Chapter Text
Roselle had somewhat clear memories of her life in her home country. She remembered was the blistering heat of the summer, the tastiest mangoes she shared with her older brother, and her parents farming.
They followed the rules set by the Spaniards, from top to bottom. And she always thought it was what kept her safe. Until the friars decided that her father somehow didn't pay his debts.
Even with clear papers, even with notarized stamps, the punishment was exile in a country their family never heard of. The United States, they said.
They were a lower income family, trying to follow the rules, and yet everything was taken away.
It was too sudden. She was just a child, but she remembered her mother crying in her father's arms. She remembered her brother forcing a smile, trying to make sure she was alright. All in that giant boat with other countrymen.
Next thing she knew, her mother shakily held her tiny hand in hers, tears fresh in her eyes as the latter pressed her payneta in her daughter's palm. It had been her mother's, her grandmother's, her grandmother's mother, and so on so forth.
It was in their native tongue, her mother begged her to never forget who they were. To never forget where they had lived, and the life they led. Every night until they arrived, her mother made them all recite their names and their former home's name, as if gone insane. All of her mother's desperation somehow translated into a habit; Roe kept reciting her identity before she fell asleep.
Louisiana was their new home. The homes were segregated from the Whites who eyed them with disdain. The only company that Roe had was her family, the other struggling countrymen who were forced here, and the black community that they lived alongside with.
The world got a little darker for her. Knowing everyone tried to stick by the law, to obey authority, all just to live in peace. But corrupted as authority was, people like her were deprived of said tranquility. And it burned into her, with every waking reminder of her childhood that she's not safe.
So her parents worked extra hard — her father worked as a gardener, her mother worked as a town working lady. And yet they were somehow blamed for the theft of two rich white men in town, one golden watch and a monocle was stolen during the night.
The next day her parents were lynched in front of her and her brother's eyes. She was only sixteen, and her brother twenty-four.
The crowd was divided — the obviously those who cheered were mostly snow-skinned.
While a riot started from the colored folk, with cries from the injustice that was made that day.
She's suddenly reminded why she hated snow. Everything she wanted to see was blanketed in pure white. The coldness crawled up her spine. Just like the jeers and laughter by every single one of those fuckers. There were too many of them, way too fucking many.
It caused an entire chaos. People running, screaming, and shooting everywhere. Dead bodies, blood splattering on her, on the soil.
And in the midst of it all, she was separated from her own older brother.
It gave her unease everyday, knowing her brother wasn't watching her back. She learned to keep quiet, preferring to avoid communication with anybody. Consequently, the isolation ate at her every time. If she were to be honest, she has contemplated suicide. Several times, in fact. There was nothing to return to in her old town; it was abandoned the last time she visited. In the mass graves erected in almost every corner, she didn't even know which ones were her parents. Hell, she didn't know whether they were buried or not. The little shack they used to live in was burnt to smithereens, and all she had with her was her mother's comb.
Her clothes were all oversized - all men's clothing. It helped her move around, anyway. At the cost of being mistaken as a young, native boy, she did not care. If it meant people left her alone and safe, then she'll prefer it. Apparently, being brown skinned, with a pair of dark eyes, thick eyebrows, and a braid was enough to be mistaken as any colored boy.
"My name is Roselle Magbantay.
I was named after my mother Isabella and my father Juanito Magbantay.
I have an older brother Julio Magbantay.
We used to live in a hacienda barrio in XXXXXX, Pilipinas, where my father was a farmer."
She never forgot, even in the darkest times. The repetition of this habit taught her to preserve her memories, she needed to. Otherwise why would her mother have forced this into her head?
Time passed, and she found herself working at a saloon. Either she served the drinks, or kicked people out. Apparently, it was as if her voice did nothing to change a lot of patrons' perception of her as a male. If some noticed, they were probably and usually women. Most men were too dumb to care; all they wanted was a drink after all. And being drunk meant being vulnerable. And being vulnerable meant Roe could snatch shit. It has helped her along the years, and she's gotten pretty good at it. Not once has she been caught. Apparently, acting was one of her greatest cards... if being perpetually quiet and coming off mute counted as acting.
Almost a decade later, working with cleaning the bar top, and stealing trinkets and alike, she receives a letter from her long lost older brother, of a greeting that signified that he was alive. She remembers it so well, the way her heart beats so fast in joy. To hear that he was alive. For weeks, they exchanged letters, updating each other about their lives, with Roe suddenly feeling the hole in her chest being filled again. Then, Julio had arranged for them to meet at his home, even wrote the date in the letter for the meeting. He had even excitedly written about introducing somebody to Roe.
Of course, Roe couldn't say no. Not to that, not to her brother. So she packed what little belongings she had, and promptly left the little town she had worked in with a rented horse.
She had so many questions she wanted to ask, and yet, life disappointed her once again.
There were bullet holes in the home when she arrived, and fire starting to consume the small living space. Fences torn apart, the door lock broken. Multiple vases shattered and she was sure many valuables were stolen.
Then she saw him, bloodied on the floor with bullet holes covering him while he weakly held a familiar bloodied golok — the one their father used to own. His other hand had missing fingers, the sight enough to make her balk in terror.
It was obvious her brother had aged, it was a decade after all. But she did not want to be greeted with that revelation at this state. She was supposed to make a joke about his wrinkles, about the ugly beard he grew and the poor decor in the house. She was supposed to discuss old times with her living flesh. To relive the memories together.
She was minutes late, and yet her brother managed to smile at her, blood dribbling from his lips, as if glad to see her one last time.
Roe could not save her family yet again, and it tore her apart.
He could only offer a few words of affection, and his last words haunted her as he pointed weakly at his own closet.
"Protect… her… That's my last wish…"
When he laid cold in her arms, she had almost contemplated suicide once again. With no one to turn to, it was too tempting to do. But she followed the direction her late brother pointed to, and inhaled sharply at a small whine.
When she swung the closet doors open, she almost crumbled. Her vision blurred for a few seconds.
A little girl who had a striking resemblance to her brother, crying as quiet as she could while staring at her with hope. She was not hurt, but it seems like she was inside the entire time the ambush happened. She was a four year old girl named Isabella, named after their mother. It was without question that Roe took Bella in, and protected her as asked.
Her niece, her lovely niece became her will to live.
She remembered how she wrapped the child in one of the blankets in the closet, while doing the same to her brother's corpse. With one hand holding the tiny one of her niece, and the other holding her sibling hurled on her shoulder, she left the house while it crumbled.
In the midst of the debris, there was a makeshift cross, with the name of her brother engraved in it.
Roe left her brother's home, with all three memories of her deceased family members; the payneta her mother gave her, her father's golok, and her brother's only child.
Julio Magbantay.
He was only thirty-three.
For the next year, she'd disguise herself as a silent man in certain thefts. She also learned the local sign language to keep the act, something she had passed down to the child she accompanied. If the mission was too dangerous, the older woman would pay a working girl a little extra to look after Bella sometimes if it was too troublesome to bring her along, before they moved to another place.
She didn't want Bella to see her covered head to toe with blood.
It all started because of what she learned. There had been a bunch of O'Driscoll bastards in Strawberry bragging about killing a man with a description that fit her dead brother way too easily. Easily enough, rage bubbled up inside of her from the revelation. No, it made her feel even worse when she saw one of them carrying what seemed like a necklace of fingers.
During the night, Roe would hunt down O'Driscoll boys. Colm O'Driscoll had so many of them, but they were no tactical geniuses. Rumor says, as long as they were a man with a gun, it was enough to appease the old man.
The townsfolk were right, and the odds were in her favor.
So far, she's destroyed three O'Driscoll camps. All by herself.
It was scary with how quick she got used to killing. She remembered her first kill — it wasn't clean. She almost got herself killed, but they never learned that she was a woman. She got nicked on the neck, and shot in the arm. But she remembered slitting the O'Driscoll boy's throat with her father's sword, and shooting the man in the head with his own gun.
Roe could almost feel the bits of skull and brain on her skin again, like it had just happened yesterday. But that had been over a year ago, and the trauma still feels fresh.
There was so much blood, but it gave her willpower to fight back. It took her until the next morning to kill the entire group of the first camp. And as if to mock Colm O'Driscoll, she decapitated every head. Just like he usually did to the rest of his victims. She spent hours mounting their heads on any pointy pieces of wood. And every time, the deserted camp would look like some middle age threat.
The adrenaline had wore off, and Roe vomited five times that time.
In exchange, the boys started to believe that Julio Magbantay was alive.
Later, she learned the hard way that depending on the doctor was too expensive. At the very least, the doctor taught her how to take care of herself.
(Fortunately, they didn't care about her biological sex. They just called her a fucking idiot.)
In her holster, she still carried the Cattleman revolver she stole from the man's corpse. It had been a useful weapon in her journey, keeping nosy men out of her business.
Sometimes she did bounties, sometimes she sold trinkets from robbing people blind. Plus, hunting down the O'Driscolls brought enough money for two. She was able to buy Bella food and clothes, and the necessary essentials for Roe herself.
She wasn't religious anymore for obvious reasons, but she always felt like some god sprinkled a bit of miracles in her way. Even with the multitude of near-death experiences, the brunette survived them all. Gifted with luck, she supposed. And it slightly weirded her out.
Though, her luck can only do so much.
Bring 5000 dollars or we kill the kid by daylight.
The dead women in the hotel had their blood painted on the flower printed walls. The beds were stained with a deep red that was all too fresh and wet for Roe to know that she just missed them by a second. Her fists clenched tightly, her nails digging into her flesh and making tiny incisions.
It was time to hang more heads on spikes outside. Apparently they didn't get the hint.