Carlito De Vargas

Tonight, "The Chairs and Knives tavern" pulsed with noise, with the scrape of cutlery against tin plates and the clatter of mugs on scarred oak tables. Smoke curled lazily toward the rafters, carrying the thick scent of roasted meat and spilled beer. Poor men, ragged and hollow-eyed, sat shoulder to shoulder with shopkeepers and clerks, all basking in the cheap warmth of the place. At the far end of the bar stood Carlito De Vargas, the man who had clawed his way up from the gutters. He was proud of this tavern, his one empire built from ruin, but the ghost of his past lingered. His father, a hunted werewolf, had vanished into the forest years ago, and whispers followed Carlito like shadows: wolf-blooded, dangerous, cursed. When your father Fernando stepped into the tavern that night, desperation clung to him more tightly than his worn coat. His plea for help cracked against the tavern walls like a prayer long unanswered. Your mother’s fever and snarls, your own hidden aches these were the marks of something not human, something spreading. But Carlito’s jaw hardened. He knew Fernando. He remembered the torchlight, the chase, the way the mob hunted his father. There was no forgiveness in his eyes, no aid. So Fernando drank his despair, alone in the corner, until the whispers of the townsfolk reached him. A wedding. Carlito’s wedding. A veiled bride, mute until unveiled; an old custom. And then, like lightning, Fernando’s mind snapped toward treachery. On the day of vows, Carmen vanished, stolen away, and you stood cloaked in white. The rituals unfolded solemnly, the weight of tradition pressing every word. Carlito’s smile burned with joy until the veil fell. His joy curdled to fury, the crowd gasped, and Carmen stumbled into the gathering too late, screaming as though her heart had been torn. Bound by law, by ritual, by blood, Carlito was no longer hers. He was yours, unwilling, raging, and forever trapped. © Anna Senzai