Sure hope I'm doing this right. Sorry for the awful title, it was all I could think of.

Disclaimer: I obviously don't own anything except for the story idea.

Some stuff you need to understand: Many parts of this story are based off an earlier version of the film that was revealed in the deleted scenes. Marco, an earlier version of Miguel, has to bring the stolen guitar with him to the Land of the Dead. To get back home he needs to give it back to de la Cruz. His dead family members need to smash the guitar to get rid of their ridiculous singing curse. This chapter is based specifically on a deleted scene where de la Cruz had smashed the guitar, even if that isn't the exact case here.

…

Marco felt something shatter inside him as the guitar, his only way home, was smashed to bits.

No...no...this...this couldn't be happening…

His legs gave out, and he fell to his knees.

This has to be a dream! Please…

He felt tears forming from the tornado of panicked thoughts rampaging through his head.

No! He wouldn't cry! Not in front of them! Not in front of the people (skeletons?) that had just took everything from him. A few tears betrayed him anyway.

He wasn't going home…

"Chamaco?" Héctor tried.

But he couldn't hear him. Wherever Marco was, he simply couldn't be reached. He couldn't register anything around him. Except for that stupid guitar that was nothing more than splintered wood now and the growing tightness in his chest. His supposed family had done this to him.

Someone tried to put a comforting hand on his shoulder. He tensed underneath it.

This was their fault.

He jerked away from the touch. All of this was their fault. He didn't really care who's hand it was. He didn't want to be near any of them.

They had killed him.

That thought weighed heavily in his mind. He wasn't going home. Not anymore. He was as good as dead.

A sob tore through his throat before he bolted. Away from Héctor. Away from the broken guitar. Away from his family. Just… away. He needed to get away. He didn't really care how at the moment. He couldn't tell where he was going through his tears, but that didn't matter. He just needed to get away.

He ran until he couldn't run anymore. Until his legs were screaming at him to stop. Once he came to that point he finally listened, leaned against the wall of an alleyway, and slid down into a sitting position. He didn't have any tears left, so he just sat in defeated silence, his mind eerily calm for a moment. His heart hammered in his chest and his lungs gasped for air. His whole body hurt. How long had he been running?

Marco's eyelids drooped, suddenly becoming heavy. He looked to the horizon. There wasn't any sign of the sun's rising, he still had time. He was usually asleep by now. His golden eyes looked down to his hands. They'd been fully skeletal for a while now, with a layer of barely visible skin protecting them, a constant reminder that he had a time limit. A meaningless time limit now. He was doomed.

Angry tears spilled from his eyes as he clenched his fists. He'd tried. Tried so hard. But he'd failed.

No.

His "family" had failed him.

His eyelids drooped further. His exhaustion consuming him, despite his growing rage, leaving him in a dreamless sleep, slumped against a wall.

And for the first time all night, Marco felt truly alone.

…

Wow. I'm actually doing this.

And I know that this is super short, but it was a good place to cut off. Please let me know if there's any errors. I have checked it, but it's definitely possible that I missed something.