No eres la persona apropiada

Palabras que he oído, o más bien leído más de una vez.

Me tienen cansado pero no haya nada que hacer al respecto.

Las tendré que oír una y otra vez, y más que eso,

hasta que las deje de escuchar o las ignore de alguna manera.

Elegí escribir en estilo de poesía hoy por capricho,

Pues no sé nada de poesía y se nota.

Pero me dio por este lado porque la frustración,

Toma formas que a veces no entendemos pero así son.

No prentendo que a nadie le gusten estas palabras

Pues la mayoría de las personas ya tiene la vida arreglada,

Sea por convicción propia o por la de otros.

Los felicito por eso.

Escribir no tiene porqué tener sentido y por eso he elegido hoy,

esta manera y por este medio, decirles lo que pienso y siento.

Pero lo que pienso no puedo revelarlo por completo,

Y lo que siento es imposible hacerlo entender con exactitud.

Volviendo a lo anterior, tengo que decir que he decidido,

Con mucha convicción y con pocas opciones,

Que no puedo vivir así para siempre

Pero que tampoco puedo darme por vencido.

Eso de darse por vencido tiene muchas maneras de ser,

Así que si lo hago debo de tomar el camino más fácil,

Porque no tendría mucho sentido dejarse vencer

De una manera que lo desafie a uno una vez más.

Ya ni sé lo que estoy diciendo, nunca lo tengo claro.

Lo que si es como un cristal, sincero y simple,

Es el hecho de que no sé que hacer y al mismo tiempo

Sé perfectamente cual es la única manera de salir de este estado.

Ojalá fuera tan simple todo, como con los demás,

Porque o todos lo tienen simple o todos son actores excelentes.

No me importa porque al fin y al cabo no viven mi vida,

Que es la que me interesa por obvias razones.

Además está eso de imaginarme cosas cuando me voy a dormir,

Y eso no puede ser sano, de ninguna manera.

Sobre todo cuando no hay razones para tanta soñadera,

Ni por mucha imaginación que tenga y tengo.

Sentir el calor de otra persona sería lo mejor

Pero no quiero arrastrar a nadie a mi mundo.

No sería justo hacer algo así, pues nadie más tiene culpa.

Prefiero ser solo yo que cargar con peso extra.

 Hay quienes dicen que eso no es decisión mía,

Que el amor llega así de una manera que uno…

El caso, que llega y ya. Pero es todo mentira.

Nunca sucede en lo que uno no cree.

Eso del amor a primera vista, o como le quieran llamar,

Es un montón de babosadas para darnos esperanzas.

Supongo que yo ya no tengo de esas.

Y al fin fin y al cabo, ¿a quien carajos le importa?

Ciertamente no a mi. No puedo dejar que todo importe,

No demasiado pues es un arma de doble filo.

Ni el amor ni el trabajo ni nada puede llegar tan hondo,

Pues si eso sucede podría ser fatal o peor.

Puede que eso suene demasiado dramatico,

Pero yo que culpa tengo que si así son las cosas.

Y no me molesta serlo pues es lo que hay,

Y soy bueno exagerando y con las tonterías.

Ese mundo de los sueños al que me meto seguido,

Es uno que me da un lugar tranquilo que visitar.

Creo que es necesario para no enloquecer,

Para poder persistir, seguir aquí.

No los aburro más con todo este sin sentido.

Elegí este día festivo para escribir así, raro.

Raro para mí en todo caso.

Espero que no haya sido demasiado.

Y bueno, si fue demasiado, ustedes tomaron la decisión.

Ahora ya saben que se siente.

Those voices

   I was awake, of that I’m sure. My eyes were open, I was kind of seating, kind of lying on my back while I had my laptop over my lap. I had turned it on only a few minutes before. So, I’m certain I was awake, there was no other way. As I wrote on the keyboard, I realized I could hear voices. Often, it would be someone talking by the window, on the outside of the building. It happened all the time and it always felt as if those people were inside my room, just chatting about something.

 But this time, the voices didn’t seem to come from outside. Actually, I was very certain that wasn’t the case because the voices coming from below the window always had the same tone, whatever the voice. This time, it felt as if he voices were coming from inside the building. I could hear them increasing their volume, as if they were approaching me but that wasn’t possible. The nearest someone not from my family, being inside the building, had to be several meters away.

 Besides, there were two closed doors and a couple of walls to go through, so the voices shouldn’t have been come so clear. It was as if they were clearing their throats and now the voices were just perfect, clean and powerful. What was worst, the voices weren’t speaking anything in particular, or at least it didn’t seem that way. What was really awful was the fact that they started singing, like a choir. They were all male voices and they were very potent, professional in a way.

 They sang a song with no real words, only loud sounds perfectly executed with their voices. They did it perfectly but that seemed to me even creepier, because if they had made a mistake, I would have known they were just people rehearsing some awful song or something. But no, that didn’t happen. Instead, the voices kept increasing their volume. By the end of their song, I was surprised none of my family members came to my room to ask what was going on.

 Later, much later in the day, I would learn that no one else had heard anything like I had heard. I felt a little bit crazy, because I didn’t think the voices had any supernatural backgrounds. I mean, they were just voices. Yes, they were not behaving very normally, but there was nothing that spectacular or unusual about them, except maybe the unique weirdness of the song. They had to be coming from actual people but I found it hard to believe that voices could be heard so clearly inside my room, when they were apparently coming from inside the building.

 There was the possibility I was mistaken. Maybe the voices did come from outside and I just thought that wasn’t the case. It always happens that the mind chooses a certain way and it seems impossible that the opposite one could be true but that doesn’t mean it isn’t. Maybe some group of men was rehearsing something near my home and the voices were carried in some way that I don’t know how to understand. Maybe it was one of those natural things that are complicated to explain.

 I’m not the kind of person that believes in voices from the grave or something like that. I respect the dead and everything around them, so much so that I prefer not to go to graveyards and funeral homes unless I absolutely have to. It’s not because of fear but because all those rites are normally linked to a religion and I find myself feeling like a hypocrite in the middle of all that. Besides, the people crying and that entire aura that surrounds dead people, it’s really not for me.

 In any case, none of that explains the voices I heard. What was worse, I later remembered that I had been woken up by a sound earlier that day. Maybe three hours before I actually woke up. The sound must have been louder than a whisper or I wouldn’t have heard it. But I did. And then I heard it again. It was a voice. I don’t remember what it said but it was only one person, not a group like it would happen later. I wish I remembered what he said… I fell asleep a few seconds after.

 So I heard voices twice on the same day. The most likely reason for all of this, besides the voices been of a natural source, is that I may be going crazy. This may sound funny or just stupid to many people, but I actually believe I might be going insane. It’s clearly not normal to hear things that aren’t there. And I don’t believe in the paranormal. Besides, ghost speaking in broad daylight with no other backup “occurrences”? Doesn’t seem to be in line with all those things people claim about ghosts.

 Maybe I am going crazy. I have reasons to and it’s certainly not uncommon for a crazy person to hear voices. They all come from their heads, being a certain version of themselves. They are their own inner demons, created by their illness to torture them. Maybe that’s what I have, maybe that explains everything. I don’t want to keep this story going longer because there’s nothing much to say except that I’m very scared for my mental health. Headaches are almost a daily thing and my life is not really going anywhere. Could anyone blame me if I went insane?

 Damn. Here they are again.

Lo más horrible

   El dolor corporal al momento de levantarse ya se había vuelto costumbre. Alicia había decidido no tomar medicamentos para todo y por eso ahora tenía que vivir con todos sus dolores y molestias, día y noche. Era peor en las mañanas, apenas se despertaba. No era solo la pereza de ponerse de pie como tal, sino el dolor de pies a cabeza que no la dejaba vivir en paz por algunos minutos. Tenía que respirar lentamente e ir reconociendo cada parte de su cuerpo, como si fuera nuevo.

 Esta técnica se la había enseñado el señor Páez, el sicólogo que había visitado durante un año después del incidente. Por supuesto, sus dolores no habían sido el punto de discusión de la mayoría de sus sesiones, pero había sido tratado porque él creía que todo lo que pasara con Alicia tenía algo que ver con lo que había ocurrido hacía ya cinco años, en esa casa de campo que Carlos había alquilado de repente, sin consultarle. Páez le atribuía todo a ese momento en su vida y ella no sabía si eso era lo correcto.

 En la casa de campo había vivido uno de los peores momentos que puede sufrir cualquier persona. No es fácil ver como la persona amada, la que es más cercana a uno, se quita la vida de un momento a otro, de una manera tan sencilla como si se tratara de tomar agua o de echarla mantequilla al pan. Pasó todo tan rápido que uno no pensaría que las consecuencias fueran tan grandes pero lo fueron porque Alicia terminó en un hospital siquiátrico y en visitas con el doctor.

 Ahora ya no iba. En parte porque se suponía que ya no lo necesitaba pero también porque no quería que de verdad su vida revoloteara alrededor de ese único hecho trágico en su vida. Era algo importante pero no podía convertirse en el punto focal de todo. Al fin y al cabo, Alicia había estado bastante bien por los últimos años. Había dejado de tener crisis nerviosas y ya no hablaba con paredes ni nada parecido. Era su mejor momento en años y no lo iba a dañar por tonterías.

 No que fuera una tontería el dolor de cuerpo tan horrible que siempre la invadía en las mañanas. Muy al contrario, ella pensaba que era lo único que de verdad la amarraba contra el pasado. Lo grave de verdad era cuando, ocasionalmente, tenía problemas con alguna visión al azar que ocurría cuando estaba en la casa arreglando cosas o sin mucho que pensar. Le pasaba que veía a Carlos de nuevo, parado frente a ella como si nada, solo que su cara se veía reventada por la explosión del disparo de un revolver. Alicia antes gritaba al ver esa imagen. Ahora solo se daba la vuelta y la ignoraba.

 No era algo frecuente pero había decidido no decírselo a nadie o medio mundo armaría un lío con ello. La verdad era que a ella le parecía muy normal verlo a él de vez en cuando, pues lo pensaba mucho y, muy dentro de sí misma, parecía seguirlo queriendo a pesar de todo. Por eso lo reconocía cuando aparecía pero si era con la herida de muerte, sabía que se trataba de una manera de torturarla a ella, de meter un tenedor en su herida abierta y girarlo, esperando que se retorciera en el piso.

 Pero eso no era algo propio de Alicia. Ella no era de las mujeres que se dejan atropellar por esas cosas de la vida. A pesar de su estadía en el hospital y de sus visitas al sicólogo, ella tenía una día a día normal con trabajo y todo lo demás. Veía a sus familiares con frecuencia pero no tanto como para que empezaran a preguntarle cosas que sabían muy bien que estaban fuera de los limites. Siempre tenían cuidado con decir las cosas correctas porque Alicia podía molestarse con facilidad.

 A veces podía suceder con ver la televisión, otras veces solo con escuchar alguna palabra en la calle. Debía controlarse durante la mayor cantidad de tiempo posible para poder llegar a casa, el único lugar en el que de verdad podía sentirse tranquila. Normalmente se servía un vaso de agua con hielo y lo tomaba en silencio para irse calmando lentamente. Era la única manera de calmarse y de poder controlar todo lo que tenía en la cabeza, que era bastante más de lo que había pensado nunca.

Era obvio que el doctor Páez se había equivocado de cabo a rabo. Alicia seguía tan mal como siempre pero había aprendido a decir las cosas correctas así como a manejarse a si misma de manera que nadie pudiese pensar que había algo malo con ella. Se había vuelto una experta en mentir, en el lenguaje corporal y autocontrol. De hecho, si el doctor hubiese sabido lo que ella hacía, lo más probable es que la hubiese aplaudido porque ni el más experto hubiese podido ver a través de su engaño.

 Pero eso era cosa del pasado. Ya no volvería a las consultas porque simplemente sabía que nada sería arreglado por ese medio. Nadie se recupera de un día para otro después de ver a la persona que más aman con una pistola apuntándoles al cráneo, para luego ver en una suerte de cámara lenta como el barril del arma gira y de pronto toda la cabeza de esa persona parece estallar por todas partes. El cuerpo parece seguir vivo unos momentos pero es una ilusión. Lo único que existe es el grito desgarrador de la mujer frente al hombre que amó.

 Cuando volvió al apartamento, quitó todas las fotos que había de él. No quería que cada imagen le recordara ese horrible momento. Evitaba mencionarlo en público y la gente respetó eso, así algunos no estuviesen de acuerdo. Por supuesto que no se lo decían de viva voz, pero creían que era más sano afrontar el tema y no fingir que una persona tan importante para su vida había desaparecido de pronto, casi como en un truco de magia. Parecía tener poco respecto por la memoria del muerto.

 Pero el respeto no era algo en lo que ella pensara muy a menudo. Su misión número uno era no tener que luchar cada segundo de su vida con ese momento, no ver una y otra vez esa horrible imagen frente a sus ojos, como si se tratase de una vieja película que se queda estancada en un punto determinado. Nunca iba a olvidar pero eso no quería decir que estuviese obligada a someterse a ese momento de su vida para siempre. Por eso eligió hacer lo que hizo y así tratar de encontrar paz.

 Apenas tomada la decisión fue cuando empezaron los dolores de cuerpo. Por ellos sí fue al médico, que le recetó un botiquín entero de medicamentos. Pero ella los tiró por el lavabo apenas llegó a casa, porque no quería vivir atrapada por las drogas, no quería vivir en un mundo donde no fuese ella la que tenía el control. Tenía mucho miedo de que al suprimir el dolor físico, el mental volviera con mucha más fuerza que antes. Por eso todos los días se aguantaba, lo mejor que pudiera.

 Al fin y al cabo era algo que ya tenía dominado. El resto de su vida era un trabajo fácil que le pagaba lo suficientemente bien para vivir y el hecho de tener que visitar a sus familiares con frecuencia, en parte porque solo los tenía a ellos y en parte porque seguramente querían saber si ella seguía bien, sin episodios violentos ni nada de eso. La visita semanal a casa de su madre era tan importante por esas razones y porque era otro lugar que la calmaba y la hacía sentirse tranquila.

 Pero aún así, al menos una vez por semana también, lo veía a él en algún lugar de la casa. A veces estaba en el comedor, a veces en la cocina o incluso en el baño. El pobre siempre mira al vacío, al suelo, y nunca a Alicia que solo lo observa unos segundos.

  Menos veces ocurre lo de aparecerse con su cuerpo después del disparo. Esas veces Alicia da la vuelta y se aleja lo que más puede. Prende el televisor, la radio y trata de reír para no gritar. Empuja hasta el fondo todo lo que no puede dejar salir, bajo ninguna circunstancia.

No one

   The floor was cold and the room was very humid. No light entered the tiny space where he was trapped. He had forgotten his name long ago, maybe because of the many beatings he had received or maybe because it wasn’t something that was important anymore. A name didn’t help anyone survive such a horrible thing. Then again, he wasn’t sure he wanted to survive. He just wanted his awful situation to change, one way or the other, it didn’t matter at all.

 All the days were the same so remembering each one individually was difficult and also useless. There was no point in having a good memory when the schedule every day was the same: early in the morning he would be woken up by a plate of water sliding towards him or by cold water coming out of a hose. It apparently depended on the humor of his captor. Then, he was kept there all day unless his captor wanted something else from else, usually to work for him in the most awful way.

 He would knew it was a “work” day when an old mattress was put inside his cell, alongside the water plate and also some food. The food was never good, some sticky stuff that looked like mashed potatoes, but wasn’t exactly that. He ate it anyway but his stomach always complained. Those days, he would have to wait all day until his captor’s client would come. It was and excruciating wait that didn’t get better after it all ended. Of course, he wouldn’t see any of the money the client paid.

 Actually, he had never seen the face of the man that had kidnapped him and kept him there. He always wore a ski mask, so he had no idea what his face was like. But what he did know was that he was a very strong individual. After many beatings, using both punches and kicks, the captured had learned how heavy the captor’s body was. He had an incredible force in his arms and legs, probably because he exercised a lot. But the man was losing his eyesight living in the dark, so he could only go by what he felt was the truth.

 The beatings took place randomly. It was the only thing in his cell life that changed and, of course, it wasn’t something he would look forward to. When it happened, it almost felt like part of a sick and awful routine that had survived for far too long. The man in the cell knew he had been there for a long time but he had no idea how long that was. More than a year? Probably. Five years? Maybe, he didn’t really know. What was true was the fact that the violent man would never use him as the clients did, which the captured always thought was strange.

 But that was only when he wondered about his situation, which was really that often. Instead, he loved to sleep. It was the only way his body felt actually rested and, when he managed to sleep long hours, he was able to dream. Even when nightmares slipped in, it was a good thing for him. After all, he had forgotten what having an imagination was like and seeing all those images that make no sense inside of his head was a sign that there was still hope for him, in a very sad way.

 In the dreams, he was sometimes free. Not every time and that was very strange. One would think that his obsession was to be free in the world. But a recurring dream happened to be a redecoration of his cell, with more light and nice furniture, as if he was restoring his childhood bedroom, which he didn’t really remember anymore. When he dreamt of freedom, it always ended on a stark note, like a remainder that he wasn’t really free and that he might never be free again.

 What he did want, at least judging by his dreams, was to be able to talk to someone. Once, he did have the chance to do so, when another person was locked in a cell beside him. He had thought for long that he was alone wherever he was and that discovery was the best for him. Except the other person was not very interested in talking, instead crying and demanding an explanation to why they were there. Soon enough, their captor moved that other person somewhere or who knows.

 Voices were rarely heard. In their daily routine, not the captor or the captured would talk, even when one would pull the other by the hair or when the beating was especially brutal. No words were heard, as it was an unspoken rule to actually say something. It was better not to taunt danger, not more that was usual. So words were something inside their brains, wondering around and trying to get out in any way possible. He was afraid he would forget how to talk and behave.

 Many of his dreams and nightmares were an exercise on precisely that, trying not to forget every single thing about himself. He would sometimes remember, for example, the faces of his family. He knew who they were but not their names. It didn’t matter because “mother” was “mother” not matter what. So were “father” and “sister” and “brother”. He would normally wake up soaked in tears when he dreamt about all of them but, in a certain way, it was worth it. Because he still remembered, which meant he hadn’t been completely broken down.

 A day came in which his captor did not come. For an entire day, the poor man was locked in that cell with no water or anything that would indicate the presence of another human being. It felt pathetic and sick but he wanted the man to come and, at least, smack hard. At least that felt real, it felt as if it was happening. But having no one, deep in the dark, was very cruel, even more than the usual. That happened for what seemed like an eternity, but were actually five days.

 Then, someone did open the door. He would normally raise his head and wait for the captor to get close but he couldn’t do that anymore. He was too weak, feeling sick and preferring to sleep and dream about something less depressing. With his eyes tightly closed, he dreamt about an enormous bird carrying him to a magical land that was made of many colors and shapes. He hadn’t dreamt hat before and it was the happiest moment for him in a long time, as he felt loved, in way.

 He woke up several more days later. When he did, it was very dark, like in his room, but he realized he wasn’t there anymore. There was a machine besides him making a sound and he was lying on nice mattress, with clean covers and sheets. He saw the light from a corridor near him but, as his head felt too heavy to bear, he fell asleep again. The last thing he would hear were the steps of several people passing by his room. Or that was what he thought it was, he wasn’t sure.

 When he woke up again, it was day. A thick curtain diminished the light, which was a good thing because the sunlight felt like acid on his skin. He felt very tired but also dry and clumsy. A nurse came in and brought a drink in a bag with a straw. By the flavor, it was obvious it wasn’t water but it didn’t taste bad at all, so the formerly captured man drank it all. The nurse didn’t say a word the time she was there. And he wanted her to tell him something, anything at all.

 However, he would have words to share the following days as doctors and policemen visited him. The first group told him what his physical state was. To sum it up, it wasn’t good but he would be able to recuperate in the future, he just needed to be patient. Go figure.

 The second group, the enforcers of the law, explained to him his captor had been killed by one of his clients and that crime had led them to the cell. Apparently the client was mad because the captor hadn’t let him stay with the man in the cell when he wanted. He never understood that part.