Black Catz" even look as young as my friends back home. Besides Oso, I wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

Getting into this car seems like another Friday weekend, with the music in the background and the beers hidden in the backseat.

Oso hops in the driver seat once I'm finally in the back, centered in by two of the other men that came with Oso to pick up the lifeless boy I put in the trunk of this car.

The crowd begins to disperse around the car.

Kids look through the window like I'm some wild animal that has just been tamed and is now being guided back to its normal habitat.

A few older members from the crowd stay near my uncle, consoling him, hugging him, telling him things he probably knows are not true but are things he should probably also hear right now.

I never did get to see who was calling me, but my grandmother will have to hear of my taking from my uncle, I guess.

When the last man gets in, into the passenger seat of the Jaguar, and another two guys that were outside get picked up by a car that looks just like the one I'm sitting in, Oso turns on the engine and hits the gas. At first, he hits it slow. But then, after getting the gist of it, or maybe giving us the gist of it, he lets the gas pedal have it, and peels out of sight.

I turn back to see a few kids running behind the car, and then others waving, some of them near my uncle.

"Wave, miss divina," says Oso, dropping the rearview mirror to catch my eyes. But the only thing he catches are the goons besides me, cracking up, along with his passenger, who is also laughing.

Apparently, "divina" is "the hit joke" with these guys.

In Spanish, "divina" means something sent from God, or something positive out of other things.

I don't know if my mother and father thought about that when naming me. My grandmother has never touched that subject. But it is funny that I'm in the least positive situation right now. On the other hand (or the other part of my mind, I'm told), maybe, as half of my name suggest, this particular incident was "sent from the Gods".

"I think she's mad," laughs the man next to me.

"She'll cheer up. She'll cheer up," they tell themselves.

We drive past the palm trees that stood around my uncle's neighborhood. You could see them -- the Palm trees -- from a distance because of their height.

From the wall to my uncle's store, it's about a fifteen minute drive. And on the way here, you cross everything on this side that you need to cross to make you grateful enough to be living on the other side. I did. And I believe my uncle could see that I did by the look in my eyes when he did pick me up.

To get to the bridge that connects East Wall (which is where my uncle lives) and West Wall (which is where I live), you can take a bus that drives straight (or almost straight) from my grandmother's house to here: the bridge. So that is what I did. Being that my grandmother was at work, and I already knew the maps and the bus from riding it so much to-and-from school, it was no problem for me to guide myself to my first crossover which came in the command of my grandmother.

Once I finally got with my uncle, and once I was finally on West Wall, the drive did seem like a long one. I believe because my uncle was too busy in thought. Maybe he saw all this playing out even before it did play out; and before he could warn me.

I expected, however, this awkwardness from my uncle. We haven't spoken in years. So I wasn't expecting us to "catch up right where we left off" because we had never left off anywhere to begin with.

Fast Forward to hours later, and it seems like all that catching up time I thought I'd have with my uncle, is now going to have to be spent with these men, trying to plan my way out of this one; all my "employee" time will now be spent on "brain power" time, in which I process everything and try and come up with the best solution to go home as soon as possible.

If I would have seen their sign, of course, then maybe I would have asked my uncle to just drive me right back to the bridge, because a sign like the one that represents them can tell no other story than that of a horrid, horror one.

It's a giant sign. And it's right on the main rode. It's right on the rode my uncle took.

If I would have seen it, maybe it would have gotten my attention. Maybe I would have noticed the logo of the bar and the tattoo of the man I shot. Maybe then I would have made a decision.  And maybe I would have thought twice about doing what I did, about allowing my finger to snatch on the trigger as I did it.

But I didn't see it. So it doesn't matter.

"This is it," says Oso, already making up what seemed like forever to me. He slowly released the gas. That much was clear to us with the movements of the Jaguar.

Since the bar is almost near the bridge, coming from my uncle's store should have seemed like the fifteen I talked about, but it didn't seem like fifteen minutes at all.

Once Oso put up the music from the other rap, the one from the east, the time flew by on the drive here. I was too busy, too caught up in my head, that I didn't even pay attention to anything. I was too busy asking myself too many questions I'd never be able to answer, that by the time I looked up and noticed the car was stopped for good, and it just wasn't stopped for a red light, the sign was already in my face, shining all the light, all the bright light I missed, telling me...it's too late...it's too late...it's too late.