Chapter Text
“The lights spark and flicker with monsters much bigger than I can control now. Welcome to the panic room, where all your darkest fears are gonna come for you, come for you. Welcome to the panic room. You'll know I wasn't joking when you see them too.” - Panic Room, Au/Ra
Bruno woke in the middle of the night, heart pounding, terror freezing him in place and his head throbbing with pain.
This wasn’t new. This happened with such frequency that he’d long since accustomed himself to it. Chronic nightmares and chronic pain couldn’t be stopped, only helped- and it was help he couldn’t afford in any case. No one in such a small village could.
Sighing, he reluctantly hauled himself out of bed and went to his kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water, gulped it and poured another, sitting on the counter and swinging his legs like a child, though he was…Well. Somewhere in his forties. About forty-five at least.
What had the nightmare been this time? He strained to remember. The dream had been green as usual; there’d been fire, shouting. Gunfire. Blood.
His little village had been aflame.
It sent shivers down his spine and, though he tried to ignore it, he couldn’t. His green nightmares always came true. But who could he even tell? He’d long since learned his lesson about being quiet; to tell anyone what he saw was to risk being branded a brujo. If he opened his mouth, he ran the risk of being beaten, whipped, maybe even killed.
And that was when people believed him. When they didn’t, he was called crazy, disturbed, impaired.
It had been like this since he was five years old. The green dreams started then and never left.
The nuns certainly hadn’t liked it. His back was a tapestry of their anger, their fear and displeasure. His arms and legs were a map of scars, a lifetime of being shunned and alone making itself known outwardly as his brain screamed at him that he deserved it.
The dreams weren’t all bad: sometimes he saw a good harvest, a healthy baby being born, weddings, people helping each other. But good or bad, the green dreams always came true.
But still, he’d never seen anything like this. He drank the rest of the water, still shivering. Bruno felt frozen to the spot, torn between telling someone or keeping quiet. Who could he even tell anyway? He wasn’t exactly close with anyone except his boss, the local potter, Juan Puerta. The whole street called him Abuelo, a tall man in his seventies with a crooked, gap-tooth smile for those he called his own. Bruno was on that list and had been since he arrived in this village nearly fifteen years ago.
Maybe…Maybe he could tell Juan? This wasn’t some far-off disaster, this was their village. Their home. Bruno knew these people and none of them had ever harmed him. They thought he was odd, sure, but no one threw stones or hurt him. If he could just convince Juan that he was telling the truth then surely the villagers would listen to Juan? People liked him, people trusted him. Abuelo Puerta, always taking in strays.
He’d just climbed off the counter, resolving to find a way to tell Juan that danger was coming in the morning, when he heard a far-off scream. Then a flash. Smoke.
Fire.
Someone pounded at his door, shouting; “Bruno! BRUNO! Wake up, niño!”
It was Juan and Bruno had never heard him sound so afraid.
He ran for the door, stumbling and unlocked it with shaking hands. He could see fire in the distance, could smell smoke in the air. People were screaming and- oh God, those were gunshots.
He was too late. They were already under attack.
Bruno knew there’d been violence, that other villages had been attacked, some small towns…But the violence had been going the other way, away from them and further down the mountains. They were so small that the village elders assured them all they’d be overlooked. Bruno wasn’t even sure if there’d been an evacuation plan.
It was a bit late to be worrying about that.
Juan pushed his way into the small home and ran immediately to Bruno’s room. He came back holding Bruno’s favourite ruana and a pair of sandals and he shoved them into Bruno’s arms.
“Come on, boy, hurry,” he said. He was sweating, his grey hair sticking up awkwardly. There was a bruise on his cheek.
Bruno didn’t question him. No hesitating, no stumbling; if he hesitated now he’d die. No arguing, no questions. He could trust Juan. If there was anything he was sure of in his life, it was this: Abuelo Juan Puerta would not hurt him.
Juan held a small cloth bag and Bruno didn’t even have time to grab much. He grabbed his own bag by his bed, shoving in his nearly-empty wallet, a shirt and pants, some food and his most precious possession: the baby blanket he’d been found swaddled in as an infant, pale green and embroidered with his name and a single caterpillar. He didn’t own much, he never had. The food took up most of the space in his bag, which he figured was the most important thing anyway.
The shouting was getting closer, the smoke clogging the air and Bruno pulled his ruana up over his mouth and nose as he coughed.
Juan grabbed his hand like he was a child and pulled him along the street. They lived in the middle of the village and Bruno cursed that fact where he’d previously liked it. Before, living just off the village square had felt secure and it had been convenient to be so near the shops and his job. Now it meant they’d have more trouble fleeing.
“Keep your head down,” Juan said gruffly as they ran.
“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Bruno mumbled. He winced at the screams, coughing on the smoke.
Their pretty little village had turned into a warzone, the stuff of nightmares. The sky was red with fire, clogged with grey smoke. All around him his neighbours fled and died. Blood stained the cobblestones, there were horrible high-pitched screams for mercy, people shouting for family and friends, sobbing. He couldn’t block it out and he couldn’t shake the horrible feeling that this was his fault. If he just hadn’t seen it in the first place, maybe it wouldn’t have happened. Or if he hadn’t hesitated, if he’d just gone to Juan the second he woke up, maybe they could have woken some of their neighbours and gotten away before they were attacked…
Bang!
“Aah!” Bruno ducked on instinct as a gun fired, much closer now. Juan swore, a rare sound, and suddenly a man on horseback was blocking the street, a machete aimed at them.
Bruno froze, terror holding him in place. He may not have remembered it, but he’d been in a situation like this once, long ago. He’d been told the story many times: how he’d been found in his father’s arms in the river, how they’d been surrounded by dead civilians and soldiers with machetes, strangely burned…
“Well, well, well,” the man drawled. “A couple of rats sneaking away?”
“We want no trouble,” Juan said, pushing Bruno behind him. They backed away, but were forced to stop; behind them was the flaming town square, the smoke, the bodies and so many more attackers.
“Please,” Juan said. “We are unarmed.” His grip on Bruno's arm tightened. “We have no money. Just let us go.”
“Juan,” Bruno whispered. “We’re tra-” He broke off with a hiss as his constant headache flared. The world flashed green- a mountain trail, a valley, a village- and the man with the machete gaped, his expression twisting.
“What the fuck was that?” the man hissed. Bruno knew that look; it was the look of the orphanage kids as they threw stones and shouted, Brujo! It was the look of the nuns as they locked him in the attic, as they brought the belt down on his back.
It was a look that meant blood was going to be spilled.
Juan pushed Bruno back the way they’d come, eyes wide. “Run,” he said hoarsely. “Bruno, run!”
They ran through their crumbling village, ducking down side-streets, choking on smoke, their eyes watering, their lungs burning, forced to take the long way to the village edge. Bruno cursed his luck, cursed whatever had given him these damnable visions in the first place; they so rarely happened when he was awake, why did it have to happen now?
The man had seen Bruno’s eyes glow and now…Now they were direct targets. Not just another pair of villagers, but being purposefully chased.
“I’m sorry,” Bruno panted as they ran. “Abuelo, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Juan said, still holding his hand. “Whatever that was, it’s not your fault. I know you. You hear me, niño?”
Bruno heard him, but that didn’t mean he believed him.
There were hoofbeats, so many hoofbeats and as they reached the end of the alley, Juan stopped, ducking back into the shadows.
Bruno immediately saw why: there were four men on horseback, two with machetes, two with rifles. Two more were on foot and they held rifles too; Bruno could see knives strapped to their belts.
Juan turned to Bruno just as one of the men shouted and pointed at the alley.
Abuelo Juan Puerta was an old man and he’d just spent the better part of the night running through burning streets, ducking down alleyways and avoiding burning debris and corpses lining the streets. He was shaking and panting for breath, clearly exhausted…
And he smiled as he cupped Bruno’s face in his hands and kissed his forehead.
Why did Bruno feel so cold, so small?
“Run. Run and don’t look back. God go with you, mijo,” Juan whispered and he pulled away before Bruno could hold onto him, running at their attackers.
“Will you cowards strike down an old man?” he shouted.
Bruno knew he needed to run. He needed to run and, as Juan said, not look back. He didn’t need to see this…
But he did. He saw Juan, surrounded.
He saw a man raise his rifle.
Bruno turned to run, tears stinging his eyes, but he still saw it, still heard it.
The gun shot. The bullet striking.
Juan falling to the ground as his blood stained the cobblestones.
Bruno ran, sobbing. Among all the terror, he formed only one coherent thought: history doesn’t repeat itself, but it rhymes.
Because he’d been here before, hadn’t he? But as a baby he’d been too small to remember.
He didn’t have that luxury anymore. He’d never forget.
“Run. Run and don’t look back. God go with you, mijo,”
His birth father had been bent over him, trying to shield him, trying to keep him alive. Juan had walked to his certain death to distract them from Bruno and his damn curse, a curse Juan hadn’t even known about until tonight.
So Bruno followed that last instruction, that last plea; he ran and he didn’t look back. He ran right out of the burning village, realising with dread that it was getting quiet. He ran further up into the mountains and into the jungle; he ran through the river, he ran down narrow trails and stumbled over hills; he ran and ran and ran as the sun began to rise.
He ran until he couldn’t anymore, until his burning lungs and shaking legs demanded he stop.
Then and only then did Bruno fall to his knees. Chest heaving, shaking all over, he clawed at the earth and screamed.