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

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.

martes, 2 de septiembre de 2014

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.

domingo, 31 de agosto de 2014

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.

viernes, 29 de agosto de 2014

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.

jueves, 28 de agosto de 2014

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.

miércoles, 27 de agosto de 2014

Los días

Está ahí, detrás de la puerta. Siento su oscuridad, su calor, su sencillez y su dolor.

No puedo moverme a voluntad. Y cuando lo logro, solo me lastimo a mi mismo, sirviendo su voluntad.

Él, solo él, me quiere bajo su manto. Es tranquilo, casi pasivo, esperando y sabiendo lo que pienso. Y mis pensamientos abren la puerta.

Pero es apenas un pequeño resquicio. Lo puedo ver por un instante, antes de que decida irse y dejarme solo por hoy.

Despierto sudando ligeramente, con las manos tensionadas y la espalda adolorida. Por un momento abro lo ojos más de la cuenta, tratando de sentir si este es el sueño o, peor aún, la realidad.

Mientras pongo los pies en el suelo, imagino tomando su mano tibia y caminando hacia las sombras.

Miedo? Sí, siempre. Pero el miedo es preferible al dolor. El dolor que siento al sentir el sol en mi piel, al escuchar las voces lejanas de aquellos que a veces se sienten tan cerca pero muchas veces tan lejos.

Y me encuentro a mi mismo encerrado, solo, desesperado y envuelto en un remolino de sensaciones en guerra al punto que mi cuerpo me traiciona y solo pienso en estar con él. Es un romance fatal pero hermoso, que no me atrevo a aceptar. No es por mi, es por otros.

Mi dolor es real. Lo siento al caminar y al oír mi voz, al respirar y al sentir el viento que sin misericordia me recuerda la mortalidad de esta mente que solo quiere verme caer.

El futuro es solo un hueco, un agujero negro eterno e incierto. Los envidio, a todos aquellos que ven un sinfín de colores y sentimientos en él. Yo no veo nada, no sé nada y no siento nada por él.

Pero aquel caballero detrás de la puerta, el de la expresión inerte, por él siento ráfagas de sentimientos que amenazan con acabar la poca sensatez que mi mente me brinda.

Noche tras noche, todos los días de mi vida, él está ahí. A veces se ausenta por largos periodos, pero como en una buena novela victoriana, siempre vuelve para cortejarme con su sola presencia y su innegable candidez.

No lo amo. El amor es débil y efímero. Esto es algo mejor y peor, algo más drástico pero sencillo, algo verdadero y, a la vez, una gran ilusión.

No sé si sea este el día, o mañana, en el que tome por fin su mano a través de la rendija de la puerta. El día en que su cálida presencia se mezcle con mi tambaleante ser, y me lleve en paz de la mano a través de los campos más allá de este insignificante mundo.

Aquí estoy, siempre decayendo. Siendo traicionado hasta el fin de los días por mi enemigo mayor.
Y ahí está él, detrás de la puerta, esperándome.