Mostrando las entradas con la etiqueta letter. Mostrar todas las entradas
Mostrando las entradas con la etiqueta letter. Mostrar todas las entradas

miércoles, 11 de octubre de 2017

The day he wanted to be someone else

   Trying to sleep on that big room was an impossible task. Not only the windows had cracks that let the cold wind of the night in, the stone floor prevented anything to be very warm, even under the covers. It was a dreadful place to stay for a night and John had to stay there for, at least, a whole week. It had not been his choice to go on such a remote place for a vacation. If it had been for him, he would have stayed in his cozy tiny apartment, with his cat Michael.

 But a letter had come on the mail telling him to wait for its writer during that week. It didn’t specify a date and the only thing he could learn out of it was that, whoever had wrote the letter, he or she knew a lot about him and about his family. In three pages, he wrote things that only a family member would know. It was very eerie but John had a sister and a brother, so his first reaction was to think it was one of them, or maybe even his parents, who would be most likely to actually written a letter in paper.

 After finishing the letter he emailed his family and told them it was a very funny joke, especially with his birthday approaching, but they all responded that same day telling him they had nothing to do with a letter. They even joked that the world was too advanced for such thing and that they hadn’t touched a piece of paper or a ballpoint pen in years. And to be honest, John hadn’t done either of those things either in a long time. Paper and pens where only in banks. So who was behind all of it?

 He decided not to respond and just doing nothing. Maybe it had been mailed to him by mistake or maybe it was just a very bad joke. There are people in the world that don’t really have a good sense of humor. Many have a deviant kind of humor that only a few people understand and sometimes only them. But the letter was not even funny, on any level. Maybe it was just a random thing, someone hoping to get a reaction out of the blue. It was possible, John said to himself.

 However, as the dates in the letter grew closer, John received another letter. It had the same kind of calligraphy but this time it was way shorter, more concise and had a certain air of urgency. The person that had written knew that it was difficult to believed someone that knew him so well was written but it clarified that it was a matter of life and death. The letter begged for John to go to where it was indicated and wait there for more information. He had to trust his instinct. And then the letter finished with a simple but resonating phrase: “You have to come because you need to close that chapter for good”.

 That really scared John. He had never discussed his past with anyone else. Not even his family knew everything that had happened to him when he was younger, the things he did when he was out of the house. John had always been the kind of child to stay behind, to have a small amount of friends and prefer to play with toys or videogames at home instead of going outside. But he did try to be another kind of person and it was then when it all happened. The trip reminded him of everything.

 He arrived to that sad hotel the day the week indicated in the letter began. He had to ask for a special permit in his office, permit that was strangely granted very fast. It was not very common for him or anyone else there to get permission to leave for a whole week that easily. The whole situation felt really strange, as if someone else had had some sort of hand in the whole matter. It was a very scary situation but he decided to ignore those facts and just do what he felt he had to do.

 The hotel was the only one in that small town, located about three hours away by road. As he had decided a long time ago not to drive a car, he had to take the bus and that experience was worse than anything because of the delays and all of the walking he had to do. It wasn’t that he hated walking around or anything, more that he really didn’t wanted to move more than necessary for whoever had lured him to that far away place. The town was made of maybe twenty blocks, more or less.

 The hotel felt more like a cemetery than nothing else. The only difference was the fact that there was a roof over his had. Aside from that, you could really feel the same kind of cold weather; the same ripe smell all over and that very sad light that makes you feel unhappy about being alive. The second day there, he woke up rather early. After a cold shower, he decided to walk around town and hope he could find the person he was looking for right then. Or should that be the other way around?

 The cold wind was powerful, descending from a mountain range that seemed to be really close. A woman in the grocery store told him the temperature was always the same every single day of the year. No summer days, even if the sunny was high up above them. The rays of sunlight also felt cold in that part of the world. She also realized John was a visitor and she recommended him to go to the nearby hills for some fresh air. She assured him it was much less depressing than the small town. Hearing her say that, gave him a little bit of hope, which felt out of place.

 He went to the hills every single day, for the next few days. On day six, he decided to leave the following morning very early. All that time in such a small town was making him insane. He wanted to hear noise again, to hear babies complaining and people being awful to each other in the street. He wanted to hear the sound of cars and planes and trains and he wanted to have his cat Michael next to him to warm up his feet before going to bed. He didn’t belong there.

 That day, he walked all over the place and stayed in the hotel lobby for at least three hours after lunch in order for his so-called host to come and tell him what it was that he knew, what the hell he wanted to speak with him about. He waited and waited, hearing the sound of the clock and the snoring of the man that tended the front desk. He wanted that awful week to end and was furious to have been made to spend one of his legal holiday weeks in such a sad a depressing town.

 In the afternoon, he headed off to the hills again. He did like to see the landscape, the mountain and a river far away. Sometimes there were some sheep around and he loved to caress them. That day they came again and he wanted to touch them one last time but they left suddenly, as a figure wearing a large overcoat walked towards him. It was a man, a very frail looking man, maybe the same age as he was. When he was closer, John was able to see a scar above one of his eyebrows.

 Then, he gasped and walked back a bit, scared of this vision of the past. Even without saying a word, he knew who that person was. As a teenager trying to get people to like him and having friends, John had stolen the keys to one of his classmates’ parents’ car. It had been done on a dare. He had to steal the keys and drive the car down the road. It was a short trip, a crime without victim. Or so he thought. The man standing in front of him was the kid he had run over that day, so many years ago.

 He had always thought the kid was dead. He had left them there, on the pavement, to die. He had turned around the car and left it at that. He always thought the police would find him. But nothing ever happened and John eventually learned not to think about that day.


 And yet, there he was, the victim of his attempts to be a normal kid. John wanted to be someone else and all he could produce was a horrible accident. His victim had traced him down for a long time and had been watching, waiting for his moment to come forward.

lunes, 29 de febrero de 2016

I did it

    I did it. I have to acknowledge, after long hours of thinking and deciding was it’s best, that I do have to consider what I have done and said. The fact that now I present myself as a guilty man, does not mean that I think that everything that happened that night and the following years, was all under my control. As you know, things can happen and we just can’t control ourselves, we are driven by something else, some other version of us that is more primal and simpler or more sophisticated and brilliant. No, I’m not trying to excuse myself but I am trying to explain what I think that has to be explained. After all, many of you would be reading this wondering how I ended up here.

 They have labeled me as someone with privilege and I have to accept that my life has been much richer in objects and shallow things that most people’s. I had the chance of having been born into a family that was able to provide with many things, many which were useful like education and others that could have gotten me away from this mess. I don’t blame, at all, my parents or anyone else for what happened. I know that it was me, and me only, who caused so much pain and misery. But I cannot talk about all of this and ignore the fact that I was able to spend money when others weren’t able to do it. Yes, I was privileged but in no way have I ever been rich, loaded with some many things I couldn’t remember all of them. That’s not my life, don’t believe that from them.

 I started writing this letter because my therapist thought it would be easier for me to talk about all of this in this form. I have never really been one to write or to ever think much about anything. But this trial, this process, it has taken over seven years of my life. I was another person when I did it. I do not mean that I am less guilty because of that but I think it’s important you understand every single aspect of this situation from my point of view. After all, al of this time you have seen me as an evil character, someone worst than the devil, like a serial killer or something. And that’s not me. I do have a soul and I do have a brain and feelings.

 The hardest part of this whole process has been having my parents live it with me. They didn’t deserve to be drawn into this vortex of media frenzy, hate from every corner and suppositions and insults and so many other things that have made this time a living hell. I don’t say I don’t deserve it but they are innocent in all of this. My upbringing had nothing to do with why I did it, they didn’t have anything to do with it because they were great parents, they were great people who I actually pushed away in that moment and I do believe that if I had being closer to them, if I had been a good son, maybe I wouldn’t be writing this letter from a rusty table in a very small cell of a major prison.

 About life in jail, I do not want to talk about. It is well known that I have avoided death several times here. They think I’m far worse than them and I honestly don’t know if that’s true. But if I have to remain here for the rest of my life, I want to live as long as they do, as comfortably as they do, because they do have many things here, like outside. The men that have tried to hurt me are the ones that handle a small black market that trades every single thing you can imagine, even those razors they have tried to use to kill me. But I have to say here, without any modesty, that they have nothing to do with me in a fight. They might be big and tough and now the drug world and the hard life but my life had rough patches too and during many of those times I learned a couple of things.

 No, I don’t really want to sound like a bad guy. Maybe I am but I do not want to sound like that. I just think I just should be given the same chances that everyone else has. But I know I am here and that I will possibly live here until I die so at least I want to make this work. Yes, that doesn’t make any sense but I don’t think it has to have any sense at all. I did something wrong, a bit drunk and high but I did it and now, I think I can take the punishment. Because I did it and I have to recognize that. I did do it and I am sorry.

 I know that, for many years during the trial and all of the process, my lawyer has insisted that I was so wasted, so consumed by marihuana and cocaine and booze that I had no idea about anything, that I couldn’t have done even if that had been my intention. The truth is I do remember some flashes, like fragments of my memory and I have to confess they are very confusing. I do not now if I remember those parts more because my brain was really fucked up or because I have chosen unconsciously to only remember bits and pieces.

 I do remember the party. Fuck, that was a huge party and the kind of party I had gone to many times without anything weird happening. I’m not proud of it, but back then I was just starting my career and I had so much going on. I was very popular in every sense possible and successful too, so people liked to make me feel special and tended to my every need as if I was an all powerful being that needed to be pampered every single second of his life. And I was. Many brought me alcohol, others brought me drugs and others brought themselves. And we would party all night.

 Another confession: I was in the closet during all those years. I had never dared to publicly tell anyone that I fucked men but people that knew me really well did know and I think some of them are responsible for what happened to Blake. I mean, I did it and I acknowledge that but they should be here too.

 After all one of them was his cousin. He brought me cocaine and other stuff that I would use in private with my lovers. Yes, because I had many. Back then, I had bought this nice apartment, nothing too fancy, and that was where everything happened. My business grew in there, all the parties and the craziness happened there and what happened and got me here also happened there. I wasn’t thinking, that is obvious. I wasn’t smart enough to know that many of those people that fed me all of those things I consumed were not my friends; they didn’t really want me as a significant part of their lives. They were just leeches, taking away things from me and I didn’t even saw it.  I actually think I didn’t want to see it because it would have been obvious otherwise.

  They did fake it for long and just like Robert, Blake’s cousin; they all brought me things that I would enjoy. He was the one who gave Blake to me as a present and I have to confess Blake didn’t know anything or at least he didn’t seem to know anything. I cannot say anything for sure and I wouldn’t be the kind of person to blame the victim. As I have said many times, it’s Roberts fault and mine, of course. He brought to my birthday party and just presented him as a friend. I did like him because he’s a beautiful guy but the party went on and I don’t remember launching myself at him from the first second.

 I was too busy getting high and performing that sick and stupid persona I had created for everyone else to see. It was such a fake, such a false representation of what I was. Or rather, what I had been. Because just a few years earlier, before money and false friends, I was a guy trying to live his life and even falling in love. I was normal and I was a human and I do believe I’m a human now, even if many of you don’t think so. I have feeling and I know that because I have barely endured all of these years trying not to be consumed by my own hatred, by guilt and so much pain. Because what I did not only affect one person. It also affected me. I know, I am not the victim but that’s how I feel.

 The fact is, however, that I vaguely remember finally speaking to him. I was drunk but I tried to make me look great in front of him. Then my memory goes very blurry, I think we did cocaine and he was wasted much faster than me. The next fragment I have in my head is him falling slowly on my bed, the sound of the music far away and me trying to take off his jeans. I remember him fighting, I do remember it… Oh my god, I remember. He was fighting, as much as he could and he couldn’t do much. The cocaine had gotten into him all right. Then, the next image is me forcing myself onto him and my hand feeling wet over his mouth.


 Then, I woke up the following morning, alone. And then the path to this cell started. I did rape him and I know that now, I accept it now, It is I fact and I am ashamed of it. I do blame drugs and alcohol and also Robert for having had the audacity to do that, almost setting a trap for me to fall into. But the fact remains that I did it, that I am guilty. And I would repeat this as many times as it’s necessary. Because I have come to the conclusion that I cannot live in this way any longer. I want peace. I did it.

miércoles, 6 de mayo de 2015

Dear you...

   Dear you,

 I dreamt about you again. Isn’t that strange? I hadn’t done that for quite some time. To be honest, I think I missed you there, in the shadows of my mind and my thoughts.

 You were great, by the way. I could feel your touch, your breathing and your whole presence with me. We were in bed and about to make love but we didn’t get quite there. I’m afraid I woke up a little bit beforehand. But that’s not important. What is important is that I felt you there, so close, like I had never felt you in many months, maybe in a year.

 Once I fell asleep, I remembered your scent, your gentle touch. And, although I couldn’t see your face, I knew it was you. It’s always you anyway and sometimes that makes me go mad because dreams can be very well created, very realistic and apparently honest. I wanted you by my side this morning, I wanted to hug you hard, to be able to smell your hair and feel every little feature of your skin. But I couldn’t and that makes me the saddest person on Earth right now.

 How is it that you can enter my dreams like that? You’re there with me, for real, I know it. I feel my mind is not wrong when your arms do feel warm and when your legs join mine and we kiss. It’s you, I just know it is. How can you do it? How can you bare to be here with me and then disappear as if nothing had happened? Am I even important to you, at all? Can you bare to see me go away, walk away from you and declare how much I despise you for stepping away like a shade on sunrise.

 You have been doing this for many months now, maybe years. You know my mind is not the best, my memories are misplaced but my feelings help me not to loose it. And, to be honest, your presence helps me not to go completely mad. Isn’t that funny? Someone that isn’t even here helps me be grounded and balanced. It sound insane and yet it is but it helps. Since you started entering my dreams I have some good nights and I can hope again as I never was able to do. I thank you for that.

 But I know that you know this can only be maintained for a little while. You, coming and going, it’s just not going to work. And not because I need you so much by my side but because I cannot pretend I feel I’m loosing my mind. When you touched my body and I touched yours this morning, I felt on fire. And this fire was not only coming from my heart and my yearning for your skin, but from my mind. My brain is now burning with desires, with needs. My mind wants you to stay too and she can be much more compelling than the rest of me.

 So, would you stay? I think I know the answer to this question but anyway I ask because I know I need to hear it, to read it from you. I need you to tell me something that I can define, that I can understand once and for all because my mind is on the edge, about to fall into an abyss of eternal darkness and despair. I don’t want it to fall into that and all because of you. I don’t want that, I can’t bare the thought of you being my demise. I just can’t do that.

 I have been there before. On one of your absences, I was down there for quite a while. I know now how despair really feels like, how it smells and how it sticks to you like glue that just won’t let go. Darkness was all around me and I had to save myself. To be clear, I would never ask you to save me because that’s not why I need you. You know very well I’m strong enough to withstand anything like that. With every second of despair, of being lost and wandering through life, I’ve grown.

 My looks don’t really give it away, right? I know, I have never been a physical man in any senses but believe when I say that strength comes in many shapes and forms. You could say life has trained me not to depend on anyone, on anything. But, yet again, I’m still human and I still feel like one. I cannot prevent myself from feeling lost sometimes, eager to change or wanting to feel those other feelings, the warm ones that are always there when you are around. That’s one I need from you, what I seek when you’re near me. Not a protection of any kind or someone to protect. Rather, you just make me feel.

 Feel. That sounds so simple, doesn’t it? Maybe it is. Maybe we just complicate our lives, trying to make everything look much more difficult than it is when, the truth is, feeling is just letting yourself go. Maybe that’s why I dream about you sometimes: I let go completely when I’m sleep and then you come and make my mornings just perfect. I swear they are with your kisses, your touch, the sexual desire and that beautiful warmth you bring to my life. If I could dream with you every night, I think I wouldn’t be able to stand it. It would be to much for me. I might be strong but not that strong.

 What’s awful is that I don’t know what you like in the mornings, besides kisses and hugs. Do you like to drink coffee? And if you do, how do you like your coffee? I personally hate it but I would keep one of those machines for you, just to make you happier in the mornings. I can almost picture you, standing by the kitchen counter, sipping from a mug, blowing softly over the coffee to make it go cold. You wouldn’t need to look at me for me to know I would be undoubtedly and deeply in love with you.

 No, don’t be scared. I don’t think I love you know. But I do think that might be possible in the future. If I keep looking at you like I do, if you keep entering my head as you always do, the only possible outcome is that I would become madly in love with you. I would breath for you and walk for you. That may be the future. But again, who knows if there’s going to be a future at all? Maybe we won’t get there; maybe life finds a way to keep us apart for good, only visiting in each other in dreams and illusions until we go insane.

 See? I’m never too far from that word. I guess it haunts me, it chases me through life and I just can’t escape from it. But… It makes me think. What if that’s because of you? What if I’m going insane because I’m already in love with you? People say love is unconditional and universal but that may not be true, love might be different for each person, each individual in this world and that’s how you might be driving me insane. You’re making me fall in love with you. And maybe love is only a poison to me, a venom far worse from anything found in nature.

 It makes sense, when you think about it. That pain, that agonizing pain you feel when you care for someone. It feels like a poison, slowly entering the body slowly, working for years until it finally takes its victim. Strangely, that sounds even more romantic than any other thing I’ve ever heard about. If love was a poison, I would drink it gladly but only if it came for you. That’s my honest answer because I know, every time I see your face, that make me feel different, special, unique and small. And that’s all very strange but amazing.

 I know, for a fact, that I’m not amazing or unique or anything like that. I’m just one small man in a world that is larger than him but that’s also small and insignificant. So who really cares about anything? Who cares if love kills or it doesn’t? I certainly don’t. Who cares if it drives you insane, if it makes you lose yourself completely? Again, I don’t. Because it’s a gamble, a choice you make and I think I might be able to make that choice. Now? No, not now. I have no shame in saying I’m not ready for such a commitment, for such a deep dive.

 But I will. We will all be ready, one fay or the other. There’s a different day, for each of us, in which we will be ready to do what it takes to achieve what we want to achieve, to reach the top of the mountain that has been elusive to our hands. But the mountain doesn’t go away just because you fail or die. It will always be there and one day we will have what it takes to take it for us and make it ours. That’s whom you are for me, my beautiful-snow capped mountain.


 You know? I need you here now. But reality has just fallen with its bright veil around me and I see now that you are not. You are not. And I am. Now I have to keep being until I have my moment, until the day arrives that I can be more than what I am now. Then, hopefully, I will be able to touch you, kiss you and tell you how much I thank you for being there.

jueves, 4 de septiembre de 2014

Letter for me (Part 4)

Hey me,


I write you, or me, from my bedroom. Strange, huh? Well, another week passed and more happened. So here it is.

I decided to be honest with the family. They are not to blame in any of this and I had to tell someone about all of this. I mean, after the last letter I remember feeling I was going crazy. I didn't know what was real or not.

So after coming back from "jogging" around the neighborhood, I decided to tell Susan everything. She very patient and calm. She just sat there and let me say every single thing that I had been thinking and feeling, including the fact that I believe this is not my life and that they are not my family.

When I said that, I saw here eyes filling with tears but she contained them as long as she could. I didn't know she was such a strong person, so well put together. She's a therapist, you know? Maybe that's why after talking for thirty minutes straight and then falling silent, she just grabbed my hand and hugged me.

Susan told me she knew something was wrong and that she was happy I finally decided to tell her. She said she loved me and wanted all the best for me. She even offered taking me to a friend of hers, a psychiatrist. Susan think it will help.

To be honest, it has not helped me one bit. I have been going once every day, so I've seen that creepy guy five times. And believe me, you don't get used to someone picking your brain with stupid questions for one hour. I hate going there but Susan seems to be happy about it and I don't want to disappoint her.

And, to be honest, what else is there for me now? That life I had o r think I had has been dead for far to long because I can't seem to get a grip of it.

I know, the drawings... Yeah, that keeps popping in my head from time to time. It's one of those things I've discussed with the shrink but he says I have been putting things I read into Linda's drawings and that I see what I see because I want to see it. Crazy, right? Not surprising though.

But I do. And even Henry does. I asked him to tell me what he saw in the drawings and I'm not insane, I see what he sees.

By the way, I finished the book. The writer has various adventures, like a big spy or something, and at the end, I mean in the last 10 pages, he dies. He's shot in the head by a drug dealer. Linda drew me in a pool of blood. I screamed at the girl and then she cried and then I fought with Susan. That was just some hours ago.

That's why I'm alone in my bedroom. Actually, alone in the house. Susan took the kids to her mother's house and told me to cool down for the night. She didn't seem angry but scared. She seems to think that a night away from them might do me some good but I believe she was scared I might hit her or the kids.

I went crazy. I yelled and hit myself on the head with my fists and punched the wall. My hand hurts as I write.

You know what's funny? My head started to hurt just after I saw the drawing Linda did for me. It's a piercing pain on the back of my head, just as if I had been hit with a blunt object.

I don't want to sleep. It's 3 AM but I don't dare to close my eyes. What if this all goes away too? What if I don't go back to being a writer but I just fade away into another life? I wouldn't be able to take it. I know I can't.

Please be with me. Help me. I'm scared.








*           *           *

The hallway is white. No other color on sight. A woman, rather short, enters a room. Inside an elderly woman cries next to the only bed in the room.

A young man lies there, with tubes coming from all places, breathing through a machine.

- The doctor is ready Mrs. Dominguez.

The elderly lady is squeezes one of the man's hands as a man in a white robe enters the room.

- Do you want to be present? - he says to the woman.

She nods. Tears keep pouring out of her eyes but she makes no noise.

The doctor and the nurse start pressing buttons, pulling out tubes until only one machine is attached to the man in the bed.

The elderly woman comes near and kisses the man on the forehead.

- Bye, Alex. Mama loves you.

The machine starts beeping and finally the sound of death engulfs the room.