Ana's Quinceañera

    Your head is killing you. You shouldn't have hit the tequila so hard last night. But seeing as your little sister only turns 15 once and your primo Miguel always brings the good stuff to family parties, here you are. Never again, you tell yourself for the millionth time. Do you even believe that anymore? Staggering to your feet, you are surprised for a moment by how weak you feel. Your eyes are blurry and thinking is slow and fuzzy. You need water. Juice? Something salty and lots of it.

    Glancing down, you see how ruined your party dress somehow became over the night. Ragged and filthy, smeared with what you guess is the red velvet cake your sweet Ana loves so much. Mamá was worried about stains, but Ana insisted on red velvet for her party and no one could ever say no to those big brown eyes. Deep stains permeate the dress and a round singed patch is burned into the purple satin. Your mother is going to kill you. How much of an ass did you make of yourself? So hungry. You'll deal with Mamá later and apologize to Ana for (maybe? you hope not.) ruining her special day. Not that you behaved much better at your own quince. Don't think about any of that now, just find something to eat, something to drink. Something to make your head stop aching and your eyes clear up. You shuffle to the kitchen of your parents' house, unable to lift your freezing and achey feet off the ground. You are grateful not to hear anyone else moving around in the house. They probably went to church, you think. Gracias a Dios. 

    The kitchen is all wrong. Your mind is too slow to comprehend this at first, but as you open the refrigerator (why isn't it cold inside?), as you try to find a clean glass (only one dusty, greasy mug on the counter, the floor covered in shards of broken mole jars your mother saved for drinking glasses), you're hit with an acrid wave of nausea that tastes like worry. You have never seen Mamá's kitchen less than sparkling. The party mess should have been all cleared before anyone woke up. Certainly well before you hauled your carcass out of bed. There is no water flowing from the tap you have turned.

    You pull yourself toward the living room and glance down to confirm that you managed to get your shoes off before passing out. You did, so that's an improvement over last time at least. Your stockings are still on, but full of runs and torn to tatters. Your skin looks gray through the stocking tears in the dull and clouded afternoon light. No selfies for you today, diva. You laugh at the thought, but your lungs are too weak to push more than a wheezing breath across your dry lips.

    A handful of spiders catch your left eye's periphery, and as you (slowly, stiffly) turn your head you find that hundreds more are ringing you. Juicy black widows, brown house spiders covered in fuzz and many other varieties you don't know by name all keeping distance in an almost perfect circle and move as you move. You sense in your lizard brain that they are in great awe, but even greater fear of you. Too hungry to deal with that development now, but you make a sluggish mental half-note to examine this later. 

    Your hand grasps the doorframe and the spiders there flow like water away from your gray and slender hand. Your expensive manicure (gold glitter french tips to offset the glossy violet of your dress and complement your usually-olive skin) has been broken and chipped to hell. Two of the nails on your left hand have been ripped entirely off and really should be bleeding. They should at least hurt, but you feel nothing other than the mounting hunger and thirst for salt and juice. You would give every remaining finger and toenail you possess for a glass of mango agua fresca rimmed with Tajín. A reeking wave overtakes you as you enter the living room. Ugh, is that you? Drunk-ass piece of mierda, you smell like straight up rotting flesh. 

    In the living room, remnants of the party are everywhere, but just as wrong as the chaos and filth in kitchen. You groggily wonder how one cake left so much mess all over. Red velvet smeared on walls, ground into the carpet, staining even more than you'd expect. Who knows how far that red dye bleeds, you think. Brush it off as one more in a series of things Mamá is going to have your ass for. You find yourself on your knees in the middle of the living room. You arrived there so abruptly that you can't even remember how you got there. Did you fall? Too hungry to think. Don't black out.

    You aren't steering this body anymore, friend. Your tongue is deep in the fibers of the carpet and your cracked lips are suckling at the red stains. The cake, sure. In the back of your mind you consider being embarrassed that you might be seen like this, sucking crushed birthday cake (not cake though, no, too salty) from the carpet like the family dog. Speaking of...

    A red-stained tail is barely visible peeking out from the couch's dust ruffle. Your golden retriever Oso, a gift from Papá for your eighth birthday, is curled up and gnawing on a bone. There's still some meat on it, so Mamá must have given it to him after the party. Something's wrong there too, though your swollen eyes may be playing tricks. Oso was never so thin. Not enough energy to think about that now either, and you won't remember later. You'll be too hungry.

    What have you been eating out of the carpet, girl? For sure not cake, not that you care anymore. It's nowhere near enough. Your chin tilts up off the carpet and over the mass of spiders still surrounding you (a little closer now), you see him sitting there. Your papá is in his favorite chair, what's left of his head looking disapprovingly at you. That might just be the decay though. He looks puffy and melted with his skin sliding sideways like that. His lap is scattered with fallen teeth. You must be in shock because you don't feel much other than hunger and vague disgust. The reeking smell emanating off his rotting corpse matches your own hangover smell. Maybe it was him all along. You lift a dull, pallid arm to smell your armpit and are assured that the smell is coming from both you and Papa. A waft is coming from under the couch where Oso is hiding as well, and you know with profound certainty that the bone currently being worried by your old friend is the very same arm that is missing from Papá's right side. That's ok though, Oso. We all get hungry.

    Your body rises to its feet and you see your reflection for the first time today. The room-length windows facing the street are broken here and there, but enough remain to provide a mirror. Outside is the southern California street you grew up on. No one is out there today. No clouds like you thought, just a sky heavy and dark enough that your reflection is tragically clear against it. A dry rasp escapes your crushed throat. A rasp that dreamed of being a shriek, but  your vocal cords have long-since disintegrated. 

    The few teeth you still have are infected and black. Your fingertips don't bleed because you have no blood left to spill. Your hair (gross, does it really look that bad?) exists only in a few matted lumps that will fall out soon. Yes, your skin is really as gray and dull as it looked in the kitchen light. Your pretty party dress has seen its share of hunting and physical altercations at this point. The Hunger is in control now, and memories of who you are (were) and the family you love (loved) are fading quickly. Your arachnid associates seem more comfortable and begin to caress your ankle bones, exposed to the elements where the previous flesh was most delicate.

    Of course you can't be expected to remember. You've been busy, after all. Ana's quinceañera was one and a half months ago, the party where you were the first one in your town to Turn. No surprise there, you were always a trendsetter. Your Instagram followers were stunned when they witnessed the livestream at your baby sister's quince. Their digital idol (@SoCal_Reina) messily devoured her beloved Ana's face right there on camera. No mistake, you were caught white-eyed and bloody-handed. The party escalated from there. Poor Miguel didn't make it out. His mother did, but you found your tía in her home across the street the next day and tore her larynx from her twitching body with your bare hands. This was how you broke your manicure.

    Fresh sustenance has become more scarce day by day as more of your neighbors Turn and those who don't are hunted. You start out like this every day, feeling a little more hungover each morning and desperate for something salty and wet. You are always confused by the mess in the kitchen, by the spiders all around you and the state of your clothing. The Hunger quiets your humanity more easily as time goes by and you almost never react anymore to seeing Papá in his chair or sweet Ana's eviscerated body in the hall. You had just enough You left to cry a little when you ate her small arms, chewing the arteries like fresh chinese noodles. Mamá is in the front hall. Not much left of her now, just hair and bone. Let Freud figure out why she was the most delicious. You don't have time for that now. Still hungry.

    Your bloodshot eyes, sharpened by the small amount of some cousin's date's gore you have leeched from the carpet with your still-strong tongue, now hold the pure white irises that come with the Hunger. Unable to scent out any living bipeds in the neighborhood, you turn away from the shattered window. Your undead arm lifts the couch's dust ruffle and you summon up just enough saliva to lubricate your putrid mouth. Oso has lived a long and happy life as your faithful companion, and don't they say to save the best for last?