El Final de un maltrato

La bala, en la sien, fue lo que finalmente la mató. Ni las constantes palizas, ni el derrame de hacía unos meses. Se acabó el esconderse de los vecinos, y el tapar con maquillaje los moratones. Justo cuando el  proyectil entraba a través de la piel quemada sintió el dolor desaparecer, ése que le quitaba la respiración y le hacía temblar.

Su última imagen fue a quien creía que más la quería dejando la pistola sobre la mesa y cerrando la puerta tras sus pasos, le esperaban para cenar.

Psycho- parte 1

Parte 1

No sé cuánto tiempo más podré seguir fingiendo. Desde que me levanto debo ser consciente de cada gesto y de cada movimiento, nadie puede descubrir cómo soy en realidad. Por eso me rindo a la tediosa tarea de imitar al resto de la humanidad. ¿De verdad son tan felices como quieren demostrar? Yo al menos soy consciente del lado oscuro que existe dentro de mí.

Esta mañana me he cruzado con la vieja, la que vive en el bajo, la que se cree que todo lo sabe.

-Buenos días –le digo con una sonrisa.

Me ha mirado de arriba a bajo, estudiando mi apariencia. Muchas veces me he preguntado si no será la única persona que ve a través de mí. Quizá se haya enterado de lo que le hice a su gato, pero procuré, como bien he aprendido a lo largo de los años, a ser meticuloso. Cuando me preguntó si había visto a “Bigotes” subí las cejas y exclamé con sorpresa, como si hubiera sido para mí una terrible noticia su desaparición. Incluso la abracé cuando le encontraron medio muerto detrás del contenedor de basura.  El animal todavía respiraba, no me lo podía creer, entonces pensé que a lo mejor sí era cierto que tenían siete vidas. La vieja no apartó la vista de mí cuando lo recogimos del suelo, mientras lo escondía bajo su raída chaqueta de lana. Solo es un simple gato, nunca entenderé porqué el hombre puede encariñarse tanto con ellos.

Tampoco es que entienda porqué se encariñan los unos con los otros. A veces he fingido tener una relación para callar los rumores, pero en realidad no disfruto con la compañía de nadie. Todos me sobran, todavía no he encontrado a quien me complemente, y quizá nunca lo haga, no sé quien podría aceptar vivir con alguien como yo.

El médico dice que no es culpa mía, que se trata de una enfermedad, y una vez a la semana acudo a su consulta para que me prescriba mi medicina. Gracias a ella consigo pasar los días sin que las ansias de destruir se apoderen de mi cuerpo. Tuve que hacer muchos esfuerzos por no matarle, y menos mal que no lo hice. Es la única persona con la que puedo ser como realmente soy, decir lo que realmente pienso, y abandonar los gestos y la falsa sonrisa. Pero algo me dice que voy a tener que dejar de verle, empieza a sospechar, y todavía no he estoy preparado para lo que le tengo prepardo.

Continuará...

Jews

Long ago  nobody believed in miracles here. The bodies start piling up in the driveway and no one dared to open the windows, hiding under the ignorance of what really happenned to their neighbors.

A mass of uniforms with their rifles pointed at anyone who pretended to snoop through the windows' cracks. Along the streets, blankly, showing a bravery that disappearedevery night in the arms of their disappointed mothers.

A woman kisses her pendant while praying, in silence, to see the days back when the laughter bounced off the gray walls.

-I’m hungry...

- Hush my son, and stop peeking.

Pushing the tiny head under the rough blanket, drowns out the broken crying that comes from his throat, hiding the shaking of her hands, while pressing her child’s hand with as much force as she can, when in fact, aware of the latest news, she feels the fear as well as with watery eyes looking up under a thick mantle wrinkle. Despite knowing that it is impossible to suffer a long time in this rotten cloth that covers them. Swallowing  rejection, evidence of a smile bathed in dry tears, insisting on putting him back to take a look again through the crack in the door.

"When will she return?", the nervousness of the wait begins to cause her despair, she does not know how much time she can endure hiding there. Every noise from outside makes her  jump and run to both the darkest corner.
Breaking out quickly under the stairwell, with the child, on their backs, waiting in silence.

-If you keep quiet when we get out, I'll buy you  some chocolate - promises awaken the boy's naive joy.

She silences herself, knowing that she might never get to fulfill it.
The boy closed his mouth with such force that  his lips draw a thin and tight line, the idea of melting the sweet taste on his tongue makes  the seconds run faster. Sure that his sister would died of envy when she heard it.

-When will Anna return?- he asks thinking about how long ago his sister had left to do a few errands.
But his question was never answered. His mother looked, without seeing, at the back of the room, speechless, controlling her tears  she does not want to reveal, yet.
The little boy soon returns to his thoughts, to the sugary tones of the chocolate, enjoying the pleasure of not knowing.

A shiny rifle appearsentering into the room, unannounced. Mother and son are thrown against the wall, taking shelter in the gloom they naively believe will offer them a false safety.
The man from the frame waits for any sign of response. Goes deep into the room, slowly, listening to the calm, wise. Turning on his  heels a sharp sound from the greasy leather boots rubbing against each otheris produced. Mother and son hold their breath, having tested for this many times, the child complies faithfully with what his mother has asked. But she knows that the clumsiness of the boy is not really to beas expected.

The gray shadow approaches firmly and decidedly, with the barrel opening the way to the mass that is frightened huddled shivering on the floor.
The child tries to look up and see the impassive demeanor of who ispointing in their direction, but his mother pushes his cheek hard against her chest, stretching the ingenuity of her child to what se knows will happen.
The man smiles with icy coldness, supporting strongly the gun against the left shoulder pronounces a word in another language.
A strangled shout from outside stops the man just when his finger touches the edge of the trigger. Anna’s dark, wavy hair blows with the wind, which makes  the door close behind her, locking her  up without giving an opportunity to turn back. Their minds are filled with the smell of gunpowder.

After the crash, the child's eyes are still closed, hoping to wake up from this nightmare. When he opens them, he observes his mother's body lying on the floor between the man and his sister, who is still standing, collapsed to such a scene.
The yellow star of the bloody jacket stained crimson, forming a groove in the ground. He runs to her side to embrace her, still warm, he can almost feel the last heartbeat, until he says goodbye forever.

After-effects

Psychologically tired, so  exhausted that the impotence shows the remains of a waste of contradictions. Saturated with the incomprehensible medical jargon that I have not deciphered yet. And beaten to think that the only way to escape the mind is to explode into a crying child, leaving me  with the consolation of others.

 You feel the world collapse under your feet with each incoherent  response and you go back  into your mood with the desperation of not getting even the  minimum advance in therapy. The busy dream makes the mornings become in a prolonged agony. The busy dream prolongs the morning's agony.

I look at her face and I do not recognize the sweet look that days before said goodbye to me before the door frame. Glued eyes sleep in an almost perpetual drowsiness, and the doubt comes again to my head with the question that haunts me, will there be a day that won't remind me of her?

Matted hair on pale skin shows an image that little resembles the vital dash that used to loosen, making me change the image I have recorded in my memory, replacing the new look to that of what once was.

The upper lip revealeas the cruelty of what happened, letting one see the cut by the broken teeth. But when I see the remains of what once I kissed, I can not imagine anything but the softness that I still retain in my mind. I try not to think about what taste these new kisses will have , because my only worry is that they will be returned to me someday. I do not mind the aversion it caused me at the begining if I can see before me the miracle personified. Because I have been advised  not to fall into the mindless vortex of hope; return to those days, when everyday seemed more a relief than a punishment.  It  is more difficult for her  than when she opens her eyes and recognises what is around her, including me.

 After an agitated sigh the delirium interrupts her rest. Opening the eyes, in flashing blinks,  she trys to accept as a reminder the environment, for nothing familiar although the same event repeats again and again. Her mind is slow on that fateful day. Her only and last memory fills and saturates any semblance of sanity, beyond the human limits of tolerance to her suffering. I see through her eyes the confusion and the fear of what her memory saved and played over and over again. I do not try to take her hand to calm her with sweet words, which later ends up forgotten, the restlessness of her stubborn memory feeds with the weak resistance offered. But the fear of defeat should not make me leave and I insist , despite being a complete unknown in the present day, to not stop fighting against the torture which she passed, and rebuild the days of her past as a puzzle more complex than her pshyche hides.

Powerless, I feel so helpless that I have to explode and then come back and continue, draining energy until the detritus of my exhaustion.

Patience becomes my only companion, and together we hope that in this roomthe phenomenon will be bornthat gives rise to the days when the monotony leads us through of what silly is the pleasure of live.

Decir adiós

“Una semilla en esta tierra desolada significa trabajo”, continúa contando mi abuelo a la vez que se limpia la saliva reseca de las comisuras. Una gota de sudor resbala por debajo de su gorra, ahondando en cada arruga. Me duele la espalda y paro un momento para poyarme sobre la pala. Mientras él coloca la cruz, hecha con dos ramas viejas, justo encima. “Ahora vamos a terminar que se nos echa la tarde encima”. Pero antes me agacho para escribir su nombre: “Violeta”. Volvemos por el camino, y me obligo a no mirar atrás y a contener una lágrima.

El libro del bien y el mal

Sólo me ha dejado esto.  Su objeto más preciado. Creía que las frases abandonaban el libro y le abrazaban en un dulce baile.
Aspiro su olor aún impregnado en las tapas y veo frente a mí su cara sonriente despidiéndose. Sonrío sobrecogido por la sorpresa. Creo ver un rayo salir a través de las hojas. Me froto los ojos. Abro la portada y sobre la primera hoja comienza a escribirse una frase.
-La decisión está tomada.
Sin habla salgo de la habitación, asustado, tan rápido que tropiezo y caigo en un pozo sin fondo, del que como un torbellino me succiona hasta su origen. Aterrizando sobre un campo arenoso busco las caras demacradas que me rodean.
-Ayuda –suplico.
Pero mi garganta apagada no pronuncia palabra.

El libro de los muertos

La lengua sobresale de la boca en una espuma sanguinolenta. Sus ojos faltos de vida miran bajo el acuoso lagrimal hacia la puerta. Y el cuerpo desnudo envuelto en una bruma de olor férreo muestra moradas marcas en cada arruga de su piel.
-¡No puede ser!¿Qué me has hecho? –pregunta la mujer sin cuerpo entre agotados sollozos contemplando su propia imagen tirada a sus pies.
A su lado una energía oscura silba mientras saca ante sus ojos un libro muy desgastado. Leyendo su interior abandona el lugar rápidamente, en busca de su siguiente víctima.