Road Accident

Another shot of whiskey hadn't been enough to kill the pain. But it had been enough to turn my car into the roaring monster it was, faster than a speeding bullet, and even more deadly. Everything happened in a blink of an eye... the impact of my truck crashing into her car was quickly followed by the image of her lying dead on the airbag, her hair, yellow like wheat only an instant ago, was now dyed in red, a result of the bloody shower that had come from her head and sprayed her eight-year-old daughter's doll face. The little girl was as still as her mother, staring at her from the distance, her round blue eyes unable to grasp the concept of what they were seeing. Her look showed the mirror image of her mother's corpse. My horrified eyes couldn't keep away from this tragic image, feeding my guilt at the sight of her injured and bloody teddy bear hanging from her hand.

“Excuse me, mister” she said suddenly coming towards me, with the youngest British accent I had ever heard, “could you wake my mommy up, please?” Another shot of whiskey had been enough to shatter an eight-year-old's world.

Fate is what is written

“Let us, then, be up and doing, with a heart for any fate; still achieving, still pursuing, learn to labor and to wait.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

'How treacherous talent is. It really is the most curious thing', he thought as he made his way through Bond Street. Just when he had taken it for granted, just when he had dared to consider it a constant companion, it left his side, leaving him alone with his now empty thoughts, with the debries of a magnificent burnt down building. Without it beside him, what could possibly come from being inside his own head anymore? He was disgusted by his rookie self. 'At least I shall have a good laugh now', he thought as he got closer and closer to the fortune teller's home, with nothing but the sound of his worn out shoes as they stomped the street beside him. The stomping seized. This was it. Why he had agreed to come to this dump was a mistery to him. He had been persuaded by an old friend who swore on his life this woman's accuracy was frightening. But, then again, not a lot of people would call someone who foretold a life filled with amazing wealth and spectacular women a charlatan.

With the slow and cautious movements of some one entering an unknown place, he took off his hat as he made his way through the courtain and into the over-perfumed and dark room. Placing his hat on the table where the tarot cards already lay waiting for some one to lie to, he streched out his hand and introduced himself as Harry Hunders Jr. The fortune teller looked at him with the most penetrating look he had ever encountered. Her eyes ordered him to sit down, which he instantly did.

'A writer, are you?', she said as she brushed her dark oily hair from her face.
'Yes, I suppose... I find the term 'repressed poet' to describe my situation much more faithfully. I am actually an accountant. How did you know I write?'
'Ink in your fingers. Dreams in your eyes', she murmured quickly.

Her hands travelled acrossed the table swiflty and quickly found their prey. She expertly shuffled the deck of cards, the quickest of movements interrupted by a sudden change of pace, her fingers carefuly laying the cards on the table as if she were putting them to bed. But what they revealed were far more than just dreams.

'I see... a smile. A sincere smile. Your face beaming with absolute bliss. Your eyes shining even under the darkest of hats. You are not alone. A huge family walks beside you in the most exotic of lands. An almost magical forrest that doesn't know of winters or summers or springs, and where leaves are always dyed of bloody red. Peace shall always reign in your confined bubble. Happiness is so powerful it blinds me... nothing else is on sight. Just absolute bliss. Only that, and nothing more.'

Her words had captured the young poet in a way he did not believe possible. His eyes stared at the cards, amazed, and smiled at the possibility of ever smiling truly. His look overflowed of hope. This oniric state was quite brief, as the mystical fortune teller did not take long to announce that $250 were to be paid for her servicies.

Clocks' hands turned round and round thousands of times. Thousands of suns set, and other thousands of moon rose. But none where enough to erase the fortune teller's already dusty words from Harry Hunders Jr.'s memory. Was it possible for a woman to be so right and so wrong at the same time? His face did gleam, and his eyes did shine under the darkest of hats. Everything was dyed of bloody red, and he did live in a confined bubble. But the gleam was that of bitterness, his eyes shone thirsty for life, for true happiness. His home did work as a confined bubble, since he hadn't spent time with another human being for so long that he couldn't even remember the face of the last person he had seen. He had somehow managed to drive everybody away, and had found that no one was next to him when he had turned round looking for a shoulder to cry on. To cry, I mean, because of the bloody tragedy that had overcome his family: car crash; mother, father and sister dead faster than a clock's hand can even try to move. One sunset they had all been there... when the moon had risen, they had been gone.

Really, he owed his life to Mr. Gary Gigglemot, PhD. Yes, it was quite necessary to add 'PhD', Gary detested it when Harry didn't include it. Mr. Gigglemot, who spoke in a very funny southern accent, took him to his only shelter. He sofly whispered seductive sentences, spoke the exact words Harry needed to hear... after he had succumbed to the deepest of depressions, to the darkest of oceans, Mr.Gigglmot extended a pen and said “Here's your lifeguard, Harry. Come ashore with me”. And Harry indeed followed him. He jumped into the page. Mr.Gigglemot's cabin was deep inside the forrest, between the third and fourth line; he knew the path by heart, and covered it quickly and joyfully, stomping on fallen leaves in the way, immersing himself in the peaceful pleasure of wondering around a surreal forrest. And then the time came for him to put on his hat and close his eyes, enjoying the fresh breeze that caressed his face and savouring the delicious and inexplicable smell that filled the air. In the distance, his son's sweet laughter was heard, and sang in symphony with his wife's melodic whistling. He just sat in the cabin's porch and quietly waited... he waited for the pen to continue moving, for the ink to bring the happiness he had been promised, for the story to procede with the grand event that that woman had fortold, that he knew should come – would come – infallibly. He just waited.

On a particular Friday, Harry recieved a phone call informing him that his brother, the only family he had left, had passed away from a heart attack half an hour earlier. He thanked the nurse for the information, put his unfinished and unknown novel in a drawer, turned the key and headed out. He knew the path by heart. His feet stomped the hard cement as he made his way violently towards Bond Street. He enterted with the quick movements of someone who remembers a place all too well and put his hat on the table.

'The repressed poet', said she.
The fire of wrath burnt in his eyes.
'You owe me $250... and my life. I want my life back. You got everything wrong, you crazy charlatan! No bliss, no magical lands, no loving company, nothing! I have nothing... I did nothing with my life because I counted on your words, I counted on the promise that my life would improve and so waited for that to happen... and now that I've waited my whole life for happiness I have to come to the end of it to find out I am not happy!', he blurted out.
'Are you so sure of that... Mr. Gigglemot?'
'How... how?', he asked with the thread of voice he could rescue from his amazement.
'What you are waiting for has already come, Gary... it is in the porch of the cabin, between the third and fourth line of the pages lying in the living room drawer.'
He had not a second to lose. He knew how to spend the rest of his days. He put on his...
'Hat! You almost forgot your hat', she said.
'Thank you, ma'am', a lovely southern accent replied.

Alcatraz

“Here's the smell of blood still! All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.” (Macbeth, Willian Shakespeare)

Había logrado lo que ningún hombre había hecho antes. Había escapado. Estaba a salvo. Las sirenas habían dejado de sonar, y se convenció a si mismo de que nada podía perturbarlo ahora. Tenía la frente empapada de sudor y sus ojos rebalsaban en lágrimas de susto. Respiraba trabajosamente, con la dificultad de quien estuvo cerca de dar su último respiro. No quería dormirse por miedo a lo que le esperaba acechando en la oscuridad de su inconciente, así que se levantó y puso a hervir el agua para preparar el café que había comprado pocas horas antes. Se sentó en el sillón a la espera de que el agua hirviera. Trató de convencerse a si mismo que no había cometido ningún crimen, que esa basura se lo merecía, que después de lo que le había hecho ningún otro castigo era más adecuado que el que había recibido. Pero su cuerpo se rehusaba a creer aquellas palabras vacías, y le empapaba la frente de sudor y los ojos de lágrimas. Sus piernas se movían sin descanso al compás de su acelerado latido, y su cabeza podría fácilmente haber explotado en aquel preciso instante. Cerró los ojos, tratando de respirar profundamente, y fue entonces cuando lo vio. La cara agonizante de su hermano moribundo, su boca borboteando súplicas y sangre, se presentó ante sus ojos. Oyó las mentiras que había pronunciado éste antes de morir, que cómo podés pensar que yo hice eso, no sabés lo que decís y ¿cómo puede ser que no confíes en tu propio hermano? Pero él sabía, con la misma convicción con la que sujetaba la navaja, esperando en su mano para cometer su propósito, que su inocente hermanito lo había traicionado, que había compartido el lecho que el consideraba sagrado con la mujer de su vida, que se habían revolcado en él como cerdos. La imagen de sus cuerpos sudorosos abrazados y de su esposa gimiendo de placer en los brazos de su hermano fue más que suficiente para impulsarlo a hundir la navaja es su pecho siete veces. Poseído por la ira y los celos, llevó a cabo dicha tarea con la meticulosidad y el detalle de quien hace lo que se propone. Había dejado el cadáver de su hermano atrás, pero el vívido aullido de dolor que éste había emitido lo aturdía ahora. Abrió los ojos y, al notar que era la pava la que chillaba, la sacó del fuego y se preparó un café.

El intento de mantenerse despierto con la ayuda de la cafeína de los seis cafés que había bebido fue en vano. Su cuerpo estaba exhausto, y latía suplicando un descanso. Con las pocas fuerzas que le quedaban, se levantó del sillón y se dirigió al cajón de su cómoda. Sin saber muy bien por qué, tomó de su interior la navaja con la que había asesinado a su hermano menor, y, sosteniéndola fuertemente contra su pecho, volvió a tomar asiento en el sillón. Aquel instrumento que había cogido con tanta convicción y rapidez se le antojaba ahora apenas más pesado, 21 gramos más pesado, el alma de mi hermano, pensó. La sonrisa satisfactoria y de placer que solo alguien que sabe cuan atroz es el pecado que está a punto de cometer que se había dibujado en su rostro al tomar la navaja aquella noche se había ido completamente mientras la contemplaba en la oscuridad de la sala de estar. Finalmente, con el arma letal en sus manos, cedió al peso al que estaban sometidos sus párpados y cerró los ojos, durmiéndose al instante.

Los hechos de aquel día se le presentaron es sueños como una película antigua, muda y en blanco y negro. Las escenas de aquellos acontecimientos desfilaban ante su memoria como recuerdos rotos, como partes de un todo que todavía no lograba comprender. Primero, la navaja en sus manos, los gritos de su hermano, la sangre en el arma, en sus manos, en sus ropas. Después, las sirenas policiales, su cuerpo camuflado en sus ropas negras y ensangrentadas arrastrándose dentro del coche. La esquina de la celda en la que yacía acurrucado, y el agua amarilla que bebió sin ganas horas después en aquella mugrienta cafetería. Las miradas hostiles de aquellos a su alrededor, y el metal frío de la navaja contra su cuerpo que había logrado mantener escondida en su ropa interior. Como última imagen, el sueño le mostró a él mismo como yacía ahora en el sillón, durmiendo, con la navaja, las manos y las ropas ensangrentadas.

Despertó empapado en sudor, su corazón luchando por salirse de su pecho. Observó la navaja, impecable y brillante, sin una gota de sangre en ella. Solo un mal sueño, pensó, sin darse cuenta que toda su vida estaba a punto de convertirse en una pesadilla perpetua. Fue al baño, prendió la luz, y se mojó el rostro, respirando profundamente, como si un poco de agua se pudiera llevara su pesadilla por el desagüe. Alzó la vista para ver a un extraño devolviéndole la mirada en el espejo. Sus ojos estaban hinchados y cansados de tanto luchar contra sí mismo, contra su culpa y su remordimiento. Observó su reflejo detenidamente, y vio que las ropas de éste estaban manchadas con sangre. Su mirada se alternaba, mirando su buzo y el reflejo de éste, confundido ante la diferencia en ambos. Él estaba limpio, mas su reflejo, el que le devolvía una mirada arrepentida desde el otro lado, estaba empapado en sangre. De repente, el extraño que lo miraba fijamente sacó una navaja, idéntica a la que el había dejado en la sala de estar, y la alzó con una sonrisa de venganza. Sobresaltado ante tan horrible espectáculo, se lavó la cara nuevamente, más exageradamente esta vez, y se sentó nuevamente en el sillón. Se llevó las manos a la cara, diciéndose a si mismo que todo era producto de su imaginación, que no volvería a ver aquellas imágenes luego de un tiempo. Temía abrir los ojos por miedo, mas tampoco se atrevía a cerrarlos. Habiendo llegado a la extraña conclusión de que la única manera de no volverse loco era escaparse de si mismo, de lo que había hecho y de la culpa que lo torturaba, oyó el ruido de una carta deslizarse bajo su puerta. La cogió, y vio que el sobre provenía de su esposa, que estaba viviendo en la casa de sus padres. Al abrirla, lo único que encontró fue una fotografía y una pequeña nota donde se leía: “¿Querés la verdad? Sí, te engañe, pero no con quien vos creés, y acá tenés la prueba. Perdonáme. Por todo.” Tomó la fotografía con manos temblorosas, y se maldijo a si mismo al ver a un extraño besando a su esposa. Un extraño, no su hermanito, no a quien él le había quitado la vida. Un extraño, como el que él mismo se había convertido. Rompió la fotografía, y la carta, y se tiró al suelo golpeando sus puños contra él, y lloró, y lloró más. Comprendió que no había logrado lo que ningún hombre había hecho antes, no había escapado y no lo haría nunca. Se levantó, se cambió y, despidiéndose de su hogar para siempre, se dirigió a la comisaría.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Día número 152. Como todos los otros. Se levantó, desayunó, hizo lo que le pidieron, recibió algún que otro golpe, y se acostó. Todos los días era iguales en aquella celda. Todavía recordaba la primera noche que había dormido allí, y como su compañero de celda lo miró extrañado y le dijo: “Escuché que te escapaste cuando te quisieron agarrar, y que después te entregaste, vos solito... ¿Estás mal de la cabeza? ¿Por qué hiciste eso?” a lo que, sin pensar, contestó: “Nunca me escape. Nunca fui libre. Siempre estuve acá. Solo que tardé en darme cuenta... y vine cuando lo hice.” Sin comprender las palabras del nuevo reo, murmuró “Pelotudo” para sus adentros y se durmió. Mientras tanto, su compañero de celda yacía despierto en su cama. 151 días y noches habían pasado, y él yacía en su cama, exactamente como lo había hecho aquel día, con algún golpe más aquí y allá. Todavía temía cerrar los ojos, pero finalmente se sometió el cansancio.

Los hechos de aquel día se le presentaron en sueños todas las noches, tal y como lo habían hecho aquella noche en su sala de estar. Las escenas de aquellos acontecimientos desfilaban ante su memoria como recuerdos rotos, burlándose del remordimiento que finalmente había logrado comprender. Primero, la navaja en sus manos, los gritos de su hermano, la sangre. Después, las sirenas policiales, su cuerpo camuflado en sus ropas negras y ensangrentadas, arrastrándose como parte de la oscuridad por aquella calle escondida, y su cuerpo, que temblaba y latía a más no poder, metiéndose como si nada en su coche. La esquina de aquel lugar que se le antojaba tan pequeño y hostil como una celda en la que yacía acurrucado, aquel sótano de la casa abandonada en la que había decidido esconderse al escuchar las sirenas que chillaban y lo culpaban de asesino, apartando a todos en su caza. El agua amarilla que bebió sin ganas horas después en aquella mugrienta cafetería cerca de su casa, donde compró un poco de café que habría de prepararse pocas horas después. Las miradas hostiles de aquellos a su alrededor, quienes él juraba que sabían todo de su crimen, quienes lo acusaban con los ojos y lo culpaban en murmullos indescifrables, y el metal frío de la navaja contra su cuerpo. Como última imagen, el sueño le mostró a él mismo como yacía ahora en su cama, durmiendo, con las manos y las ropas ensangrentadas, como habrían de permanecer para siempre.

Tanderlain

Tanderlain era un taxista en orlando. Tanderlain le preguntó a un cliente llamado Tom ¿qué hora es? Son las 12:00 contestó Tom. Tom se quería subir a un árbol y Tanderlain le dijo ¿dónde dejamos a tu esposa? Está bien, no voy a subir al árbol contestó Tom. Bueno es hora de desayunar está muy rico dijo Tom. Se fueron de viaje y empacaron animales y fueron al museo de dinosaurios. ¿Cuántos huesos hay acá? preguntó Tom. Hay 350 le dijo el papá y se le cayeron todos los huesos encima.

Childhood

10.00am. Break-time. Freedom. The joy shines through every one's eyes as they run about laughing and giggling. The more athletic boys are the stars of the soccer team, and announce triumphantly the goal they have just scored, or bounce the ball against the wall powerfully. The others toss their tazos hoping to snatch their opponent's, and celebrate when they hit the jackpot and take it home.

I'm sitting down playing cards with my best friend. Her two pony tails move about as she desperately looks for her missing card, and her eyeballs could easily pop out when she comes to the conclusion that I am the one who stole her card. She is so certain of this and accusses me so surely that I come to believe I actually did it. The sight of her so angry at me makes me cry, and I go to the foot of the stairs to talk to another friend. Suddenly, she comes to me and says "Well, I found the card, I had sat on it... but it's still your fault!" Strangely, I feel more relieved than angry.

An Alternative World

"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players." (As you Like it, William Shakespeare)

Her footsteps echoed across the New York city apartment. She dragged her night gown as she walked round and round. She was waiting for him. She was known to be very romantic, too romantic at times, so romantic that she was often impulsive and would do anything to keep love once she found it, once she found him. And she had found him. She felt she had power in her hands as she played with the hammer in the gun. Because that was love to her, a game, one she had lost one too many times. She quickly shifted the gun from on hand to the other, an ability she had gained through practice. She kept walking round and round. She was very much used to it, and knew how to handle this perfectly. She knew what to say so clearly in her head, that she could even write a script.

The slam in the door started her and interruptued her walking ritual. He walked in with a radiant, perfect smile and out his briefcase down as he exclaimed:

'Honey, I'm home!'

'Boy, aren't you a walking cliche!' she responded angrily, giving his back to him.

' What? Sweet heart, what's going on?' he said, his naivity seeming palpable.

'I was waiting for you, baby. How was work? I bet it was very... exciting!' she said, her irony seeming palpable.

'What do you mean?' he asked as he got nearer her. 'Baby, are you okay?' he was now practically holding her. As he caressed her arm up and down, he felt something in her hands. He looked down, and before he could distinguish what it was, she turned around and pointed the gun at him. 'Serena, what are you doing?'

She looked at him with resentment, her face that of a wild woman. Her intense blue eyes revealed her true nature. She tried to keep her temper and quietly asked him to sit down and have a drink with her. She then went on and on about how he had cheated on her and how she had found those pictures of him and that woman and after all she had done for him! He pretended to drink the scotch she had served him. He did not mean to anger her. He exaggerated his every gesture, and sput out the lines he was so familiar with, I am so sorry, I was drunk, it was just one night, she didn't mean anything to me.

'Oh shut up! You cheat on me and then you insult me by lying to me? Please, I've heard it all before, you should really work on your acting skills.' she said with a cruel sarcasm.

He frowned, as he didn't expect her to say that. Before he could tell her how he wasn't lying and how he loved her and how could she not trust him after all they'd been through and all those insignificant lies, she pulled the trigger. He fell to the ground with a thud and remaind still. She smiled, put the gun away in the underwear drawer, and served herself some tea. The lights went off. Exeuent. The curtain dropped. The theater burst in applause and the audience gave a standing ovation to the genial play they had just witnessed. The curtain came up again and the actors appeared saluting the audience.

'You put a good show tonight' he said, his love for her palpable.

'I always do' she replied amusingly, her love for him palpable.

'True' he said with that perfect smile of his. 'By the way, what was that about me having to work on my acting skills? That wasn't on the script.'

'I know. I just thought I'd include a personal opinion.'

They held hands as they bowed in front of the audience.

La Lluvia

Ella amaba la lluvia. Cada gota de agua le parecía tan maravillosamente simple y a la vez tan llena, tan perfectamente completa en su circular transparencia. Ese olor tan particular que tiene, tan difícil de poner en palabras, era lo único que la tranquilizaba, que callaba las risas burlonas que se repetían como un eco en su cabeza, incesantes, perpetuas. Cuando llovía, su mundo se detenía, para dar lugar al más maravilloso de los fenómenos. Decidió salir a caminar bajo el agua, y sentir las gotas acariciar su rostro y su alma. Caminó y caminó, en círculos por la oscura Barcelona, camuflándose en la oscuridad. Sintió que su vida era así, un círculo de risas y muertes y sangre, llena de callejones sin salida de los que ella no podía escapar. Pero en su centro, se encontraban la lluvia, la paz, la armonía.