Ink nightmare

The story begins with a person waking up, all he knows is that he has a daughter. He's in a dark place somewhere he is quite sure he hasn't been in before. It's like a disfigured landscape, like shreds of memory onto hills made in faded ink. The whole picture is bleeding dark, almost black, green ink. It's sickening, the man is sick of this and he knows this. He wanders around until he starts recognising some of the things shredded in the ground. He starts recognising his life, his apartment, his daughter, his kitchen. He runs and chases for fragments of her in the pieces of memories and eventually gets into one.

And it's darker than before. He's in his apartment, he’s guessing that this is some important moment, but can’t quite place it, it’s… long ago. It’s a sad moment, one he’s not sure he wants to remember. He walks around, half trying to find his daughter, half trying to figure out who she is, or even, who he is. There is the living room, the picture is falling to the left, dissolving as someone spilled bleach all over it.

He knows that his is where it happened, whatever that was. He feels like something was said here. The walls were painted in angry strokes with dry, dense ink; those were yelling manifested in canvas, angry, disappointed ones.

She wanted more, he thinks without knowing what he’s referring to.

He moves a chair, ink staining his hand, it isn’t solid. He sits, his body melting into the chair. Then he sees it: a long shadow in the corner of his eye. He turns around. His heart beating as hard as it could without stopping. Of course there was nothing when he turned around, but he felt.

He felt something with that shadow, and it haunted him. He was exited, he was afraid. He wanted to run, but he wasn’t sure if away of it or towards it.

He needed to find his daughter, she was the only thing he knew, so he goes wander again. In one of the bedrooms, or what it resembles a bedroom, he finds another shred of memory: the tiniest of the locks, a baby’s lock, hair brown as his own. He follows the memory and he finds another landscape: a hospital, he knows this is where his baby was born, back when nothing wrong had happened at all; but he couldn’t remember what was that.

He finds his footprints in the hospital’s blank and clean tides, stains on the canvas of his memory, only growing darker as he approaches. He was the one that tainted that memory. As he followed his own steps of the past, the floor followed right below the sole of his shoes. 

And he sinks.

He falls into darkness.

He flies.

It is an airplane. This was the first moment he realized he had done something wrong. He now felt as it was wrong, at the moment he was happy. It was another happy memory tainted by his current self. He was the wrong.

Inside the plane, he was sitting beside his daughter. She was small and chubby, about three years, her hair long and framing her little face. But she had nothing for a face, nothing or a blur, or maybe it was something incompressible. He feels guilty because there is a person on his other side. And he wanted to hold that person’s hand. It was wrong.

This was supposed to be a family trip to fix things before she cancelled, so then it was only the both of them. It wasn’t supposed to meet Him there. They should never had meet again, even after near a decade, because it still hurt, it still was felt, even when he had his family.

He approaches the figure right next to the him on the plane, it was nothing more than a cluster of stains with the smell of algae of Japanese ink; even when the man couldn’t remember the face of that person, it still smelled like Him.

He gets closer. He wants to touch the figure but he’s afraid, afraid and guilty, but the temptation and the wanting on his fingertips is by far stronger. He cups the figure’s face and it faced him. It starts dripping ink. All goes black in a second. The figure became the shadow in his face and engulfed him whole.

The black in his vision went deeper in fear. The smell of algae intoxicated him as the knot of guilt closed his throat.

He regains his sight a moment later, still unable to breath. Now he’s at the beach. This a different trip, the feeling of time indicated it was more than two years ago. The memory, disfigured and deformed as the previous, makes him fell different. No guilt, no fear, not even the mixed want and despair he felt when the shadow came for him. He stares and his empty face as he remembers the feeling of nothing he felt in that moment, watching as his daughter, merely an infant, and her mom play on the wet sand.  In the memory, he stares at the woman and he feels nothing. They hadn’t talked in a week, she was busy and he was unemployed at the time, he took care of his daughter as good as he could. There were moments the woman needed more of him than he could give, his was one of those; she had asked too much, she had put his daughter in between and stopped the fight before it began.

He backs from his blank memory face and keeps receding. He knows what memory will follow this one, because he remembers what he thought at that time.

If the issue is the money, maybe his daughter would be better off without him.

The moment he pronounces the last word in his thought, the ink beach dies around him.

He is dying in this memory, and that’s not the worst of it.  This memory is in his own flesh, because he needed to experience this again; a part of him says that he deserves to suffer this again. The bathroom floor is black with dark red ink. His wrist are wide open while he laughs that his insurance was expensive enough to not to deny money in case of suicide.

As  little laugh comes out of his throat, he sees through the opening of the door the light pouring in. He left the light on. His daughter can’t sleep with the light on. She cries. He waits a minute or two. The woman hasn’t arrived, she always arrived at this time. This time she didn’t. He needs to go to his daughter. She’s only two, what the fuck was he thinking? Fuck the money. What was his daughter was going to do without him? The woman was never home. The woman was never for him neither.

It was painful. More now that he was doing this a second time. He would never know how, but he got up, wrapped his writs on towels and went to soothe his daughter.

Then he waited for the woman to come home.

She wanted the money, and he couldn’t give it.

Eventually they had to sell the car. Then the furniture.

Then, as he sat to wait for the woman, he feels like he was dying again. Not from the loss of blood but from the emptiness he felt.

So his current self realizes: he fears the emptiness, not the ink shadow.

He sees the blood soak the towels, he seeks warmth.

He finds it among ink, as everything before. Only lighter shadows let him recognize the scene watered in front of him. Warm hotel sheets, the smell of ink, long dark hair and broad shoulders. A smile he was glad to see again, dreams and a future he thought forgotten, alive again. But that was at night.

When the sun comes out, bleaching the ink of reality, all he feels is guilt. His daughter was sleeping in the next room, alone. He still wore the wedding ring while he lies in bed with another person, but  then the ring meant nothing more than malleable metal and harsh words. 

He walks into his daughter room. Her ink image sleeps, and the shadow looks over her. He doesn’t feel fear anymore, the guilt was still there but the shadow cares about her, that makes it better.

He could try, he thinks.

He wakes up.

There is long black hair brushing over his face, everything smells like ink, there is a real celling on top of him. Something moves beside him.

- Sorry I woke up – He says – I had to get those pages done for tomorrow.

The man is still somewhat disoriented, but he stares at His hands, ink stained.

- No, don’t worry. Better that you woke me.

- Having a nightmare? – He says, taking his hair out of the way, to lay at eye-level with the man.

- Yeah… - the man breathes. – Is she…?

- She’s five, don’t worry. You wake up at night more than her. C’mere. – He reassures, moving closer to the man.

He feels His arms wrapping around him. He’s still scared, but this is better. This is so much better.

Shit

We, living things, are an eternal in and out, that until we lose the category.

All we do is let something in and let something out, whether is breath, shit or information, or pretty much anything.

We eat and shit. It’s simple.

We eat food, we shit shit.

We are a tube of sorts.

We are god-tubes, as someone once said.

The thing about it is how things come out.

They come out… different, transformed transmutated, added and subtracted.

A little decayed, a little lesser, a little more useful for others, more lied, more subjective. 

Our insides have the power to reshape the proprieties of the matter that’s consumed.

We reserve a part of it for ourselves to stop our flesh from rotting, to retain consciousness.

Our insides have the alchemy to create gold out of lead, to transmogrify air into poison, food into decease, soup into sewers.

Lies into different lies.

Visions into truths.

So go on.

We are tubes, of some sort.

What we do along the way makes us gods from a single-eyed perspective.

We are tube-gods of some sort.

Of course, until we lose the category. 

Cats hunt

Cats hunt.

They always do.

And part of it is the way they play with the prey. I know that it’s partially because they do not need to hunt to eat, not being domestic, but still gets in me, in my little mind of a city person, whispering so my fears.

So I find the bird.

It’s dying, I know it. But I can’t kill it by twisting it’s neck, I might not even kill it and just end up making things worse.

I couldn’t bring myself to cut it in half with an axe, or even a knife. I couldn’t deal with the bloodshed.

So I talk to people and they give me advise.

In the end, the “best” I can do is to let it die in relative peace.

So I put a wooden tomato box in top of it to keep the cats away.

If I let the bird to its fate in the paws of the cats they would play with it rather than eat it.

Its death would still be wasted, its flesh rotting.

So I leave it there.

Dying.

Agonizing.

Alone.

Because of my fear.

It’s funny how I can distance myself from this by calling the bird an it, in Spanish you don’t have that liberty.

And I wait. I occupy my mind with other things, trying to keep this and other fears at bay.

Then I notice that the cats are inside the house.

They are no longer harassing the bird.

I should have moved faster.

I just kept waiting for death.

But in the end, death is not a noticeable thing for us living ( or those we think we’re alive), it is only after it happened.

Then I went to check on the bird.

It was stiff. Its legs stretched and immobile.

Dead.

And now I have a cadaver to deal with.

Inecuaciones

Estaban hablando de lo poco práctico que era para la vida real aprender cómo hacer inecuaciones.

Debían enseñar cosas útiles para la vida, habían acordado entre todos.

La profesora asintió desde una de las esquinas del salón, apoyada en la intersección con los brazos cruzados mientras escuchaba a sus estudiantes discutir.

Era la primera vez que ese curso discutía de forma civilizada, es decir, sin gritar o volverse ratas en coca.

Deberían enseñar cosas como cocinar, cómo hacer cosas de la casa, cómo usar herramientas, cómo arreglar cosas – había comentado una alumna – deberían enseñarnos a ordenarnos.

La profesora levantó una ceja a causa de esa última frase. Nadie en el salón la había cuestionado. Suspiró para sí, volviendo a fruncir el ceño mientras escuchaba. Tenía que obligarse a recordar dónde enseñaba.

Creo que deberían enseñar a ser mejores personas – comentó otra chica, su voz tan inocente como ignorante.

Ah, el comentario moralizante, pensó la profesora para sí.

Sí, creo que deberían enseñar a ser mejor persona – reforzó otra persona – No lo digo desde un punto de vista “cristiano” – continuó, mirando a la compañera que había hablado – Pero sí cosas como… verdades de la vida. Enseñarnos que nada es fácil, que vamos a tener que trabajar, que ni los amigos o las relaciones son para siempre… Que la muerte es segura.

Con ese último comentario oscuro la clase cayó en silencio.

La profesora suspiró. Se recostó en la silla y se sacó los tacones, dejándolos caer al suelo con fuerza. Sus pies enfundados en medias beige descansaron sobre el escritorio. Sabía que había más de una persona observando sus muslos, pero no le importó. ¿decoro?, se preguntó con ironía. Sacó su cartera y se puso a revolverla.

- La cosa es, niños, - murmuró mientras ponía un cigarro entre sus labios – es que siempre hablan de La verdad, ¿no? Cosa única, finita, inamovible, sólida y absolutamente innegable, pero… - murmuró, prendiendo el cigarro y dándole una bocanada inmensa – La verdad es flexible, dinámica… Creo que es una de las pocas cosas que la vida me ha enseñado. La verdad depende de quien la diga, quien la escucha, de quien la piense, de quien la escriba…. Pero… Bah… - gruñó amargamente – Al fin y al cabo, ustedes escogen si creerme o no.

La clase la miraba aterrorizada. Habían muchos con caras del terror más absoluto, unas cuantas que tosían, otros que sacaban sus propios cigarros, otros que sonreían.

- Profe, ¿qué está haciendo?  – preguntó la inocente.

La mujer dio otra quemada al cigarro, dejando que el humo quemara sus pulmones y acidificara su lengua.

- Renunciando. – contestó con una sonrisa, mientras botaba el humo espeso entre los dientes. 

16-09-16

It looked Green.

A foul dream in the mist.

The air was thin and cold.

Their lips in front of me.

They smiled.

The air was so thin.

I couldn’t reach for

their lips, that fragile

smile, closing the

dream upon me.

Everything was

green as the sun set.

Clouds and mist,

intertwined at the point

of being oblivious to

separation of concepts,

threatened

with eating my

ankles.

Screams of opera and the

music of carnival flooded

my mind as the memories

of some lips slips

from cognition.

Then the air turns

pink.

A translucent pink

mist that makes all things

seem harsher, sharper.

And I feel the need to

look for something I let

myself forget. It feels like

it was just one eternity

ago. It was something

green, among mist,

and hunger… and

nostalgia.

The pink of the snow,

the reflection of a dying

sun shines brighter. 

16/08/16

Tengo miedo, dijo mirando con un ojo el precipicio entre las palabras del libro que tenía enfrente; y con el otro mirando por la ventana a un horizonte indeterminado.

                - Tengo miedo –susurró- tengo miedo – repitió, con la voz temblorosa - …. de que todo esto me convenza de que el mundo es real y que pertenezco a él. 

Gala

Las copas chocaron.

Los lujos parecían ser algo imprescindible en este momento. Todo tenía que brillar, brillar tanto que disminuyera el brillo de los fuegos afuera.

Este era quizás el momento más hermoso de la historia humana.

Nadie nunca imaginó que la música sonaría tan alta. Los violines gritando a todo pulmón inexistente que el fin se acercaba y todos disfrutaban su melodía.

Los susurros de un nuevo orden se extinguían progresivamente, así como toda esperanza y todo deseo.

Solo se escuchaban recuerdos de viejas rivalidades contadas con cariño, como anécdotas de la infancia.

Sonrisas perfectas en emoción llenaban el salón. Piernas se entrelazaban en un baile que solo existía por el frenesí de la melodía, en la pasión de cuerpos rozándose con apenas una delgada tela entre ellos y mientras cientos de ojos se posaban sobre cada una de sus curvas humanas.

Entonces ella alzó el brazo y en su mano descansaba una copa de champagne. La formalidad dictaba cuantas burbujas subían a la vez, solo para reventarse un momento después.

Chocó un cuchillo – elegante, afilado, inmaculado – contra la copa.

Todas las miradas se posaron sobre ella, atentos a la gracia de sus movimientos. Los instrumentos pararon, primero los de viento, la percusión, y por último las cuerdas, poco a poco, una por una cerraron sus gargantas de crin.

Ella se levantó. Una sonrisa radiante sobre su rostro.

Había que celebrar.

Por fin había llegado el día. El día en que las distinciones ya no importaban. En que la mayoría era nada. En que ya no habían cúspides culturales, sin imposiciones morales.

El día en que ya no habían orgasmos intelectuales para correrse sobre la academia. Solo cuerpos, solo mentes. Solo un acto de empatía sobre entes libres de una dominación anteriormente intrínseca. Había llegado el día en que a nadie le importaba.

Ella sonrió de nuevo. Sus dientes torcidos más bellos que nunca, en un atardecer anaranjado y entre espectadores que le devolvieron la sonrisa, orgullosos.

 Se alzaron todas las copas, ella su epicentro.

- ¡Quizás este es el último año del mundo! – gritó, su lengua retorciéndose en carcajadas joviales, victoriosas.

Los demás la miraron con ternura mientras se unía con la masa.

- ¡Por el último año del mundo! – le corearon.

Tras el último sonido de sus gargantas tras beber – devorar, destrozar, consumir – la champagne. Tras la última copa resonar tras la colisión, tras el último golpe del reloj-

Tras todo eso observaron el cielo volverse púrpura, mientras el sol desaparecía, mientras la última bomba caía.