canarygcld

[canarygcld]

She’s here for Joel, and because she’s promised herself she won’t let Randall take anything else from her. The Saloon is safe because she knows most patrons, and most patrons know not to bother her or else deal with her uncle. He’s got that look on his face that might promise danger, so Marisol nurses a beer in the corner and listens out for shouts.

Instead, Joel catches her attention and motions her behind the bar, holding up a bloody hand. Marisol sighs but slips through the crowd and follows him to the back office. “Don’t you have brooms or barbacks to deal with that?” But she’s feeling lonelier than usual and isn’t about to push away family. “It doesn’t seem too deep, do you still have that first aid kit I gave you, like the big one with the sutures kit?” Mari goes to wash her hands, then drifts back over and starts digging through the kit. “How are things? Other than the bleeding hand. I’m ok, I think, it gets better every week or whatever they say.”

who: @canarygcld

where: Lost Horse Saloon

when: dead of night

Marisol’s not going to believe him, the story sounds too innocent. A patron drops a glass, it leaves a deeper cut than expected when Joel cleans it up. The glass slices into his left palm like an angry bite, leaves him needing maybe a stitch or two. She's patched up worse, as a result of worse - which is why this is just stupid enough to sound like a lie. But the patron and the glass are both real... Joel’s just in a mood. It’s his turn on the couch, and that’s got him playing bartender and looking for blood, even if it’s his own. 

He catches a glimpse of familiar dark hair bob through the patrons of his saloon - motions her behind the counter so she can take a look. He holds up his palm as an explanation. “Got it cleaning up some glass.” 

[canarygcld]

This is me in work mode, alright? Who do you think is actually gonna wash the paint off the side of the building? La sad girl up there? Nope.

Vida 2x10

[canarygcld]

It's a familiar conversation, so Marisol only smiles sweetly as he grumbles, but puts out the cigarette anyway. “It's my right and obligation as your friendly neighborhood healthcare professional to keep reminding you anyway.” It's full of affection, and she feels a bit warmer, a bit less lost under a familiar, friendly gaze.

“Thanks, my parents have Banana because I thought I was gonna be working all night but now I don’t want to wake them up to get her back, nor do I really wanna go home without her…” she trails off, looking away much in. the same way he did when saying fine. Marisol knows what it is to avoid questions and try to hide pain, so she will grant him this peace and not ask questions. Joel always is so private anyway.

“Busy, it's almost flu season, plus a bunch of boys decided to play with fireworks behind the high school – thankfully no major injuries, just a bunch of bruised egos and singed eyebrows. Tequila, pretty please.” She laughs, sliding onto a bar stool closest to the well, and away from other patrons. “Is Joel around?”

"and you do realize that saying this every time you see me smoking one ain't gonna make me quit?" chet says, gives mari another smile, wider, warmer. he takes one last drag and stubs the cigarette out, though. won't make him quit but it's doing something.

"better make it two. i'll have one with you," he says as he opens the door to the bar, makes room for her to pass first. he's glad to see her here, out and about instead of barricaded at her house. he remembers what it was like when he lost tilly, wouldn't leave the house for days.

"glad you came 'round, though," he says as he leads her towards an empty spot by the bar. he slips in behind, immediately grabs two fresh glasses. "and i'm fine," chet says with a shrug. he avoids eye contact because saying fine and the fact that he slept on the couch last night are kind of at odds with each other. whatever.

he wants to ask the same—are you okay? how are you doing?—but he hesitates. he figures she's heard enough of these from other people, doesn't need the same from him. he'll make sure to let her know he cares some other way. they'll talk, they'll have a drink, he'll listen.

"how was work today?" he asks instead, figures it's a safer territory. "and what are we in the mood for? something strong? first one on the house so you can choose the pricey shit."

[canarygcld]

I can't believe this exists

[canarygcld]

The knock on her door sends a jolt of fear – and suddenly she’s back to that day when they showed up at her door to tell her he was dead. Marisol takes a deep breath, then a sip of her wine – closing her eyes tight for a half second before she stands and goes to answer the door. It takes her a moment to place them, but she’s smiling politely none the less – ah, yes Samira, journalist and Cowboy.

“Please, call me Mari, thank you so much, do come in!” She accepts the Tupperware and stands back, allowing the other to enter before closing and locking the door behind them. ( something something, paranoid young widow living alone in some old house – the prime setting for a shitty true crime podcast. )

“Can I get you anything?” Mari sets the gifted food down in the kitchen, then returns to the living room with another glass for her bottle of wine, along with a pitcher of water and the nervous energy of someone who might whip up a full meal if asked to. “Sorry – I haven’t had too many guests of late, I’m a bit out of practice. Please, make yourself at home.”

What: Closed Starter for @canarygcld at Marisol's home.

A month seemed about right. They weren't family, nor intimate friends. Marisol and Randall had been divorced so she wasn't the technical widow. Still, it would be the polite thing to do. The neighborly thing.

And Samira wanted information Marisol could give.

A sharp rapping on the front door and Samira backed up enough to be visible through any front windows. Her dad had insisted on sending food with Samira, along with the standard, "If you need anything, let us know!" What could the Mansours give Mari to fill the void of death? What could anyone? Samira could offer answers in due course, but even that could really only contextualize matters.

Their smile was mannered and sympathetic, pasted on so many times it felt more like a grimace. "Miss Marisol, hello," they started when the door opened, "I don't know if you remember me - I was at the service. Samira?" She held up the Tupperware, like an offering. "My folks sent me with lasagna." Here's some food, now show me your wounds.

[canarygcld]

Marisol stands with the family at the funeral – the divorce is never officially finalized even as she sheds his last name. She never abandons him, and certainly not his family. His mother’s got too much grief to deal, and his siblings that same shellshocked look she remembers them wearing after their father died. So Marisol handles the arrangements. It's the kind of person she’s always been, the one who does whatever is needed with a gracious smile, picking up the pieces of everyone else in her life just to avoid all the ways she’s falling apart.

There’s so much paperwork involved in death, all those county officials treating her with a wary kindness because she’s ‘fragile’ – like a flower or a bomb, they aren’t sure. The case isn’t closed, as they constantly remind her, but she’s permitted to settle his affairs ( a cruel turn of phrase given the circumstances ) and try to get on with her life. The man at City Hall says this with such kindness and finality, as if his smugly granted permission will magically solve everything and grant her closure. Marisol wants to scream, wants to make them all listen to her, really look at her – at the very least figure out what the hell happened to him. Instead she thanks him for his kind words and goes home to the empty house with a box of papers on the front seat – the summation of his life and their love in succinct legal banality.

“Hi!” She’s trying and mostly succeeding, because she needs Julie and she loves sweets. “No, don’t apologize, really it's fine,” and she means it, even though it kills her that her friend did not reach out sooner, followed swiftly by a wave of guilt. “Yes, please – I’m in dire need of a treat, people only seem to bring casseroles to grieving widows, what about cake?” See? A perfect joke – she’s so totally fine and well adjusted.

Starter for @canarygcld

Where: The Pink Lady

When: Present

When Julie really thought about it she hadn't seen Mari since before the funeral. Sure, she had gone to the funeral, but it wasn't like the two of them were chatting away on that occasion. With school starting up and summer drawing to a close, Julie hadn't been able to be much of a friend outside of a few texts to check in. That and she wanted to give Mari the space to grieve without everyone climbing down her throat. Now, with the new routine in place, Julie managed to finally make plans with her old friend.

The Pink Lady was one of the newer and trendier places in town. It was the exact type of place she'd visit with friends and not with Caid or the kids. The three of them were a little too feral to enjoy a quiet pastry and the polished look of the little pink truck. Julie just grabbed a table when she caught sight of Mari's long dark hair. "Mar!" She called with a wave, standing up to give her friend a squeeze. "I'm sorry I didn't try to get with you sooner," she said, eyes giving Mari a once over like she could see her wounds to make them better. "You ready to get something sweet?"

[canarygcld]

“Those things’ll kill ya,” she teases and it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Marisol’s coming off shift, having racked up so much overtime in the past few weeks that the head nurse said he’d start charging her to work if she didn’t go home and relax. It's easier throw herself into saving lives than to think about the ones she’s lost. But grief is better than guilt, which is better than anger – better than feeling so much she’s likely to be consumed by it, the black hole slowly swallowing up her sunshine. Besides, her therapist said she needs to get out more. Or something like that.

“Sorry Chet, only here for one or two.” And she really is sorry, even as she’s already regretting stopping by. “I’m not really fit for much company yet, but I couldn’t go home yet. How are you doing?”

open starter / outside of lost horse saloon ; late night

he stretches his back out until he hears the usual, loud cracks of his spine—chet slept like shit again last night, twisting and turning half the time, unable to get comfortable and it shows today. he's been walking funny all day, desperate to sit down or lean against something. so, obviously, he's been on his feet most of the day because the universe had other plans. well, fuck that.

he takes another smoke break, leaving the loud music and the rumbling voices of his customers behind; it all comes out muffled through the closed doors, pairs up with the shrill ringing in his ears. seems like nothing in his body works right these days, huh.

back against the wall, he inhales deep, lets his shoulders sag, his eyelids falling shut for a few seconds. as bad as it is for him, the smoke is exactly what he needs right now. he avoids making eye contact with most of the people walking in and out of the bar—he's really not in the mood tonight—until someone familiar approaches. maybe the mood's changed then.

"happy hour's over, better get the cash ready," he teases, his voice a bit raspy but his tone relaxed. "ain't letting you outta here unless you drop a nice little number on us."

[canarygcld]

the canary - marisol larrazabal

ORIGINS & FAMILY:

Name: Marisol Alba Larrazabal ( formerly Kastings )

Nicknames:  Mari, Sol, Bambi ( only by Randall )

Birthday: December 3, 1989

Place of Birth: Mexico City, Mexico

Places Lived Since: Paxton, AZ

Current Residence: Paxton, AZ

Notable Family Members: Santiago Larrazabal ( father ) ; Camilia Larrazabal ( mother ) ; TBD Larrazabal ( younger brother, wc ) ; Joel Aguilar ( uncle ) ; Randall Kastings ( late/ex husband )

PHYSICAL:

Faceclaim: Melissa Barrera

Height: 5’7

Build: slim

Hair Color: dark brown  

Eye Color: brown

Jewelry? Tattoos? Piercings?: multiple piercings in both ears, several tattoos ( will expand upon later ), wedding ring worn on a chain around her neck

Unique Mannerisms/Physical Habits: picking at her fingernails, talking with her hands, pathological people pleaser

PERSONALITY:

Occupation: nurse

Affiliation: affiliate for the cowboy mafia

Languages Spoken: Spanish, English

Positive Traits: outgoing, emotive, devoted, trusting, forgiving

Negative Traits: naive, passive, mercurial, easily manipulated  

Likes: sunrise, overly sweet coffee made the proper way, sappy romance novels

Dislikes: being lied to, places that lack history and heart, horror movies

Aesthetic: the inherent hubris of young love; this house is not haunted – you are; physical intimacy like a drug—he loves you, he loves you not; glorious, satisfied exhaustion after a long shift; a face crafted for tragedy and a heart built for love; craving the ephemeral taste of early spring precisely because it will not last; is it worse to be doomed by the narrative or haunted by it?  

HISTORY: ( tw vague mentions of racism, tw drug use, tw affair, tw death )

The story goes…they are high school sweethearts, but really she’s loved him for far longer. Marisol, named for the sea and the sun, then brought to a place with a whole lot of one and very little of the other. She’s so bright and expressive, friendly and shining – but children are cruel, and English is her second language. She’s eight and he’s nine ( nearly ten, as he insisted ) and he made them all apologize, her valiant knight in hand-me-down flannels.

Her father is a doctor, moving his family to a sleepy small town in the US in the hopes that he can actually help people – deliver babies and treat the flu, developing relationships with patients instead of the chaos and anonymity of a trauma surgeon in the capital. Her mother is a professor, but there’s no university in Paxton and so she settles for making high schoolers read Isabel Allende and Octavia Butler. Marisol grows up adored and encouraged and challenged, she can be anything she wants – and she wants to help people the way her parents do.

Randall is her best friend, her protector, and then when they are older – much more. It's a cliché and she knows it, but can’t bring herself to care. He’s sixteen when the bank takes his family’s ranch and he starts spending more time with the Larazabals. Her parents adore him, even before they become more than best friends. He never leaves without a tupperware full of ‘leftovers’ ( her mother always makes extra for his siblings ). When his father dies, Marisol holds him and confesses her love. And for a time, things are perfect.

Marisol goes to nursing school – the perfect balance between her father’s medical career and the more personal connection she craves. Randall starts rodeoing, far too proud to ask for help and too protective to allow his siblings to struggle. It takes and takes from him, Marisol giving everything she can but she can’t quite fix the way it breaks his body. Her father is the first to prescribe him pain pills, a little favor for the man his daughter loves. If only they knew.

He gets involved with dealing, with the Cowboy Mafia and all those things that are only whispered about behind locked doors or in shabby confessionals. Marisol loves him and hates herself, choking on her guilt late at night alone in the bed she bans him from when he’s high. Guilt that she’s enabling him, guilt that she might love him too much to care. Guilt over all of the things she cannot change, all of the suffering in this town, and all of the people she will not be able to save. Fear and guilt are sisters, or so the saying goes – fear sits in her chest, in that hollowed out space between her ribs, holding space for the heart she’s already given away.

He gets clean and proposes for the fourth time – she finally accepts, and they marry in her parents’ backyard. It's perfect for a shining golden moment. But these things come at a cost, something she should know by now. He’s in deep with the Cowboy Mafia, so deep that it's now the family he’s chosen. Lovely, darling, way too trusting Marisol patches up his friends in their kitchen for far too long before she realizes that he’s promised her services along with his own. Even this can’t make her hate him.

It was as if the creator made a mistake with her, placing her heart firmly upon her sleeve instead of safely encased in her ribcage. Darling girl, lovely little fool – did she learn nothing from that first lie? That candy apple kiss to knock her off guard, to soften the blow of the poison he presses to her skin with lips that taste of another. Heartache – that shattering, gaping feeling is something she’s only read about, until it is not and that dark thing inside of him that she’s always been drawn too threatens to swallow her sunshine entirely. He cheats and she finds out, forcing him to the couch for an entire week but caving after two nights. He might still be her knight, she rationalizes, and doesn’t the heroine have to suffer, to lose something in order to make the happily ever after mean anything? Fall apart and come back together, that’s how the story always goes. So she swallows his honeyed apologies, lets him confess his sins against her skin, running her fingers through his hair and promising him the future. And what a gift it was, to love so freely as she always has, made all the more crucial by this devastating sorrow. Forgiveness is not weakness, she fundamentally believes. So when he holds out his bloodstained hands, she picks up the knife herself to offer up her bruised heart.

He possesses her heart, he’s hijacked her career, and it's still not enough. Marisol finds a new friend; Alicia is so lovely and understanding – they have a glass of wine too many and she confesses her own fears and frustrations. Later, when it all comes crashing down – Marisol isn’t sure which betrayal hurts the most. She just knows that it hurts, and it doesn’t stop hurting. Randall, who she’s loved most of her life, who she’s sat with on the bathroom floor through detox and withdraw, who dragged her into his violence and secrecy. And maybe that’s the worst bit, Marisol, with her bleeding heart and sunshine, grew attached to each and every person she treats at her kitchen table at his request. Randall coaxed her into involvement with the Cowboys without her knowing, but now Marisol knows them too well, and loves them in the way she loves all her people. She hates him for that, hates him for being a fucking coward and leaving.

She keeps the house that her parents bought them and continues to treat whoever shows up at her backdoor. Marisol does not learn the circumstances of how he was found until much later, only that he was dead and she’s the number one suspect. She’s never been all that good at lying, and spends harrowing hours in custody tearfully confessing about his affairs while protecting the Cowboys she’s treated. They come for her soon enough, and the DNA evidence is overwhelming – Marisol’s never set foot in that resort, nor would she ever wear such a gaudy shade. They take her back to that empty house and suddenly it seems so full of reminders of him, and she breaks down wrapped up in an old flannel. Marisol hated him for what he did but missed him like a little kid. Of such banality was grief made.

PLOT ARC: The Canary is a nurse for the Cowboys; she knows them all well. She’s suspected to have worked with a Hand to arrange for Alicia’s disappearance. Since Randall’s affair, she’s been in a weird place of: how many of them knew and how could they? As well as the feeling that these people were her family too. She absolutely has come to love those people that she treats because of Randall and reckoning with her grief and guilt and anger will be super fun to write. <3

[canarygcld]

Melissa Barrera for Flaunt