Dear diary

Day 1

Hey book! Well, I'm kinda wasted and you're my birthday present so let's get it rolling !!

God, I'm bored. Is it ok to be bored when you've had like thirty screwdrivers? I mean, I kinda get all horny and crazy when I drink but now I'm just so bored, you know?... No, I mean, how would you know. You're a book. What an idiot.

Well, besides this stupid thing, I only got this cute blouse and some earring and bracelet. And not much more. Oh yeah. My man gave me a surprise. Get ready for it... HE SLEPT WITH SOMEONE ELSE ! What a fucking shocker, isn't it? And you know what is the worst, besides IT ALL, of course? The fact that I found him in bed fucking someone else. The bed we had shared many times. How fun is that?

Do you want even more fun? Cool. He was fucking a dude. Yeah, like you heard it. I so his ass and dick before he hid from me like a fucking weasel, as if I was going to attack him or whatever. Well, no. I'm a lady, dammit! I behave properly in all social events, even in those where my boyfriends, or ex boyfriend to be more precise, is banging a guy. Yeah, I'm a queen of the people.

So yeah, that's my beautiful, awesome, fucking present. Great, right? I can't wait for Christmas. Maybe I'll get vaginal warts or some shit. Or maybe I'll be hit by a truck. From now on, everything goes downhill, right?

Fuck, I'm tired and bored and whatever.  Bye, diary.

Day 2

Hello. Well... it's weird because I feel I have to apologize for what I wrote last week. I was so down in the dumps, so hurt and angry and I wanted to kill with my bare hands. I didn't wanted to write again because, who cares about this in the end. But I realized it may be good for my mental health if I get things out before they start poisoning my brain.

I normally don't curse that much. Only when I'm really pissed or drunk. Last week, I was both. Then again, how do you handle it? I ask myself over and over again: "How are you going to cope with this and move on?". Well, tough luck for me because it ain't easy. That's the truth.

Thank God, and my social skills, I have many good friends and they have all said something different: some think I should forgive him, others that I should have revenge, others that I forget what happen and move on to the next one. But I can't do any of those because it feels unnatural to just do something without really thinking what it means.

I think I should note that Gary and I had been together for a little more than a year. I never noticed anything strange or particular and he never told me he liked guys. I mean, I even asked him once if he would ever have sex with a guy, even in a threesome with one girl, and he said no. That was like a chance for him to tell me the truth but he didn't.

I don't know what to do as he has called me, asking to see me to explain but I don't want that. I'm hurt but I try to understand and it's hard. I'm heartbroken, yes. But, mostly, I'm disappointed by the lie. I felt like he was my friend and the fact that he didn't tell me something hurts much more and the cheating part.

Well, I guess things find their way to correct themselves, and slowly fade away... Let's see what happens.

Day 3

Fucking day... Sorry, wrong way to open a... conversation, of sorts. But I'm so pissed right now. My boss has been asking both my legs and arms and then yells at me like a mad doh in front of everyone because I dare to demand I raise. All the work he claims it's his, it all comes from me. And I've just had it so I was fired. Yeah, so, life's fucking me twice I guess.

Then again, work had always been like this but I guess I confronted my boss in a moment he was specially sensitive and man have i been sensitive too these days. So I guess it was bound to happen, something big like this.

I haven't told anyone yet, though. My parents are going to worry and argue with me and my friends will roll their eyes or give me support that, at the end of the day, is all words but nothing to really to hold on to.

And the other thing I should tell is that... Well, Gary called me while I was picking up my things from work and I just bursted into tears and told him what was happening. I know I said I hadn't told anyone but he just called in my most vulnerable moment. He even showed up, helped me carry a couple of boxes to his car and then invited me lunch.

I hate myself for writing this but... I remembered what it felt to love him, to care for him. And right after I would hate myself for thinking of him as a nice memory after he did what he did. I asked him for the explanations he had wanted me to hear and it was worse. Worse because I couldn't blame him. I had met his parents and they are the most conservative couple I have ever met. They go to church and to conservative rallies and the woman is worried every time of what her husband might say and the guy is the biggest bigot you can think of.

Gary told me he always felt attracted to guys but his family almost made him like girls so he dated girls and had sex with them, from high school until now. But his dad had suffered a heart attack recently and apparently that changed it all for him. He told me he wanted to end with me on better terms and couldn't and then met this guy online and invited him to his house...

I mean, I cannot forgive him for lying. I can't because he had choices. But I understand why he did what he did and it's better now that I know some more about him. I love him still, there's no point in denying it. Maybe I would be able to transform that into a nice friendship but, for now, he's just a nice guy that was there today when I needed a shoulder to cry on.

Day 4

Man, I have written so little in here. Only four times and so much has happened during that time. It's crazy... Well, i was fired a month ago. That's the last time I wrote. After that I told everyone about my job, although I only told my closest friends about my encounter with Gary.

Well, first and most important, I got a new job. A friend directed me to her uncle and I'm working with him on advertising for local brands. It's cool, not really what I was used too but it's cool and I do need the money so, it doesn't hurt at all.

I have seen Gary again and I think we can be friends. You know, it's weird to imagine that with someone you have slept with. It seems strange to treat someone like a friend but knowing their "sex face". I actually said that the other day and Gary laughed and tried to do my "sex face" and they I did his and we had a blast.

What I'm certain of is that I don't want to commit to anything right now, other than my job and my responsibilities as friend, daughter and sister. I don't want another relationship. As I said a month ago, I understand Gary but cannot trust him easily and same goes with other men. I'm just afraid people are going to lie to me again but... I guess it's bound to happen right? We're human after all.

To replace to need for attention and love, I got a cat from a neighbor who was giving away kittens from the couple she owns. I named him Snowcone, because he's all black except for the face. I was thinking of Vanilla but he's a male so it would have been kind of misleading to people. He's always close and cuddles with me... I don't know, I need that now. Here's hoping I don't become a crazy old cat woman.

Well dear diary, you have a been a very nice gift after all. You have prevented me from becoming insane and, after all, don't we all need something like this? We need to speak up, loud and clear sometimes in order to make our voices heard, even if it for ourselves. We need to tell ourselves that we are not freaks. We're just people. Right?

Writing Crap

My days are always the same: I wake up ten minutes before 10 AM to watch this tv show I like. As I do that, I eat breakfast. My breakfast is basically anything that lays around the fridge or the cupboard. I don't like breakfast, it annoys me for some reason.

After that, my mom is already up too so we watch more Tv for like an hour and then I shower, get dressed, tidy up my bedroom and by 1 PM I should be writing on my laptop.

And then, things get really easy or really annoying. Sometimes I've had an idea before and it comes back as I seat in front of the screen so it comes right up: every detail, every character, everything there is to say to make it good enough to read.
However, I practically never make corrections. That's because I'm lazy and also because I think that makes me kind of a bad writer, if I'm not capable to see errors as I write them.

Well, that's on the good days. On the bad days, it sucks, big time. I normally come up with stories I can write fast and don't make me go crazy. As one day I write in English and the following day in Spanish and so on, it gets easier or harder depending on how ready I am to write in one language or the other. Some things are easier on one or in the other. it just depends on my mood or something.

It happens a lot too that after i began, already with two pages finished, I realized how awful my story of the day is. I read a paragraph and I get pissed, sad and annoyed at the same time. It either doesn't make sense or it sound stupid or childish... It make me angry.
Sometimes, if I spent too much time doing it, I just post it and think "Fuck it". No one appear to be reading these so who to fuck cares.
If I happen to be particularly annoyed by my writing, I just erased it all and start again. Those times, I think how awful it would be if someone read my blog and thought "What is this?". So I write something else, out of the blue.

Writing is the only thing I think I am able to do correctly. I mean, I make cupcakes and I read a lot of wikipedia, but writing is my thing. I'm an idiot with numbers and social issues don't really get to me. Let's just say if I was a president I would very rapidly become a dictator.

And I know it's weird and frowned upon, for a so-called writer, but I don't really love reading. I mean, sure I read but not huge books and 5 in a year. Maybe I read one a year. I mean, for many people I know I suck a lot. But I believe writing and reading are two different things, that have little to do with one another. But that's me and, quite possibly, I'm the only one who thinks that.

So this is what I do. Write a blog and just hope for thing to pick up somehow. I have a career and a masters degree but no company gives a fuck about that. They want people they can mold and I'm past that. Not to say I'm such a creative soul but I'm not an empty canvas either.

After writing, I normally go walking somewhere. my goal every week day (there's no way in hell I'm going to exercise on weekends), is to walk 10 kilometers. I do it through nice little neighborhoods or by avenues or on huge malls. I don't care as long as I have time to make my brain calm down.

To sum it up, here are the reasons why I NEED to walk everyday:

 - Live with parents
 - Never had a job. NONE.
 - Have never been paid to do nothing. For real.
 - I'm 25.
 - I'm gay.
 - Social life in a coma.
 - What the hell. I do need the exercise.

And those are all (probably not) the reasons why I need to breath some fresh air and prevent myself from going crazy, again. I have my "rage episodes" and they can get pretty ugly but I writing has gotten those under control.

See? Writing is not only about doing the one thing that I do good. It's about doing something that makes me calm, that has the incredible capacity of make me think and just concentrate. I left school and college so long ago and I need some structure in some kind of way.

Before you think "the gym is nice" or some shit like that, let me tell you a little something. I hate gyms, I loath them and the people that love them. That's it. I won't apologize for that and won't explain it because, let's face it, how many people will be reading this?

Anyhow, what I like the most about writing is the imagination part. Many people think about techniques or structures or storylines and I don't really care about that. Actually, that doesn't really matter because what really matters is a good story, a real one, kind of original. That's it.

My career was focused on cinema and that made me think about how brilliant minds can be when they put all their energy on something. We are all in awe of people that have come up with awesome tales and characters and dialogue and we worship them like gods but we forget they were once like us.

Ok, maybe not like me but you get my point. They were people just looking to make their dreams real and by that I don't mean "dreams" like in "making your wishes come true". Not that. I mean taking out from you mind what's there and put it in display for others to see. That's the dream that comes true, not if you find a loved one or win the lottery.

Imagination for me is the most attractive thing. Maybe that's way my social life is in a coma. Yes, I have friends and they are a small number, which for me it's great, I know them better because of that. But I fail to make new ones because I get bored fairly fast. I mean, if I'm not interested in you in the first five minutes, believe, were not going to be anything.

Same goes with guys. If they prove to me that they have no imagination whatsoever, there will be no second date. Or second chat, to be accurate. Nowadays, not even that. I have no energy or personality left to have a steady relationship with anyone. And before you say "Someone will come when you least expect it", let's just say I have been waiting for 25 fucking years so kiss that.

Well, I think I digress a bit from my main point. For me writing makes things happen were I need them to happen first: in my mind. Yes, life is about physical things and so on but that hasn't worked for me, so what's bad about creating stuff for people to read and, first and foremost, to make me feel I'm not a failure and that I can do something?

No harm done I think.

To be honest, I prefer writing my crap every single day, that forcing myself into a life I know I will hate and loath every single day of my life. Unemployed and poor? Well, yeah. But hey, there are always fast food chains.

The Mark

His eyes move, a lot, still asleep. His hairs is all on one side so we can easily see, on his forehead, a big mark. Red, with lines and black dots.

The man, or boy pending on your definition, wakes up rather fast, opening his eyes as if he had been scared by the boogieman in a dream. He doesn't move, as the physical pain of his forehead comes to him and he has to relive everything again.

He finally gets out of bed and goes to the bathroom. With one hand he holds his hair and stares at his image. The red mark is centered right above the nose. Frowning hurts a bit but he has no way of doing some other facial expression. He lets his hair down again and pees and then washes his hands.

As he walks to the kitchen, he thinks that at least it's not bleeding now, as it was yesterday night. He touches his forehead with care and then watches his fingers: clean.

In the kitchen, he pours some juice into a glass and drinks half of it as if he had been walking across a dessert for years. When he's done, he goes to the living room and sits on the sofa, to watch people go by.

Have they ever done that too? Have they ever caved to their urges and fears and weaknesses?

Who knows... He just watches them as he finishes up the juice and, once again, touches his forehead.

He then remembers being in school, twelve years old or something like that and being mocked for having peed his pants. He was so afraid of speaking to anyone he had held his urge for too much time and accidents happen. No one was kind, nor nice, nor decent. They were all animals and he hated them for it. He was just a kid and from then on, he felt rejected, an outcast.

No, not the moment for that. He goes to the kitchen again and makes a sandwich. Somehow, he's starving. He must have had an awful dream or one of those were you run like crazy, not knowing why.

He goes back in the sofa and eats his breakfast as he sees a man helping a woman with some boxes. They smile and each other and are oddly kind. People are not like that, almost never

He then remembers what it was for him to turn into a teenager, parties and all. And still feeling left out. It was incredible how much he had hated everyone in school so much, and none of them knew. They had no idea he never wanted to see them again. He didn't wish them harm or anything but he didn't care about their happiness. He was too hurt and alone.

The last year of school was different. He was just himself, as he knew he would never come back again. And college was another story, with different disappointments. No, not all was bad. Friends, real ones, were there.

As he finishes his sandwich, he touches the mark again and goes back to the bathroom. He puts some cold water on it and on his hair, to flatten it so people cannot see it easily. It shames him. It's a mark of shame and despair.

He washes the glass and the plate and enjoys the feel of water on his hands. He flattens his rebel hair again and then goes back to the sofa, now with his laptop. He puts on some music and finds himself reviewing, mentally of course, his bad luck in love.

He had grown tired of going out, dates, getting to know people. They didn't even tried to know him, at least to fake interest. No. They just didn't care much. Sex was first many times and he caved as it was fun and felt good but soon that ran out and it wasn't enough.

And the world wasn't helping. He had grown up to see how he had to look and behave and he wasn't that model everyone was supposed to be. And if you weren't, you lost. And he did, or so he felt.

He changes the song, to something a little more upbeat. Starts reading an article about sea creatures with incredible strength and the people that look out for them.

And again, thoughts. His brain was his enemy, no doubt.

Now he remembered, as if he had forgotten, that he had no money, no job, nothing. He had become bored too of sending his damn CV to every single company, even to fast food restaurants and retail stores. No one wanted him. And that felt awful. It hurt a lot to feel no one needed him, or appreciated what little he could do.

He shook his head, feeling some pinches, as his brain now was trying to escape, to move away as he too had become bored with him. He closed his eyes in pain, trying to push everything inside, deep, never to come back out again.

Suddenly he heard a voice and opened his eyes. It was his mother.

 - Hi.

 - Hey.

 - How are you feeling today?

 - Better. Thanks.

 - Sure?

He doubts.

 - Yeah.

She sighs and moves on to the kitchen.

After hitting himself with the first object he could get his hand on, he stroke his head too with his fists and he had a physical strength that scared him. He had caved to his inner fears, his demons, everything that was eating his brain.

He bled alone and cried as he hadn't done in so many years, when he thought he had kept it all behind. No. The past always comes back to have a bite of your brain, to torture you slowly.

And he, fed up, had taken matters in his owns hands and almost broke his skull.

As his mother made breakfast for herself, he took a few deep breaths and calmed down. He had to be strong, as she had said. "Take control of your feeling. Don't let them control you". And he knew she was right.

He hoped, really hard, that things would change soon. But that is something no one knows, until it happens or it doesn't.

En el tren

La estación estaba repleta, como siempre en la hora pico de la noche. Casi no se podía circular por los andenes y muchas personas cargaban paquetes y maletas grandes. Estaba claro que no solo operaban a esa hora trenes de cercanías sino también a ciudades más lejanas.

Martha se abrió paso con dificultad, con el billete del tren en una mano y halando una pequeña maleta con la otra. En una de las pantallas veía el nombre del destino y suspiró al sentir el calor generado por la gran cantidad de personas.

No pasaron ni cinco minutos cuando un tren blanco, haciendo bastante ruido, entró a la estación. Muchas de las personas en el andén se alistaron y pocos minutos después abordaron el tren.

Martha se sentó en el último coche, lejos del ruido de la parte frontal. Puso su pequeña maleta en la estructura metálica sobre los asientos y se sentó justo debajo, junto a la ventana.

El tren rápidamente tomó velocidad y una pequeña pantalla empezó a listar las próximas paradas: la de Martha era la última, lo que hacía que el viaje durara unas 2 horas. Había 3 paradas antes, la próxima a unos 45 minutos.

Un par de asientos fueron ocupados pero no se podía decir que el tren estuviera relleno ni mucho menos. De hecho, en el grupo de cuatro sillas donde estaba Martha, no había nadie más.

De un bolso que tenía en el hombro, la mujer de 30 años sacó una tableta electrónica y empezó a leer un libro. Lo había dejado en la mitad, oportunamente cuando la joven heroína se disponía a viajar en el Orient Express.

Cuando llegaron a la siguiente parada, Martha se había aburrido de leer y había empezado a jugar un juego de colores y esferas y demás. No era una opción ver por la ventana ya que todo estaba sumido en la oscuridad, así ahora las luces de la estación iluminaran un poco el panorama.

Fue en esa estación que un hombre, tal vez cinco años mayor que ella, se sentó en el asiento de enfrente. Ella apenas lo miró por encima de la pantalla de su aparato cuando el hombre guardaba su maleta y se sentaba, él sí mirando por la ventana, hacia la oscuridad.

Martha se aburrió rápido de su juego y, por primera vez, miró a la cara de su compañero de viaje, que miraba las luces lejanas de alguna ciudad.

 - Guille?

El hombre se incorporó, como si acabara de despertarse de una siesta. Miró a Martha fijamente, entrecerrando los ojos y finalmente su cara formó una sonrisa.

 - Tata?

 - Sí, soy yo.

 - No te reconocí cuando subí.

 - Nadie pone mucha atención en los trenes - dijo ella, riendo tontamente.

Esto último no sabía porque lo hacía. De pronto se acordara de aquella época, en el colegio, en la que había coqueteado con Guille en su último año y se habían dado un beso el último día de clases, sin verse uno al otro nunca más.

 - Que has estado haciendo? No nos vemos hace mucho.

Él también recordaba el beso. Siempre le había gustado Martha pero nunca tuvo el coraje de decírselo en el colegio.

 - Pues trabajo como corredor de bolsa.

 - En serio? Debes ganar mucho dinero.

 - No me puedo quejar.

Guille se había divorciado hacía unos pocos meses e iba de camino a ver a sus hijos, que ahora vivían con la madre.

 - Y tu?

 - Voy de camino a ver unos inmuebles. Trabajo en una inmobiliaria.

 - Divertido, no?

 - A veces. Se conoce mucha clase de gente.

Ese mismo día, más temprano, Martha había entregado las llaves de una casa a una pareja bastante extraña: habían hecho preguntas del tipo "estas paredes son gruesas de verdad o se oye a través" o "el piso es fácil de limpiar".

De pronto había aparecido un hombre de la empresa ferroviaria, revisando los boletos. Martha y Guillermo le habían dado sus billetes y el hombre los había recibido alegremente, con una sonrisa e incluso una broma.

  - También te bajas en la última parada? - preguntó Guille a Martha cuando el revisor había dejado el coche.

 - Tu igual?

 - Sí. Que raro no?

Ambos estaban felices por esta coincidencia. Sentían que había algo que no se había terminado de cerrar cuando habían estado en el colegio y cada uno por su lado sabía que no había mucho que se los impidiera.

 - No estás casada...

 - Disculpa?

 - Lo siento, noté que no tienes argolla.

 - Tranquilo. Sí, no estoy casada. Nunca me casé de hecho. Tu?

 - Divorciado

Y esa pregunta desencadenó una larga conversación sobre las relaciones humanas y lo difícil que era ajustarse a otro ser humano, a veces tan diferente y otras veces tan parecido.

Martha recordó pero no habló de su más grande amor, un joven en la universidad que la cambió por una chica más bonita, de un día para otro. Guille recordó a su ex esposa y sus constantes discusiones.

La charla se alargó tanto que siguieron hablando de ello cuando el tren por fin se detenía en la última estación. Cuando salieron del vagón, caminaron juntos a la salida de la estación y rieron recordando anécdotas colegiales mientras esperaban el autobús respectivo.

La verdad era que Martha usaba otra línea de autobús, diferente a la de Guille, pero él había propuesto ir a comer algo y la vida de la mujer ya era muy monótona y negarse a una invitación como esta hubiera sido una tontería.

Mientras comían una hamburguesa, ambos pensaban en las posibilidades que la vida les ofrecía. Después de todo, coincidir en un tren parecía sacado de una romántica película del pasado.

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.

Letter for me (Part 2)

Hello you,


or should I say "me"? This is getting weirder and weirder. Yesterday I couldn't keep writing because I had to sign loads of papers and then go home and be with the family.

Not my family but the family. I still don't get how this happened. I've tried going over and over it but I keep forgetting things. Had to read yesterday's letter in order to remember about the dog! Not that anyone cares... I have a cat now, Snow or something like that. He's always very creepy appearing in weird places and looking straight at me as if he knew something I don't.

The work is not that bad though. It appears I have been a pretty good accountant and my position here seems to be very well respected. Everyone greets me when I come in the morning and they wave at lunch time. There's even a young woman that flirted with me on the elevator, by showing a little too much cleavage and biting her lower lip. It's weird but I don't think our past self likes that.

That's something else I've forgotten: I have no idea if we had a girlfriend, a wife or if we just lived alone in an apartment. I don't feel like a party boy but not like a husband or father either.

Actually, that's one of the upsides of this "reality", if you will. Linda is the tiny one. She's actually seven years old, not six as I first thought. She's a sweetheart and up to this moment she has handed me at least ten drawings done specially for me. Yesterday night I told her a bedtime story and for a moment I didn't even care about all of this. She looked so peaceful and happy...

Henry is the name of our son. He's 11 and looks more like Susan (wife) than like us. The girl is more like us, so that's why I think I like her better. The boy likes sports a lot: he was playing football with friends when I got home yesterday and Susan told me he had judo practice today. He didn't get it from me though, not past or present. I remember, and feel, that we never liked any kind of physical exercise. Furthermore, I've looked through some photo albums (telling Susan I felt like reviewing the past) and saw that in this version of us we have no interest for sports either.

Actually that move was kinda dangerous. Susan, who is quite beautiful and sweet, wanted to have sex when seeing the pictures of the wedding. To be honest, I wanted to keep watching them as I had no recollection of that ever happening. The saddest part is that I didn't recognize who Susan called "your parents". Two nice people smiling me from a picture and I have no idea of who they are...

No, I didn't have sec with her. I told her I had to get some things ready for work and just sprung out of bed. I spent almost all night wandering around my office (a fucking office in the house!) thinking of the pictures and those memories that I don't have.

I have a theory now and I want to share it with you. I believe someone has to have our memories. Probably the man that lived here woke up in our old life. I can't stop but hating him but I guess that, if he exists, he's really not to blame.

Almost no sleep is giving me a headache but it was just impossible. I've gone all through the house, the details of this life and I have no recollection of anything. I just don't know any of these people. I don't even know if we lived in this city or this country for that matter. I'm trying to teach myself how to behave and breath because I may go insane. I feel it.

Maybe that's another explanation? What if this is all a reality I've created after having a seizure or a breakdown? I think it's possible although is not a really nice thought.

To be honest, I can't say I want to go back because I keep losing more and more of that life and keep feeling obliged to do my part here. Susan, Linda and Henry have no fault in this and I can't keep but thinking about their reaction if I told them about this.

Man, I know your are me. But this is the only way to keep me sane. At least until I start to get all of this, at least a bit more.

Well, time to go. Some big shot invited me to lunch and I had to say yes. I guess that's what this guy is all about.


Keep it real,

Alex.


P.S: Don't you think it's weird we are named Alex in both versions? That makes me crazy.

Stop

Work, work, work. Break. Some coffee, by the window. Work, work, work. Another coffee, now walking to someone else's office. Work, work, work. Lunch time.

This is it. His time has come to opt out of everything he has always seen as he's life. This is no life.

Instead of eating with the same person he has always done so for the last 3 years, this man decides to go home and pack.

Where to go? Not important. But life's grip is tightening to much and he cannot keep fighting it.

Some shirts, couple of pants, two pairs of shoes and some underwear. That should be enough. He takes his passport, in the eventuality of traveling abroad. There are no real plans about where to go but that's precisely the idea.

He checks his phone: no calls, no messages, nothing. Better, he thinks, if they believe he's running late or has had some kind of problem.

Takes the backpack and walks to the door. After closing properly, he pushes the elevator's button and then a woman, older than him but still beautiful, stands closely. Her hair is messy, she even appears to be missing a day or two of careful grooming.

He looks at her big running pants and old shirt. There appears to be a lot of dust on her shoulders.

- It's taking quite long. - she says.

- Yeah... - he answers, no idea what's she's talking about.

No, he doesn't like to chat with strangers. But she does.

- You live here? - she asks.

- Leaving for some weeks.

Why he answered that, he has no idea. He's starting to sweat.

- I'm moving in. So weird to move from another city.

- Must be.

He really doesn't want to talk.

- Am I making you uncomfortable? - she asks, looking at him.

He cleans  some of the sweat off his forehead. He decides not to say a word.

- Sorry, I tend to over talk. Guess I'm nervous for the new job and everything.

Then something clicks inside his mind, like a key entering the keyhole.

He turns to her, watching her honey colored eyes and says:

- Don't you get fucking trapped by that job, ok?

He's dead serious. She knows it.

- Never become a zombie like they want you to be. Think for yourself, even if they don't give a fuck about it.

- Ok.

He falls silent.

She suddenly says he has remembered something at home and leaves, without saying a word.

The elevator arrives. He comes in and tightens the backpack.

As the door closes, he faintly smiles, rising his head, finally feeling as a real free man.

La casa de ladrillo

Ya estaba sentado en el sofá, sonriendo, viéndolos reír. Contaban sus historias uno a uno, dándose momentos para reflexionar, para preguntar, para reír de nuevo o para hacer silencio. Era como si lo hubiesen hecho así durante tanto tiempo que romper la rutina ya no era una posibilidad.

Me removía en mi asiento, algo incomodo por estar en un lugar en el que jamás había puesto un pie. Pero no solo era esta la razón, la verdad era que mi anfitrión, el dueño de la casa de ladrillo, era alguien que me inquietaba pero a la vez me llamaba la atención.

No recuerdo bien como ni donde nos conocimos. Lo único que sé es que ese día estaba allí, con su familia y con él, contando historias como si nos conociéramos de hace años.

Las pocas veces que me miraba, mientras su familia compartía otros recuerdos entre ellos, sentía que su mente se adentraba en mi, como si se tratara de un veneno. Su mirada no era verdaderamente aterradora pero si sobrecogía con facilidad, poniéndome la piel de gallina.

Estaban sus abuelos, sus padres, su hermana y los hijos de ella. Y yo. Y él.

La noche llegó a la casa de ladrillo y su madre y hermana habían preparado algo de comer. En todo ese tiempo me sentía como un fantasma. Ellos poco me miraban y muchos menos me hablaban. El único que me perforaba con la mirada, a ratos, era él, el dueño de la casa.

Ya tarde su familia se fue a dormir pero yo me había quedado en la sala de estar, sin nada que hacer. Como siempre en estos casos, no sabía muy bien que hacer ni adonde ir o, viendo el caso, si debería irme.

De pronto se me acercó, me tomó de la mano, y me llevó debajo de la casa. El sótano no era muy amplio y olía a humedad. Me haló ligeramente hacia a un lado y entonces lo vi.

Había un espacio en la pared. No era excavado como los de las películas de fugas sino un pasillo, de ladrillo como la casa, que llevaba hacia algún otro lado.

Sin decir nada, me soltó la mano y se adentró en el pasillo. Traté de seguirlo por el estrecho corredor pero apenas toqué la piedra roja, varios pensamientos atacaron mi mente. Pero no eran pensamientos míos.

Imágenes de mi anfitrión se mezclaban con escenas borrosas y oscuras de gritos y quejidos, gemidos y respiraciones aceleradas. No eran mis pensamientos, eran sus recuerdos.

Me dejé caer al piso y estiré la mano para alcanzarlo pero ya estaba muy lejos dentro del corredor y yo no podía moverme. Las imágenes me habían causado un gran dolor de cabeza y no había manera de detenerlo.

Sin querer me apoyé en el muro y, de nuevo, sus recuerdos atacaron mi mente. Esta vez vi sangre, sentí el dolor de sus víctimas y sus gritos me perforaban los tímpanos.

Me empecé a golpear con fuerza la cabeza, buscando expulsar las oscuras imágenes de mi mente. Pero solo logré hacer retumbar mi mente con los dolorosos sentimientos que no me dejaban.

De pronto, sentí como si un demonio se apoderara de mi. Seguí golpeándome para expulsarlo a él y a los sombríos productos de mi atormentado ser. Me golpee la cara, el pecho, el estomago y mi pelvis.

Caí al piso sangrando, y ahí, por fin, todo terminó. Al poco tiempo retomé mi vida, todavía sintiendo en mi al terrible hombre de la casa de ladrillo.

The Celestials

I laid there and they came in, down the mountain, pass the stream.

Four, maybe five, walked slowly down the hill. Their limbs moving slightly as their legs transported their big, illuminated bodies closer to me.

No, they're not beings of light: they are made of stars. The deep black skin feels like a familiar fabric, their heads forming a beak and the back arched as if they've had to carry heavy burdens for far too long.

The time is short, but sweet. We hug and we play, all around the meadow and in an old ship, reminiscing of pirates that have never been here.

I never ask where they come from or why do they come to me. The happiness and comfort I feel being besides them prevents me from asking to many questions that do not need to be answered.

More people come down the mountain and join us. I do not know them or maybe  I do but it doesn't matter. The meadow feels like a safe place to be and maybe that's why we're all here.

Then, when standing against the sunlight, I can see a glimpse of who this being once was: a young, tall man. Hair the color of wheat and skin as pale as the moon. Who is he? Again, it doesn't matter.

The creatures stand by us, watch us laugh and eat and play and live. But they, the beings of celestial stuff, remain still, as if moving too much or too fast may break them. And we don't push for them to do anything they don't want to. Because, if they break, we break too.

No eyes to pierce with mine but I still try to see it again, the boy inside the stars. But there's nothing, only the thick blackness of space, splattered with millions of beautiful bright stars and galaxies, quasars and pulsars.

No... Not now... The moment has come when they begin to disappear, as mysteriously as they first came down the mountain. I try to grab his hand but there's nothing to grab anymore.

I wake up, in peace, but still worried. As I stand up, feeling the sheets off my body and the feel of the ground below my feet, there's a thought that dares not to live me.

I never had the chance to say "Thank you". For protecting me in the forever land of shadows, for taking care of my wounded body.

Slowly, my mind begins to erase the feelings and the thoughts done during the dream. But his face, the universal one, stays with me to fight the scolding light of reality.