No dreams, as usual

This time, it had been too much for him. It wasn't the first time a client got rough, many of them liked it that way and he had no other way than accepting it, as it generally meant a better pay.

But this time, it had been too much. Even just after he left, he already felt sick to his stomach, not being able to eat or drink anything. Despite having another appointment, Micky went straight to his house and lay in his bed. He fell asleep fast and had a horrible nightmare, filled with shadowy creatures and an endless labyrinth.

When he woke up, he thought had wet the bed as he felt the covers very wet. He felt ashamed and sat down to see the damage and then almost screamed but he contained it: it wasn't pee but blood. He was bleeding profusely and the blankets were all covered.

He decided to put the blankets on a plastic bag. He would decide to throw them or to clean them later. After that he decided to shower and clean the blood off his body. He felt awful. Micky's job was difficult and had always had that hard part on one side. He try to stay clear off that, being a nice person, trying to please every costumer and make them do as he wanted and not as they wanted.

But that obviously did not work always. Many wanted to take control, to feel they had the upper hand of the situation. And Micky complied because he didn't want more trouble.

In the shower, the water was tainted by blood for a long while. He finally decided, against every fiber in his body, to go to the hospital. He had always sought to avoid any help or going to places where they would ask too many questions.

But this time it appeared to be different. The blood stopped for a while and then came back. He put on two pieces of underwear and an tore apart an old scarf to put in there, as a diaper. He grabbed his bus card and went out.

He was there in under an hour. He didn't live to close from things, having to save all the money he had. He calculated every single expense and gain, even keeping his accounting in a book. It had to be done, with this kind of life.

In the hospital, he told the nurse in a very low register, what was happening. She told him to go over Emergencies and wait there to be greeted by a doctor. Luckily, not many people were waiting there although most appeared to have wounds related to street fights or domestic violence. After all, it was only 4 AM.

A young female doctor said his name out loud and Micky followed her to one of the many stretchers in a big room. It looked more crowded in there, some patients still there, sleeping or waiting for their meds to work.

The lady doctor was young. Micky thought she may have been younger than him. She greeted him with a smile and asked for his problem. He told her of the hemorrhage he had and she asked him to strip down. He complied and lied down on his stomach, as she threw away the piece of old scarf and took a look at the injuries.

 - What happened? - she asked. She sounded a bit alarmed.

Micky decided not to lie. That would only make her ask more questions that he didn't want to answer right now. He told her about his job and how that happened.

 - Well, you have to get stitches and... - she stopped. Apparently not being able to go on.
 - What?

The woman doubted for a moment but finally asked:

 - Was it consensual?

Micky did not answer right away but he finally said "Yes". She then said that was ok, but that the hospital rules obligated her to test him and see if he had any infections, diseases and internal injuries, for it to be deemed rape or not.

 - No, it wasn't that.
 - I have to. Sorry, it's procedure.

He was too exhausted. She gave him a shoot in order to get him to sleep while she did the stitches but then he felt something weird and heard a scream but far, as if it had happened far away. His sight was blurry. He closed his eyes but didn't open them for hours.

When he woke up, he was in proper hospital bedroom. He shared it with two more patients but it was an improvement on that stretcher. He heard things close and far, his head was spinning and finally the pain kicked it, hard.

All his genital region, everything between waist and thighs felt as if it was on fire and burning fast. The pain was unbearable and he started to scream. One of the other patients woke up and a nurse came running in, injecting something into a bag that was connected to him. He suddenly calm down, the pain going away. And he fell asleep again.

He woke up again and it was already dark outside. He could hear his neighbor snoring and the other bed was already empty. His doctor, the young woman, came in and stood there by him.

 - How do you feel?
 - Like shit.

 She laughed. Micky smiled, it was the best he could do.

 - You started bleeding when I injected you the first time. It was way worse that I initially thought so  we had to get you to the operation room. It was an hour or so. You were damaged, a lot. The rape kit  wasn't necessary.

When Micky heard that, he instantly sat on the bed but that proved to be a stupid idea. The pain kicked in again and he went back to his lying position.

 - What do you mean?
 - We found internal injuries, big ones. We had to give you some morphine, that's why you are now  drowsy, I presume.

He nodded. He did feel strange, as if floating or something.

 - It wasn't consensual, was it?

He looked at her eyes but had no urge to answer the question.

 - When can I leave?
 - Not yet. We have some exams we need.
 - I have no money.
 - Let's cross that bridge when we have to. Just rest.

And he did. He fell asleep fast and his sleep was dreamless, which suited him fine.

He was in the hospital for three more days until they finally decided he was good to go. But before he could leave, he had to meet the lady doctor again, for a small check up.

It was weird to have a woman looking at his ass but he didn't care now, after al of this. She asked him to pull up his pants and sit down. She said the results of the exams were good: they had not found infections or diseases. No AIDS, no gonorrhea. Nothing.

She then started speaking about paying the bill. Of course, Micky had no money to do that but then she told him she had being able to put him on a program payed by the city, which sought to help sex workers when being attacked. The city would pay the bill but she needed an arm and a leg.

 - I need you to sign a paper saying it was a rape. And you have to denounce this person to the police.  Otherwise, I cannot help you with the bill.

Micky shed a tear, and then two and so on. He did not know what to do. He just grabbed his bill and ran out of the doctor's office. He had some money saved, to buy a small apartment. He had been working for years and he had been careful with his finances. But this hospital thing was going to take his dreams, the few he had, away from him.

He did pay, however. He had to. He never heard from the lady doctor again and, when he was in good health, he started working again.

When getting home from the first job after his stay at the hospital, Micky remembered the conversation he had with the doctor. He felt her eyes on him again. He could hear all the questions as if she was there but this time his answer was "No".

He hugged his pillow and cried in silence until he fell asleep. Again, no dreams, as was usual.

Soy mis calzoncillos

La puerta se abrió de golpe y entraron los dos. Ella casi se cae pero se sostuvo de la pared mientras él abría la puerta. Siguieron besándose de camino a la habitación, mientras al piso caían diferentes prendas de ropa como chaquetas y camisas.

Cuando llegaron a la cama solo quedaban los pantalones y ella se los quitó a él, pensando que sería algo muy sexy, algo realmente atractivo y único. Pero cuando le bajó la cremallera se dio cuenta de lo que había debajo.

No, no se trataba del pene del hombre. Eso era de esperarse. Era su ropa interior. La mujer trató de seguir con besos y demás pero simplemente no pudo, era como si un muro invisible se lo impidiera.

Decidió confesarle al chico que ella tenía novio y que en ese momento sentía una culpa que no la dejaba proseguir con lo que habían empezado. Se vistió rápidamente y se fue, sin decir más. No lo dejó pedir un taxi para que llegará segura a casa. De hecho, él ni tenía su número. Iba a ser algo de una noche pero resultó no ser nada.

Después de aliviar su afán por intimidad, el chico pensó antes de dormir que no era fácil de explicar lo que había pasado. La chica había abierto el pantalón y ahí todo había terminado. Pensaba ella que tenía un pene pequeño o tal vez sí había sido lo del novio? Al fin y al cabo, pensaba él, las mujeres podían ser muy sensibles y de pronto había cedido ante sus sentimientos de amor y cariño por eso otro tipo.

El hombre se quedó dormido rápidamente pero al otro día recordó lo sucedido a un amigo. Este opinaba que la chica seguramente había sentido culpa. En la sociedad actual todo el mundo sentía culpa por todo y de pronto ella había cedido a eso sentimientos. No era tanto por su novio sino por sentir que estaba haciendo algo malo.

El chico tenía 29 años y todavía no creía que fueran los sentimientos la razón por la que esa chica había salido casi corriendo de su casa. Para ser honesto y exacto, ya había pasado eso con anterioridad. No con tanta frecuencia pero de vez en cuando, cuando todo estaba a punto de pasar, la chica se echaba para atrás y simplemente se iba.

Una de esas veces, la chica había reído, se había tapado la boca, se disculpó y salió corriendo. Este recuerdo le hizo penar que sabía cual era el problema y decidió hacer algo drástico que nunca había pensado hacer: hizo una cita con el urólogo.

Nunca había ido a un especialista. De hecho nunca había ido a un médico desde hacía unos cinco años, cuando se había insolado tras estar en la playa por varias horas. Y esa vez solo había necesitado de una crema especial. Esta vez era una consulta y le preocupaba mucho el resultado, como a cualquier hombre seguramente.

El día de la cita no sabía que ponerse, sentía que iba a una cita a ciegas. Al fin y al cabo el hombre iba a tocar sus partes privadas. Aunque no iba a salir con él... En que estaba pensando?

Llegó algo tarde y la enfermera lo hizo pasar de inmediato. El doctor era un hombre de unos cuarenta años, quien lo recibió con amabilidad, preguntando la razón de su visita.

 - Vine porque he tenido problemas con... con chicas.

 - De que tipo?

Al darse cuenta de la mirada del doctor, el chico soltó una carcajada.

 - No, no. No es eso. Me funciona... Funciona bien.

 - Ok.

 - Es más el...Usted sabe.

Y empezó a hacer mímica, estirando las manos y poniéndolas paralelas, como si midiera algo. El doctor al principio no entendió nada de lo que le quería decir hasta que el chico bajo un poco las manos, al nivel de su entrepierna.

 - Ya entiendo. Tienes dudas sobre el tamaño.

 - Sí.

Se puso rojo como un tomate y tuvo ganas de salir corriendo, como las mujeres que habían estado en su cama. Pero obviamente este no era un caso similar y no podía simplemente salir corriendo como un loco. AL fin y al cabo, quería tener una respuesta clara a sus dudas.

 - Déjame adivinar.

 - Ok.

 - Crees que es muy pequeño?

 

El chico asintió, aún más ruborizado.

 - No hay de que apenarse. Todos los hombres que vienen aquí me lo preguntan cuando los reviso  para saber la condición de su tracto urinario y cuando hago los exámenes de próstata. No hay de que  avergonzarse.

Entonces el doctor sacó una ficha que tenía, laminada, que describía las medidas promedio del pene de un hombre según su etnia y edad. El doctor también puso sobre la mesa una cinta para medir.

 - Si quieres puedes seguir detrás de la cortina y medir como los describe la cartilla. Adelante.

Y eso hizo. En conclusión, no había nada extraño en su tamaño. El doctor le explicó que las mujeres normalmente preferían hombre promedio, ya que muy poco o demasiado no era del gusto de la mayoría, aunque claramente había excepciones.

Entonces el doctor le lanzó la misma mirada que muchas de las chicas. Fue un poco extraño ya que se quedó mirando su entrepierna y luego lo miró a los ojos. Resultaba que el chico había dejado su pantalón abierto, ya que había querido confirmar rápidamente la normalidad de su tamaño.

 - Esos son calzoncillos?

 - Sí.

Y entonces cayó en cuenta.

 - Ya sé que dicen que son mejores de otros por lo de los espermatozoides pero no me gustan mucho  de los otros. Me siento raro.

El doctor asentía con la cabeza, sentándose. Tenía una sonrisita extraña en su rostro.

 - Sí... Pero no lo pregunto por eso.

Se miraron mutuamente durante algunos segundo y el doctor vio que el chico no parecía caer en cuenta.

 - Usas calzoncillos de Batman seguido?

 - Porque lo...

Y, por fin cayó en cuenta.

Después de mucho tiempo, años si se quiere, este chico de 29 años, que ya tenía un trabajo estable y vivía solo, usaba calzoncillos de superheroes. De todos los heroes: de DC Comics, Marvel, independientes e incluso regionales. Estaban sus imágenes o a veces solo sus logos. También utilizaba con otros personajes de dibujos animados y películas. Con muchos colores o a veces solo de un par o incluso de uno solo.

Cuando le contó a sus amigos todos murieron de la risa. Para ellos era obvio: más de una mujer buscaba un hombre serio y atractivo y los superheroes no iban mucho con lo que la mayoría buscaba.

 - Pero bueno, ya encontrarás a tu mujer maravilla. - le dijo su mejor amigo, entre risas.

El chico fue a su casa y decidió tirarlos todos, todos y cada uno de los calzoncillos de colores, con superheroes u otros personajes. Pero cuando terminó de echarlos en bolsas, porque eran muchos, decidió no tirarlos ni regalarlos.

Esos calzoncillos lo identificaban y no iba a dejar que los gustos de otros cambiaran los suyos. Al fin y al cabo, esos colores eran él y ya habría una chica que amara los personajes animados tanto como él. Y lo demás que iba con ello.

Of victims and heroes

Far be it from me to mistreat a person that has gone through something hard. But hey, that woman is a fucking bitch. And no, I'm not saying she "was looking for it" or that "she deserved it". No, I'm just saying she's a bitch. And here's why.

First of all, the woman is not a victim. That fucking simple. She was just followed by a guy at night and then the guy disappeared. For all we know, it might have been a drunk guy or someone really stoned. Nothing really happened after that. Well, not besides her boyfriend going crazy and slapping her, once, in her apartment.

Yeah, I think I have to explain that. Margie, our "victim" and "hero" had a boyfriend. They had been together for at least three years and, naturally, they were thinking of getting married. Marge has always been kind of attractive (not to me, but whatever) and she certainly loved to party. Friends of mine knew for a fact that the woman couldn't stop herself from going out at least two days on a week and drink and dance and so on, for hours and hours.

Ok, that doesn't really make anyone a "bad person". But may I remind you that she didn't only had a few too many drinks, the girl was kinda loose and had more guys in a year than an army barracks. The girl was a bit too "free" and the worst was that her boyfriends, a fairly nice guy, had no idea she had been spending some much of her time with others.

Well, he finally realized it, about a week before they got married, when everything had already been bought, the venue was decided, the flowers chosen and the dress was resting on a hanger wearing to be worn.
He went to her house to drop the seating arrangements and found her going at it with a guy from her pilates class. So the marriage was cancelled but not before the guy beat the hell out of the lover of his bride to be (or not to be) and slapped her in the obvious rage.

So, no. She is not a victim in that sense. It wasn't gender violence or anything like that. It was a man deep in love hurt by a woman he should have never trusted. That was it.

Now, for seconds, let's talk about that guy that followed her. Working in the organization to defend the rights of women and others, I was there when her case was exposed and used in the media as one more act of harassment and violence against women and so on.

Of course, I was interested in knowing what had really happened. It was around that time when I decided to leave the organization, as I noticed they wanted to use anything to make their demands valid. They had greatly exaggerated what had happened with her boyfriend. Mutual friends told me he had to leave the country, as people began to harass him.

So I left that place but kept asking here and there about what had happened with the guy that followed her. As it turns out, it wasn't harassment, not a crazy stalker obsessed with the woman, as it had been said on the news and in numerous reports. Nothing close to that.

Albert Foch was around thirty years of age and had been consuming heroine and other drugs for around ten of those years. His body was not that strong and the drugs help him go through the cold nights, as food was pricier and less satisfying.

The night of the events, Albert had not consumed any drugs for some hours and was really hungry. He really wanted something hot, chocolate or coffee. He hadn't tasted any of those for quite some time and no drug could replace that need right now. He was walking through a neighborhood, shaking from the cold when he saw a young woman, that happened to be Margie. She had stepped out of a bus and dropped a wallet when she got down from it.

Albert waited for a moment and then went closer to grab the wallet. He checked it out and saw it had money and papers. So what he did was taking one of the bills, to buy some food, and decided to follow to woman to give the wallet to her. Maybe if she received it, she would give more money to him. So he followed her.

He did it for several streets and even yelled at her for the woman to stop but nothing worked. She just walked faster and yelled "Don't rob me, I have nothing". The man, exhausted from running after a crazy woman, yelled back: "You have nothing. I have your wallet". And maybe that was misinterpreted because she ran even faster and finally entered a building where a security guard warned him not to go near and threaten with calling the police. Albert explained to him that the woman had dropped her wallet and gave it to the guard. He left immediately and finally had a decent dinner, for once in many months.

All of this, I heard it from various sources, mainly the security guard but also, after scouting the neighborhood, I found Albert himself who told me the whole story and said he was actually thankful that he had the opportunity to grab the bill. I asked him why he didn't take it all and he answered he wasn't a thief and only took what he needed. He told me all when I invited him to have something to eat and he was grateful and, of course, surprised when he heard what she had said about what happened that night.

 - Bitches be crazy.

Well, this time Albert was absolutely right. Marge had judged a little bit too fast and never gave him a second chance.

Anyhow, she had one last surprise. She filed a lawsuit against her boss, because he had apparently harassed her in the office and cited as an accomplice a women that worked as a secretary in the office. As she announced a book in which she would tell her "courageous story", I decided to investigate this last event in her life.

I worked in an NGO called Human Rights for All and I had even more resources so it wasn't difficult to find out the man that had been Marge's boss, now unemployed, had never really come on to her. The truth was he was in love with the secretary she accused as an accomplice. And Marge was jealous of her and that was said by several of their coworkers. Apparently Marge wanted the boss to pay attention to her to get a raise but he only had eyes for the secretary, who also happened to be a skilled woman, dedicated to her work. Marge envied her for that. She considered her a "smart-ass", as many said she had called her.

So that was their story.

Well, I know there two sides to every story and the truth is always a mix of both. But Marge's life has not been an exemplary one and she has proven in numerous times, many more than the ones I tell here, that she is a prejudiced human being, only capable to achieve her goals by scheming and telling lies even to the people that decide to love her.

Even if it isn't all like that, I personally don't think that woman can be called a "hero" and, not at all, "a victim". She has used that status to make people feel bad for her and somehow that has made her superior to others, as if that made her a better person, which she actually thinks she is having released two books and becoming a model and spokesperson.

But that's our world, where real victims and heroes are ignored in favor of the fabricated dreams of others.

Regresa...

Y entonces recordé que ese saco era suyo. Se lo ponía todos los domingos, cuando no quería salir de casa y prefería quedarse para comer, ver películas y simplemente pasarlo bien y sin preocupaciones de ningún tipo.

Lo guardé, pues al momento de sacarlo del cajón me di cuenta del dolor que me causaría oler ese saco de nuevo, y pensar en él como alguien presente cuando no lo estaba. Tampoco estaba muerto pero para mí era casi lo mismo. En mis convicciones personales, era como estar muerto en vida, él y yo.

Nunca entendí sus razones para hacer lo que hizo y se lo dije. Discutimos decenas de veces sobre porque él tenía que ir a una guerra a la que nadie lo había llamado. Él decía que lo hacía por su país, por sus padres y por mi. Y yo le respondía que yo no necesitaba que él se convirtiera en un superhéroe de ningún tipo. Yo lo quería vivo y conmigo y no me importaba si eso sonaba egoísta de alguna manera. Ya había sido bastante difícil estar juntos y ahora lo dejaba todo para irse a matar gente quien sabe adonde.

Cuando le mencionaba la muerte, se enojaba aún más. Decía que era lo que tenía que hacer, lo que su padre y su hermano habían hecho en ocasiones anteriores. Ese día creo que me pasé pues dije algo de lo que me arrepentí casi al segundo: le dije que no valía la pena que se convirtiera en un asesino, tal vez de gente indefensa, solo para agradar a una familia que toda la vida había estado decepcionada de él.

Ese día sentí tanto dolor, tanto pesar, tanta rabia, que tuve que irme de casa para pasar la noche en casa de una amiga. Ella se veía preocupada y hablamos al respecto. Lloré porque no quería nunca recibir noticias de él, de su cuerpo inerte llegando en un avión y de saber que tal vez nunca más podría seguir con una vida que él se había labrado y que era lo que más admiraba de él.

Había hecho su propia empresa, diseñando todo tipo de artículos para el hogar. Todos los objetos eran únicos y su éxito era alucinante. Yo lo conocí a través de su negocio, ya que mi restaurante tenía una visión algo especial de la cocina y quise que todo fuera único e irrepetible. Y entonces conocí a alguien muy parecido a los objetos que hacía y peleé de la mano con él contra todo lo que hubo después.

Todo eso lo recordé durmiendo, o mejor intentando dormir, en el sofá cama de mi amiga. Lloré toda la noche y me pregunté porque la vida era de esa manera, porque las cosas nunca podían quedarse como estaban, siempre cambiando y rompiendo tanto lo bueno como lo malo.

Al día siguiente decidí volver a casa y, como era domingo, lo encontré tomando café y leyendo un libro que había empezado hacía mucho pero que no parecía estar cerca de terminar. Me le acerqué por atrás y le di un beso en la nuca sin decir nada más. En vez de hablar, decidí transmitir en ese beso todo el amor que sentía por él, la admiración, el respeto y la inmensa confianza que le tenía, a pesar de mis palabras sacadas del alma por el dolor de perderlo.

Ese día no hablamos de nada que tuviera relación con su decisión. Nos quedamos en casa e hicimos el amor, cocinamos juntos, hablamos de anécdotas cómicas de nuestros amigos o familiares y de temas varios como adonde iríamos en nuestras próximas vacaciones.

Al día siguiente se fue a trabajar y yo me quedé un rato, escribiéndole una carta y dejándosela en la almohada. No quería hablar más de algo que me dolía tanto, pero creo que todo lo que había dentro de mí quedo resumido en esas dos hojas que puse en un sobre postal sobre la cama.

Ese día no pude concentrarme mucho en el restaurante y decidí dejarlo todo en manos de mi ayudante. Tampoco quería verlo a él, no hasta que leyera mi carta y supiera su respuesta, su actitud. Fui a comer solo y luego a un parque y así traté de pasar el tiempo, tratando de no pensar pero pensando el triple.

Cuando llegué la carta ya no estaba. Me fui a la cama antes que él porque estaba cansado, de alguna manera. Sentía como si un elefante se me hubiese sentado encima y solo el sueño lo pudiese ahuyentar.

Al otro día, me sorprendió verlo a mi lado. Se despertó con una caricia mía y pude notar que tenía los ojos algo rojos y la nariz congestionada. Era obvio que había estado llorando. Solo nos abrazamos y no dijimos nada.

El par de meses siguientes fueron perfectos. Nunca me había dado cuenta en realidad de cuanto lo amo y cuanto lo necesito. Hicimos cosas que nunca habíamos compartido y nos conocimos como nunca antes, como si acabáramos de conocernos.

Incluso fuimos con su familia y con la mía y les explicamos nuestra situación. Lo hicimos porque nos dimos cuenta que habíamos vivido al margen de nuestras familias por mucho tiempo. Solo los veíamos cuando parecía ser necesario o en ocasiones especiales pero vimos que eso estaba mal. Nosotros nunca habíamos hecho nada malo y nunca les dimos a ellos la oportunidad de hablar, de decir algo.

Ambas ocasiones fueron memorables y lo amo ahora aún más por haberme casi forzado a hacerlo. Yo tenía miedo pero él no y me convenció y estoy feliz de que eso sucediera.

Hicimos una gran cena con todos, amigos y familiares, para despedirlo y desearle la mejor de la suertes. Por supuesto, lloré en algunos momentos porque todo parecía mejorar ahora, justo cuando la persona que más quería se iba lejos y no sabía cuando volvería ni en que estado.

Pero agobiarme con eso no tenía ningún sentido. Era un hombre capaz y bueno y no dudaba por un segundo que un arma jamás torcería su camino.

Después de que todos se fueran, compartimos una de las mejores noches de mi vida y traté de que fuera lo mismo para él, para que tuviera recuerdos que le impulsaran a seguir hasta volver.

Entre todos lo llevamos al aeropuerto y nos despedimos, uno por uno, todos llorando. Parecía que nunca lo fuéramos a ver de nuevo y eso no era así. Él volvería y seguiría haciendo de nuestra vida un paraíso.

Han pasado ya seis meses de su partida. Nos escribimos correos electrónicos cada día de por medio, contándonos absolutamente todo. Yo le mando fotos de la casa, nuestras mascotas, la familia y amigos y él hace lo propio, con fotos de comida y compañeros. Ayuda en la unidad médica y atiende heridos en zonas de combate. No sé si es mejor o peor de lo que yo imaginaba pero cada vez que leo lo que me escribe, lo oigo hablarme y lo siento más vivo que nunca y con ansias de volver.

Al oler su saco antes de guardarlo, recordé nuestros primeros días juntos y los sueños que teníamos como pareja pero también recordé el mutuo respeto que nos tenemos y que, aunque nada es para siempre, el final es solo uno y todavía no está aquí.

One thing

It was dark and rainy outside. It had been raining for almost two days, non-stop. It seemed like it never end.

Inside the hospital, only some patients were aware of the weather. One of them was Alfred, Alfie if you went by what his mom called him. She had been there some hours ago to tell him how the family was going. He had been absent from home for almost a week and things, as expected, had continued without him present.

He was sitting on the leather sofa the room had by the window. He couldn't see much from the outside but he felt better feeling the raindrops and the cold through the glass rather than being laying on the bed. He had no need for more sleep and would have loved to have a book, his computer or something to distract himself from the hospital.

But then again, his books were at home and his father had forbid his mother and siblings from taking anything from the house for him. And his laptop had been destroyed in the "accident", or at least that was what the policemen that had visited him said.

So, he only had the rain to spend time with and, after the first minutes it was already a bore. And the memories of the "accident" settled in every five seconds... Accident! How dare they say it had been an accident. Since when is a brutal attack considered an accident? The laptop was smashed to the ground, that is after they had used it against Alfie. His head was still hurting after that. They had kicked him several times, punched him, hit him with his laptop and they even spitted on him.

He went to the bathroom and looked at his scars, again. It was something of an obsession looking at the scratches on his face, the bruised skin all over his body and his now funny finger. He had no idea how or why but that one finger was always cold, as if it was dead.

A little bit embarrassed with himself, a stupid notion, he opened his robe and saw more bruises and scars from both the attack and the operations. They had told him he had being hit on the pelvis severely so that's why his that part hurt more than any other. Not that he was interested in having children or anything like that but he did plan to use his penis again. The doctor said he wasn't sure of the state of his reproductive organs and that further tests were needed to know if would all work again as usual.

Alfie walked back to his bed and sat there, grabbing his feet. Doctor Mason told him that same morning that he had been in a very frail state and they even feared for his life but, thankfully, the procedures and medications had call worked perfectly. Although he wasn't the fittest guy around, his body had healed almost completely very fast. His immune system was incredible, according to one of the nurses.

But that didn't fixed it all for him. What if those two men had hit him with a baseball bat or cut him with a knife. The police said they normally didn't use guns but who they might be exceptions to the rule.

He wasn't scared anymore. He had no real reason to be. He was more worried about the consequences of it all. His father now had even more reasons to be against him and no so-calle frienda had cone to visit. He felt really alone. His mother didn't count because he knew she too was worried about her husbands attitude and she had no intention to contradict him.

Alfie decided to think about something else, other than his father, but that was to no good. He had just realized of the amount of info that had been lost for the foundation. He had been trusted with a very important report and now all that work was gone. They had destroyed it all: cellphone, hard drives, usb devices and, of course, his laptop.

As he laid down on the bed, he thought that only a few coincidence were necessary to be lost forever. He never stayed that late or liked to be entrusted with so many responsibilities but that week it was all different because he had decided to go on and live by himself. He knew the costs were barely affordable but he didn't mind at all. He jus wanted to be a bit more free, more in charge of his life.

He stepped out of the Rainbow Foundation at ten o'clock at night and walked to the nearest bus stop. He had sensed someone close or watching but he ignored it until a tall, bald guy stopped him a block away from the bus stop, asking for the time. Well, he wasn't really interested in that.

The rest was all a blur. He remembered parts and pieces but not the whole puzzle. Then he woke up and they told him he had been on the hospital for three days.

His father had always been against him working for such an organization and now he had all the reasons to hate all about it even more. He disapproved of Alfie and that hurt him every day. But there wasn't much to do about that. Alfie had moved on from trying to impress his dad, to not caring what he thought of his son. It just didn't mattered any more.

Two days passed until he was allowed to leave the hospital. When got home he told his parents about moving out. He wasn't asking for anything, just letting them know.

He did move out a month after after the attack. The foundation had not blamed him for the lost data and congratulated him for his work and effort. It was no.mystery all of it was a good thing for them as fundraisers began to invest money in them in the light of such a vicious attack on "the foundation".

He didn't really care about all of that. They gave him a big bonus on christmas, gave him a raise and a better position. He was happy for all of it until the police came back, in order to interrogate him. They had captured a group of skinheads that had been blamed for various hate crimes in the city and they wanted him to see them, in order for them to be sure they were the ones.
Well, at least one of them was. Alfie confessed he only saw one of the guys, so he could only be sure of that.

After that he went home, his new home and thought of the face of the attacker and all the good that one bad action had in his life. The guy had no idea but he had made him better, stronger to face life's many challenges.

De piropos casuales

 - Tienes unos ojos muy lindos, sabías?

Solo eso bastó para que pensara en él todo ese día y a ratos durante los días siguientes. Isabela no era una mujer particularmente bella o atractiva. Vestía lo que más le gustaba, más para ella misma que para nadie, y de resto no ponía mucha atención en su cuidado personal, no más de lo obvio.

Rápidamente concluía que era solo un piropo tonto de un vendedor de joyería en la calle. No sabía porque le había dado tanta importancia. Pero luego pensaba que eso era obvio: no había nadie más que le dijera algo parecido y se sentía un poco tonta al pensar que necesitaba de ello.

Hacía un par de años que había tenido una relación seria con alguien y tuvo que terminarse. Ella se iba del país y el se quedaría solo. Lo hicieron de mutuo acuerdo, ya que no sabían cuando volvería ella o si el podría viajar en el corto plazo. Pensaron que lo mejor era terminar algo que podría verse aún más dañado si se separaban por largo tiempo.

Para Isabela las relaciones de distancia eran o para idiotas que querían una licencia para engañar al otro o para gente con un nivel de confianza tan grande que pocos lo entenderían. Casi siempre, la primera era la correcta.

Desde eso no había salido con nadie seriamente. Había tratado de conocer personas nuevas pero eso había probado ser un reto demasiado grande. No sabía si era porque era diferente o muy lenta o algo por el estilo, pero los hombres no parecían estar interesados en conversar o conocer de verdad a nadie. Era evidente que fingían interés o que buscaban solo sexo e Isabela no estaba interesada en eso.

Y no lo estaba porque, por algunos meses, ya lo había intentado. Se sentía vacía de cuerpo y alma después de hacerlo y se prometió a si misma darse un valor más cercano al real, evitando dar su cuerpo a cualquiera que quisiera hacer lo que parecía un presentación teatral y no una relación sexual normal.

Así que no era de extrañar que, en sus momentos libres, Isa pensara en el joven del mercado de pulgas que le había dicho el piropo. Ella había estado mirando anillos de colores y hermosas pulseras con dijes llamativos y fue entonces cuando el tipo se le acercó sin decir nada. Ella lo miró a los ojos, sonrió y siguió mirando y ahí vino el piropo.

Su respuesta pudo haber sido mejor y era algo que le daba rabia constantemente: solo había sonreído y se había ido de allí roja como un tomate. Porque no había respondido algo, así hubiera sido un simple "gracias". No, se tenía que quedar allí como una completa tonto. Y encima se había apenado, casi diciéndole al tipo "sí, no soy tan bonita y por eso me sonrojo".

En las noches este factor la perseguía y hundía la cabeza en la almohada con rabia por haber sido tan tonta. Además pensaba en la apariencia del vendedor y eso hubiera dado más razones para proporcionar una respuesta más inteligente que salir corriendo.

Lucía como uno de esos chicos artistas, que gustan de la música, comida exótica y mujeres alocadas. De pronto era juzgar muy pronto, pero esa era la imagen que le había dado con su sonrisa provocadora. Tenía bonita cara, era verdad. Tenía la tez bronceada y era delgado, aunque no muy alto. De hecho, podría haber sido más bajo que Isa. Pero eso daba igual, era un chico simpatico.

"La tuya no está nada mal". Esa era una mejor respuesta. Eso concluyó Isa tres días después de lo sucedido, mientras reflexionaba al respecto junto a la máquina de café de su lugar de trabajo.

Para el viernes, había decidido que ya estaba bueno lo de pensar en semejante tontería. Por culpa de ello había perdido el bus la mañana anterior, además que todo el mundo le preguntaba porque parecía que estuviera soñando. Hubiera muerto de vergüenza si la gente supiera la razón tan tonta por la que parecía estar en la Luna y no en su trabajo, su hogar o incluso acariciando a su gata Mimi. Incluso el animal la había arañado, tratando de llamar la atención de una Isabela pérdida en el espacio.

El sábado se reunió con su amigas para comer algo y, después de que ellas contaran historias muchos más interesantes de sus novios o pretendientes, ella se decidió por contarles de su "aventura" en el mercado de pulgas.

Aunque sus amigas eran excelentes personas, Isabela pensó que se burlarían de ella por tener una respuesta tan infantil ante algo de efímero como un piropo. Pero se equivoco por completo. Sus tres amigas, cada una a su estilo, le dijeron que era algo muy natural sentirse halagada por un cumplido de un desconocido. Más aún, si esto no era algo recurrente en la vida de la persona.

Le explicaron que no lo debía tomar como algo malo, porque eso parecía que estaba haciendo. Isabela lo había tomado como una afrenta a su manera de ser o algo por estilo cuando sus amigas le decían que era algo muy positivo: ese cumplido daba a entender que muchos hombres veían cosas en ella que ella misma pasaba por alto. Así fueran nimiedades como los ojos o la nariz, que alguien viera esos detalles era algo casi único.

Después de despedirse de sus amigas, Isabela reflexionó respecto a lo dicho y encontró que tenían razón, aunque seguía sintiéndose incomoda por su torpe reacción. Pero fue allí, en un bus camino a casa, que tuvo una idea.

Al día siguiente, exactamente una semana después de haber visitado el mercado de pulgas, regresó para caminar por los diferentes puestos y buscó el toldo bajo el que estaba el joven vendedor con su joyería.

Isabela se acercó en silencio, mirando los objetos que estaban en exhibición. Había muchas cosas bellas. Tomó una pulsera con dijes de animales y subió la mirada. El chico la estaba mirando desde antes.

 - Hola.

 - Hola... Ya habías venido, cierto?

 - Sí... Me dijiste un cumplido el domingo pasado.

 - En serio?

 - Sí. No recuerdas?

Ahora fue el chico el que se puso rojo.

 - Claro que sí. - Hizo una pausa y luego estiró la mano. - Vas a llevarla?

 - Sí, por favor. Es muy linda.

 - Como tus ojos.

Isabela río y el chico también. Hablaron por un rato largo de la joyería que él vendía y le dio una tarjeta a Isa para que pudiera ubicar la tienda que tenían en otro lugar. Ella prometió recomendarlo con sus amigas y él se lo agradeció.

Ese día Isa también empezó a imaginar muchas cosas pero había una diferencia clave: esta vez tenía un número de teléfono.

Tropical nightmare

The beach was perfect, like the ones in movies or on brochures. Most times they are just less attractive, filled with smashed sea shells and lots of leaves laying around. Not this one though. It seemed it was cleaned every single day because it was impossible it was naturally perfect.

Truth be told, it wasn't very close to the road and tourists hadn't invaded yet. Only locals, like Pat, knew about these natural beauties no one else knew about. And that was the reason why I had come here with Kevin. We wanted an adventure but also clean bathrooms and a comfy bed. Well, we got it.

It was all Pat's doing. She was a native Hawaiian Kevin had met in work. He worked in a travel agency and many people were very interested in visiting Oahu and all other islands. Pat had been to Kevin's office offering the services of her family's company: they provided personalized tours for small groups or couples all over the state of Hawaii. They only asked for the visitors to fill an online survey to know their tastes and schedules and then the perfect tour would be assigned to them.

And up to know, it was perfect. We had visited pineapple crops and the most interesting sites of Honolulu and its surroundings.

Today, it was Maui's turn to amaze us and the beach had done just that. Pat told us she would leave for a couple of hours to visit a cousin not very far. That would give us privacy and time to enjoy the beach. We only saw couples there and not that many. We held hands and walked on the soft sand. After a while we took off our clothes and jumped in the water, leaving our things hidden behind a coconut tree.

The water was also perfect. We swam a lot, for a hole hour before we went back to the beach. We had something to eat and looked at the ocean, dreaming of one day leaving in or near a place like this.

Then I realized my phone and Kevin's were not in the backpack. I checked two, three times but could not find anything. We worried, as Pat had told us to call her at 4 PM, but how if we had no idea of the time of day. Actually, we had no idea of what her phone number was. I looked around for the cellphones as Kevin went to look for someone to lend us a phone to call but I found nothing and he found no one.

We put on our clothes and walked back to the road. It was a long trail through the trees, but Kevin said he remembered the way so I followed him, holding his hand but in silence. After 45 minutes of walking, we finally got to the road but it too was deserted. Something felt really wrong.

We waited and waited and the sun was going down and we worried more and more. We were supposed to be in a boat back to the hotel by then, but instead we were standing by a lonely road and darkness would settle in no time.

I told Kevin that we should walk, at least to be closer to a town or something and he agreed. Not much time passed when a car drove by. We made signs for it to stop and it did. We both jogged towards it but then I saw who was driving and who was sitting in the back.

I tried to pull back but someone grabbed by the arm and made me enter the car. Some other guy did the same with Kevin, forcing him into the back seat. The car drove off and we were not saying a word. We both knew what was happening but did not see it coming. One mistake, and we would be done for good.

I should mention I am a police officer. As such, I have captured and sent to jail hundreds of thieves, murderers, con artists and so on. The man that was driving was a drug lord who people thought had died in a helicopter crash. I saw the explosion myself and that was another reason for my silence.

Kevin also knew who he was because I almost died the day of the helicopter accident. One of the drug lord's men shot me but thankfully I received no serious damage. But Kevin was not fixed on that man. He was looking at Pat, who was sitting there, next to them. She just gazed at the window, as if she was on a car with friends.

Already dark, the car pulled off by a small house by the road. We were forced to enter, as well as Pat was. The drug lord then started talking about revenge and intelligence. Pat had led us to a trap, set by him to kill me. I had been a key member in the investigation against him and it was my testimony that had sent his wife and son to jail. Now, he wanted to get "even".

He thanked Pat for her help but stated that he couldn't leave any witnesses. She went mad when he said that and tried to attack him. One of his men grabbed her and the other shot her in the head, in front of us.

The man continued, telling us the house was soaked on gasoline and that we would die as he had supposedly died: on fire.

Before leaving, of the thugs, the one that had killed Pat, turned around and shot me in the right thigh and Kevin too. They weren't going to tie us but wanted to be sure we wouldn't escape.

The house rapidly caught fire and, before the smoke began to be unbearable, we heard them drove off.

The pain was too much and I had to drop to the floor before I fainted from it. Kevin had been shot in the waist and begged me to do something.

The fire was everywhere and we were already coughing and pulling back from the flames but it was futile. The place was made from would only and it wasn't a very big house. Options were scarce.

We were going to die.

Michael Jackson

Todas las mañanas toma algo de leche y come su concentrado, como cualquier otro gato. Y, también como muchos otros gatos, sale por la ventana y se pierde por horas y horas. No lo hace todos los días. Es casi como si supiera que su dueño se preocupa por él.

Su primera parada suele ser el apartamento de la señora Flores. La pobre señora Flores es casi ciega, aunque eso no sorprende a los 83 años. Es una mujer muy dulce. Vive sola. Su marido murió hace ya cinco años y lo primero que hace al levantarse es observar la foto del joven apuesto e inteligente que conoció alguna vez en una parada de bus. Era tan galante que no tuvo ningún reparo en enamorarse perdidamente de él.

Después la señora toma su desayuno y suele ser a esa hora que llega el gato negro y blanco. La señora Flores se asegura de siempre dejar una ventana abierta para él y él sabe que la mujer siempre le tendrá un plato de leche fresca, su segundo del día y de la hora.

Allí permanece por algunas horas. La mujer disfruta de verlo comer o le acaricia la cabeza mientras ve algo de televisión. El gato le recuerda a un perrito que tuvo cuando niña y como le gustaba acariciarlo para tranquilizarse. Era una niña avanzada para su edad pero sus padres nunca lo pensaron así. Ella era brillante, más que muchos otros, pero sus padres no la apoyaron. Y por ser mujer, no pagaron su carrera de química. Lo único que hicieron fue dejarla casar joven y cuando tuvo uno, dos, tres hijos, ya no hubo tiempo para estudiar.

Al mediodía el gato sale por la ventana de la señora Flores y le da la vuelta a la manzana para llegar al negocio del Ramón Rugeles. El señor Rugeles tiene un restaurante para los oficinistas que van a vienen. Lo mejor para Ramón ha sido el reciente desarrollo inmobiliario que ha atraído tanto a empresas como ciudadanos al barrio. Esto ha supuesto la revitalización de su negocio, heredado de su padre, y una prosperidad que siempre agradece.

El gato de cuerpo negro pero de patas y una mancha blanca en su rostro, llega siempre a la hora más ocupada, la del almuerzo. Pero jamás es un fastidio ni se cuela por entre las piernas de quienes comen a toda prisa. No, el gato se podría decir que es respetuoso. Siempre espera afuera a que Ramón venga por él. Lo carga hasta el cuarto de aseo donde le tiene bastantes trozos de pescado, sobrantes del caldo marinero del día. El gato come con gana y él se le queda mirando, a la vez que grita órdenes a sus empleados.

Ramón nunca descuida su negocio, ni siquiera cuando, viendo al gatito, recuerda su pasado, mucho más humilde. El restaurante fue iniciado por su padre pero nunca fue buen negocio. La familia tuvo que pasar dificultades con frecuencia y muchas noches no había nada que comer más que pan duro y algo de leche, cerca de la fecha de caducidad. El gato le recordaba lo hambriento que había estado en el pasado y lo agradecido que estaba ahora por el éxito repentino.

A la misma hora que los oficinistas corrían para no llegar tarde,  algo adormilados, el gato salía del restaurante y se colaba a un edificio distinto a donde vivía. La gente lo conocía y, muchas veces, ni lo determinaban. Era como un vecino más. En el segundo piso rasguñaba una puerta y esperaba que lo dejaran entrar.

En ese pequeño apartamento vivía Soledad, cuyo nombre era más que apropiado. Era una estudiante de Bellas Artes, que estaba completando su tesis. Estaba terminando una exposición ambiciosa, constituida por tres obras distintas que había pensado hasta el más mínimo detalle: una escultura, una pintura y una recopilación de poemas.

Sin embargo, como le recordaba su madre por teléfono, era bueno para ella comer y ver gente de vez en cuando. Había pasado meses encerrada logrando su objetivo, incluso se veía más pálida que nunca. A la hora en que el gato de dos colores entraba a su casa, se tomaba un descanso merecido. Normalmente comía poco, ya que no era fanática de la comida. Había sufrido mucho por ello en el pasado y ahora trataba de enmendarse, medio fracasando: su almuerzo era un sandwich de queso en pan de cereales y jugo de naranja. Nada más. Para el animal tenía jamón, que su madre compraba pero a ella le daba asco.

Viendo a la criatura comer con gana, recordó a su mejor amiga Clara. Ambas eran fervientes defensoras de los animales y habían hecho un pacto para permanecer veganas por el resto de su vida. Ambas habían desarrollado disgusto por todos los tipos de carne y sus derivados y compartían recetas que solo utilizaban verduras o frutas frescas.

Pero hacía mucho no hablaba con Clara. Ni siquiera sabía si era vegana todavía. Terminó su comida y retomó su pintura, que estaba casi lista. Pintar la distraía y evita que pensara en cosas que la distraían de su tesis, como Clara. Ya habría tiempo para ello, pensaba siempre, esperando no estar equivocada.

El gato permanecía allí unas horas, durmiendo. Alrededor de las cuatro de la tarde, se despertaba de golpe y arañaba la puerta para que lo dejaran salir. Salía del edificio y entonces cruzaba la calle al mismo tiempo que lo hacía la gente.

Del otro lado había un bonito parque, cubierto de hojas secas y en sombra gracias a los numerosos árboles que allí había. El gato visitaba el parque por dos razones. La primera eran los pájaros. A pesar de ser un animal domestico, era para él una necesidad seguir cazando como lo habían hecho sus ancestros y otros felinos grandes.

La otra razón era más interesante. A esa hora, siempre había niños pequeños en los varios juegos que habían en todo el parque para su diversión. Y eso para el gato de patas blancas no tenía precio. Se acercaba con cuidado a, por ejemplo, los columpios, y los niños siempre se le acercaban para acariciarlo y él se dejaba.

Lo mejor de todo era que muchos niños venían de la escuela o de su casa y traían comida. No era inusual que recibiera pedazos de galletas, pan, jamón, queso, varios tipos de jugo, leche, chocolate,... Era todo un festín para cualquier animal que lo supiera valorar.

Lo malo era que muchas madres y padres se ponían histéricos y les prohibían de un grito a sus hijos que tocarán a un gato "callejero". Al gato esos apelativos le daban igual. Lo que hacía era cambiar de campo de juego y retomar su merienda y las caricias de los niños.

Casi a las seis de la tarde, se iba de allí. Los niños se iban con sus guardianes y ya no había interés alguno para él en quedarse en un parque que, de noche, podría tornarse desagradable. Esto especialmente por la presencia de perros.

Así que el gato se encaminaba a la casa y entraba por la misma ventana que había salido y allí, Felipe su dueño, lo recibía con concentrado y agua.

Felipe estaba casi siempre fuera de casa, excepto los fines de semana. Era un humano que trabajaba demasiado pero siempre tenía la mejor comida del día y el gato lo agradecía. Además, el animal dormía encima de la cama de Felipe y no había mejor lugar para dormir que ese rinconcito calientito.

 - Adonde te vas todo los días? - le pregunta el dueño.

Y el minino con nombre de cantante solo lo miraba y le maullaba, respondiéndole pero sin que él nunca pudiera entender.

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.

Celebración

Melissa entró a su hogar, cargando dos bolsas del supermercado en cada mano. Las dejó en en el mesón de la cocina y luego se dirigió a su cuarto. Se quitó el abrigo, la bufanda y los guantes. Mientras lo hacía, pensaba en lo extraño que era que, después de la guerra, el frío se hubiera asentado casi en todas partes. Claro que se sentía calor en el verano pero no se parecía a lo que antes muchos habían conocido. Era como si hiciese falta energía.

La mujer, de unos 40 años, bajó a la cocina y empezó a sacar ingredientes y utensilios para hacer una lasaña de carne molida. Hirvió las capas de pasta, cortó las verduras, coció la carne,... Le tomó más tiempo de lo normal porque hacía años que no hacía nada parecido, pero la ocasión ciertamente valía la pena.

Hoy se cumplían diez años del fin de la guerra y era un día festivo en todo el mundo, sin excepción. Todos habían acordado que la paz se debería celebrar siempre, recordando a quienes habían muerto por culpa de la megalomanía de algunos y la terquedad de otros.

Melissa metió el recipiente con la lasagna en el horno y se propuso a esperar a que estuviera lista sirviéndose una copa de vino. Justo en ese momento, escuchó el timbre de la casa y sonrío. Caminó hasta la puerta, limpiándose las manos en el pantalón vaquero.

Apenas abrió la puerta, un perro le saltó encima, tan grande que casi la tumba. Su dueña lo calmó y le dio un beso en la mejilla a la asustada Melissa. Era Nina, con su perro Capitán. Era de raza gran danés y el tamaño intimidaba a cualquiera, antes de conocer su lado más pacifico.

Melissa llevó a sus invitados al patio, donde dejaron a Capitán para que jugara con varios objetos que la dueña de casa jamás usaba. No había nada peligroso, solo viejos juguetes.

Nina tomó algo de vino con Melissa antes de servir y, para entonces, ya había llegado el otro invitado. Era Clemente, un hombre más joven que ellas pero que apreciaban como... como a nadie.

Los tres se sentaron a la mesa y sirvieron generosas porciones de lasaña, ensalada que Melissa había comprado en el supermercado ya lista y rebosantes copas de vino.

Hablaron primero del clima. Clemente, que vivía a las afueras de la ciudad, decía que en su casa habían tenido que poner calefacción. De hecho, un amigo le había contado que ese era el negocio del año para muchos ya que mucha gente no soportaba el nuevo clima después de la guerra.

Nina estaba de acuerdo. Comentaba que había visto en la televisión niños en India cubiertos de pies a cabeza en bufandas, abrigos y demás. Al parecer, era la primera vez que nevaba en Delhi.

Luego, tras dejar de lado la ensalada y haber tomado al menos dos copas de vino cada uno, siguieron con la lasaña y las noticias recientes.

Melissa les preguntó si habían visto la primera nueva sesión de la ONU y ambos amigos le dijeron que sí. Nadie se lo había perdido. Nuevos países habían nacido y con ello la reconstrucción de un sistema decadente y anticuado. La nueva sesión auguraba buen futuro aunque con más de 230 miembros, era difícil saber como iban a resultar las cosas. Al menos, ya no existía el veto.

Luego hablaron de los documentales sobre la guerra y, por algunos minutos, ninguno dijo mucho. Clemente había participado en ella, combatiendo personas que no conocía. Había matado, de frente y por la espalda, y eso jamás podría olvidarlo. Cuando acabó la guerra, sin una pierna y con varias cicatrices, Clemente fue sentenciado a cinco años de prisión por crímenes de guerra. Y nunca se quejó porque tenían razón.

Melissa había perdido a su hijo y esto había causado el divorcio con el padre del niño. Su hijo, según reportes oficiales, había participado en la creación de una célula terrorista que contemplaba derrocar al demente que se había instalado en el poder. Después de la guerra, se atrevieron a llamarlo criminal y ella lo defendió, creando una asociación de padres y familiares de quienes habían luchado contra el regimen. Allí conoció a Nina.

Ella lo perdió todo: sus hijos, su marido e incluso su hogar, después de que bombardearan su casa durante la invasión. Una hija había sido terrorista y ella con orgullo le decía a todo el que la escuchara, que su hija había estado a segundos de asesinar al hombre más nefasto que había pisado este mundo.

Clemente rompió el hielo, elogiando el sabor de la lasagna. Nina lo secundó y Melissa les agradeció por los cumplidos y cambiaron el tema, esta vez sobre los planes que tenían para la próxima Navidad. La dueña de casa les propuso que se quedaran allí el día antes y el día después de Navidad y así podrían celebrar apropiadamente, adornando todo y cocinando y compartiendo momentos alegres, para no recordar los momentos dolorosos.

Para el postre, Nina había traído un pastel de queso con crema de limón y Clemente había horneado galletas de mantequilla, que su madre le había enseñado a hacer cuando era pequeño. Sirvieron tres platos llenos y comieron con ganas, mientras reían de anécdotas que recordaban, de los últimos días o de la vida.

Dejaron entrar a Capitán y compartieron con él la lasagna, que comió en segundos. Parecía muy contento y lo premiaron con algo de concentrado con sabor dulce, algo que Melissa no sabía que existía pero Nina vendía en su tienda. Después de la guerra, había decidido montar un negocio con gran variedad de productos para mascotas y le iba bastante bien.

A Clemente lo había conocido porque era un carpintero excelente y con tanta lluvia y frío, las reparaciones en casas eran cada vez más frecuentes.

Los tres amigos, que nunca se hubieran conocido si no hubiera sido por una tragedia en común, se despidieron al final de la noche después de haber comido bastante y de haber consumido casi cinco botellas de vino.

Melissa no tuvo que recoger mucho porque sus amigos le habían ayudado. Al rato subió a su cuarto y se acostó en la cama, mirando por la ventana que tenía más cercana. La luz de la luna entraba débilmente por entre las rendijas de la persiana pero ella no pensaba en eso. Pensaba en su hijo y en lo mucho que le dolía no haberlo conocido más, no haber estado con él. Había sido un luchador y lo mejor de todo es que ella sabía que había conocido el amor.

Y con ese último pensamiento, Melissa durmió en calma toda la noche.

Why, Cynthia? Why?

Yeah, you could call her that. She was a "gym freak", no doubt about it. Cynthia would expend several hours a day in the gym, exercising in various ways. She did it for two hours in the morning, then she would work, at midday have a balanced meal, work again until 4 and then four more hours at the gym. She arrived home at 8:30, had a salad or something light to eat and then bed, at around 11.

And that was every single day. On weekends? Well, instead of four hours, she would spend all the afternoon there. Cynthia's favorite exercise was pilates but she also joined dancing classes, spinning, swimming, running, biking, weightlifting and various others. It was as if her energy was eternal.

Her diet was also fully controlled. Everything in small portions, no red meat and no flours based products such as bread or even desserts. To be honest, she didn't ate too many sweets. Only from time to time she would treat herself to a low fat yogurt with fruit or a sugarless dessert. She preferred eating a fruit.

Anyhow, Cynthia met Jamie and they fell in love right away. Jamie was an accountant in the same company Cynthia worked on and they had bonded right away. Whatever free time she had to spend, she would spend it with Jamie: watching movies, going shopping, traveling to nice little towns,...

Luckily enough, Jamie also liked to exercise. He had a perfect body, or so she thought. Jamie would join Cynthia on weekends at the gym, were they would run against each other or help one another doing advanced exercises.

To sum it up, everything seemed fine with Cynthia. But that was exactly it. It only seemed.

Unknown to many, she had stopped talking to her siblings, only calling her parents once a month to let them know she was fine. They would never visit as she had been clear to them she wasn't keen on surprise guests. Her brother and sister were fine not talking to her. To them, Cynthia had been too pampered by their parents; everything she wanted, she got it. And it had been like that ever since she was a baby.

They knew what she really was like and they were not really interested in having anything to do with someone that would rather spend time with others or climbing positions, instead of joining them for Christmas dinners or birthdays. Cynthia always sent her gifts to her parents, never getting there and hug or kiss them. It was as if they were distant, annoying relatives.

Her sister in particular, knew a side of her many of her "closest friends" didn't know. Cynthia was violent, easily becoming enraged if people didn't allow her to do as she wanted. Her sister had once not allowed her to use a new lipstick she had been given as a gift, so Cynthia went crazy, throwing things all around and, finally, breaking the new expensive lipstick into pieces.

None of them knew about Jamie and if they had known, it wouldn't have been too different. She had had boyfriends before, all as shallow and obsessed with beauty and power like her. Some were jocks, others more of the responsable type, but it didn't mattered. They all finally met the real Cynthia and ran away scared.

But her relationship with Jamie turned two years old and everything was as good as the first day. Soon, they married and moved in together. Her parents and siblings only knew about it through a friend, in a most uncomfortable conversation.

Her mom and dad decided to go to the city were she lived and stayed in a hotel. They contacted her from there and arranged a meeting. Long story short, Cynthia lost contact with her parents. They had allowed too much to happen, to many indulgences, too many things and details. But this, had been the last drop.

Jamie proved himself an empty human being. To Cynthia's father, he was one of the shallowest persons he had ever met. The guy was only interested in money and in looking good. That was fine, but people normally had more to go with that. No, not Jamie. He was empty, like a vase with no flowers. Cynthia's dad asked him about his hobbies, his passions but the answers were always the same.

Cynthia's mom, however, was not that bothered by the simple mindedness of her new son in law. She was more shocked to know how Cynthia appeared to have changed, a turn for the worst in her opinion. Her daughter talked about maybe adopting, as she did not wish to ruin her body for a baby. She said she had it all figured it out, including nannies, education, sports,... Her mother was horrified; not only Cynthia lived away and ashamed of them (they were meeting in a café, not even a restaurant) but her future life contemplated raising a child to be like them, or maybe even even worse. It was too much.

They left to their home were they crumbled in tears, realizing how bad they had raised their daughter, as they felt it was their fault that she had grown up to be such a shallow woman. It wasn't the gym thing or even the diets. It was the fact that she was obsessed to be perfect, not accepting who she really was. She never discussed her past with people that met her and decided not to have friends, rather acquaintances. She only trusted herself in order to make her life perfect by buying and doing and pretending. And if it wasn't, she had no problem pretending.

Cynthia never knew she had nephews, from both of her siblings. She never knew her parents had won a trip to Europe or that the home were she had grew up had been destroyed by a massive flooding. And all that happened in only ten years, during which she had no contact with her relatives.

Many hoped, without telling others, that she would someday change as having children changed people, as did marriage. Well, she divorced Jamie, who tried to get custody of the child they had adopted, with no success. He was an idiot but he proved to have a heart. Cynthia did not have one. The divorce, the life of her child, they did not change her. She was as focused and cold, as always.

Maybe that is why the kid, a girl called Camilla, ran away from home at age 15. She escaped with the help of a friend and Cynthia's rage was more than it had ever been. But that was it: no guilt, no sadness, no pain. Only rage.

Camilla, after a long search, got her grandparents address and visited them. They were seniors now and she cried as she felt time had been stolen from her. Her grandma kissed and hugged her and cried with her.

They sent an email to Cynthia, where Camilla confessed she would rather stay with her grandparents than with her. That was the only time Cynthia shed a tear. The following day, she sent all of Camilla's belongings the her parents house and forgot about her. She then increased her exercise hours, becoming more and more trapped in herself until, one day, she fainted on a treadmill and died.

Al otro día

Había tomado tanto la noche anterior que no era una sorpresa que la cabeza me diera tantas vueltas. Parecía ser de noche todavía o al menos estar muy oscuro. No prendí ninguna luz para llegar hasta el baño, conocía mi pequeño apartamento lo suficiente para saber donde iba.

Adentro, oriné, me lavé la cara y giré el cuello un par de veces antes de volver a la cama. Antes de quedar dormido, mi último pensamiento fue en lo rica que se sentía la cama, más caliente que de costumbre.

Horas más tarde, casi al medio día, me desperté de nuevo. No tenía el más mínimo deseo de levantarme. Además era domingo, entonces no había necesidad de hacerlo. En pocos minutos, decidí que dormiría un par de horas más y luego pediría algún domicilio, algo rico para compensar los pésimos almuerzos (o falta de ellos) durante la semana.

Cerré los ojos pero no podía conciliar el sueño. De pronto ya había dormido lo suficiente... Fue entonces que oí algo que me asustó y me incorporé de golpe, quedando sentado en una esquina.

A mi lado, dormía otra persona. Era un hombre. Traté de recordar quien era pero no había caso. Había bebido tanto que no recordaba haber dejado a nadie dormir en mi casa, menos aún en mi cama.

Reconstruí la noche anterior en algunos segundos: con amigas y amigos habíamos decidido salir a bailar y tomar algo pero empezó a llover tan fuerte que preferimos dejarlo para después. Entonces tuve la idea de quedar mejor en mi casa, donde ya estaba la mitad de la gente, y hacer una fiesta pequeña.

En efecto, compramos bastante alcohol, algo de comida y bailamos todo tipo de música. Fue bastante agradable, en especial porque hacía mucho no veía a algunas personas y había notado que la amistad había resistido las pruebas del tiempo y de la distancia.

Pero entonces quién era ese hombre en mi cama? Decidí despertarlo. Sin duda era lo mejor. Incluso era posible que el hombre no supiera donde estaba y seguramente tendría algún lugar adonde ir.

Me levanté con cuidado y, al salir del cuarto, cerré de un portazo. Eso debía despertarlo. Caminé a la cocina y serví algo de café frío y lo puse a calentar. La cantidad era para dos, ya que seguramente mi compañero de cama lo necesitaría también.

Apenas serví el liquido, oí que la puerta de mi cuarto se abría y, para mi sorpresa, se cerraba la del baño. "Que frescura!", pensé yo en ese momento. Cómo era capaz de entrar al baño de un desconocido así como así? Hay que ver la gente lo descarada que puede ser.

Me senté a la barra, que cerraba la pequeña cocina, y empecé a tomar de mi taza. Al rato, salió el hombre y no pude evitar quedar con la boca abierta. Y no fue por su apariencia sino porque en ese mismo momento supe quien era. No era porque lo hubiese recordado sino porque había visto su foto.

 - Buenos días. - dijo él. Me sonrió. - Dormiste bien?

Cerré la boca y la abrí de nuevo para contestar pero no salió ni una palabra. Debí parecer un pescado muriendo o algo por el estilo. Él pareció no darse cuenta o solo ignoró la situación. Se acercó y cogió la otra taza de café. Tomó un sonoro sorbo y luego hizo un sonido, como si hubiera tomado algo particularmente refrescante.

 - Justo lo que necesitaba. No soy nada sin el café de la mañana.

"Al demonio", pensé.

 - Eres el hermano de Cristina.

Él me volteó a mirar y, de inmediato, pude notar que su actitud relajada había desaparecido. Me preguntó si me acordaba de él y le respondí con toda honestidad. De la foto, sí. Pero no de anoche.

 - No recuerdas? Llegué tarde y mi hermana nos presentó. Les conté que había discutido con mi  familia y no tenía donde quedarme y tu me ofreciste tu casa.

No lo podía creer. Que carajos me había pasado? Así de bebido estaba? Por un momento dudé en creerle pero el tipo parecía preocupado y no había un actor tan bueno como para fingir un malestar de ese tamaño.

 - Lo siento. Estabas... Mierda. Me voy, no te preocupes.
 - No!

La palabra salió de mi boca, sin pensarla. Él se detuvo en sus pasos y me miró, con unos ojos que parecían de historieta, grandes y suplicantes.

 - Ya estás aquí. Toma el café y puedes desayunar conmigo. Ya dormimos juntos entonces, que más  da.

Él chico asintió y pareció aliviado. Hice sandwiches para cada uno, en pan baguette, con jamón y queso y tomate y lechuga y de todo. Quedaron deliciosos y me lo agradeció mucho.

Durante el desayuno, le pregunté porque había discutido con sus padres. Me confesó que les había confesado que era homosexual y ellos no lo habían aceptado.
Yo conocía bien a Cristina y sabía que amaba a su hermano. Eran amigos. Pero su familia era muy devota, de ir a la iglesia todos los domingos, y francamente la situación del chico no me sorprendía.

Tomamos jugo de naranja también, que él sirvió. Me confesó que no sabía que hacer, adonde ir. Yo solo podía decirle que todo se arreglaría con el tiempo, que las cosas sabían como encajar casi solas.

 - Que bebí ayer?

Mario, ese era su nombre, se rió de mi pregunta.

 - De verdad no recuerdas nada?

Y así era. Él se puso de pie y empezó a mirar en unas bolsas. Estaban llenas de botellas. Había de whisky, aguardiente, vino y vodka.

 - Que asco.
 - Si no has vomitado es que tienes buen estomago. Además el desayuno ayuda.

Sonreí ante su comentario.

Terminamos de comer y entonces entramos al cuarto. En ese momento, nos dimos cuenta que habíamos comido en ropa interior y camiseta pero nadie dijo nada. Cada uno recogió su ropa. Lo vi ponerse el pantalón mientras yo guardaba lo mío y entonces tuve una idea.

Siempre me habían dicho que no me arriesgaba lo suficiente, que me gustaba hacer todo lo que era seguro y nunca lo que era loco o inesperado. Y entonces me di cuenta que tenía a la mano una oportunidad.

 - Que vas a hacer? - le pregunté.
 - Verme con mi hermana. Es lo único que se me ocurre.

Asentí, todavía pensando en mi idea.

 - Gracias por tu ayuda.
 - De nada.

Lo acompañé a la puerta y entonces nos miramos y fue extraño. Sentí algo raro, como si ese momento ya hubiera ocurrido. Pero eso no importaba.

 - Te quieres quedar?

No, eso sonó raro.

 - Quiero decir... Para hacer algo? Iba a quedarme en la casa y pedir algo y ver películas. No sé si sea  buena idea pero si quieres... Podemos llamar a...

 - Sí. Sí, quiero.

Sonrió más que antes y otra vez sentí lo mismo, como si ya lo hubiera visto antes.

Se quitó su chaqueta y nos sentamos en el sofá. Allí empezamos a hablar y casi nunca dejamos de hacerlo. Ese día comimos juntos, reímos y compartimos gustos. Hacía mucho no me sentía tan a gusto compartiendo tanto tiempo con alguien, mucho menos alguien que prácticamente no conocía.

Él era divertido, muy gracioso y con bastantes anécdotas. Y él, al parecer, creía que mi vida era interesante y siempre quería saber más. Todo se sentía bien.

En la noche lo invité, de nuevo, a quedarse en mi casa. Esa vez lo hice sobrio y le ofrecí mi sofá.

Cuando me despedí antes de ir a dormir, me pidió un momento y me confesó algo:

 - Ayer... Antes de acostarnos, me diste un beso. Pensé que... deberías saberlo.

Y sin pensarlo, le di uno nuevo y lo invité a dormir a mi cama otra vez. Sabía que me sentía así por alguna razón y esa era. Algo había en él que me hacía sentir extraño, pero de una manera muy agradable.

The bare facts

Barcelona was beautiful, that couldn't be doubted. But after walking all around town, visiting museums, churches, squares and even the zoo, Liam was exhausted and in need of some time to relax.

So the day before leaving for home, he decided to visit the beaches of the city. He grabbed a backpack, put everything he needed in it and walked to the nearest metro station. In the train, he watched the people, as he always did. He loved to do that as he felt it gave him a vision of what people truly were and if the world was doomed or not.

At the next stop, a guy and his girlfriend (Liam inferred this from seeing them holding hands) entered the train. They were both really good looking: the girl had auburn hair, big eyes and a curvy body and the guy had nice legs, great arms and really sexy lips.

Liam stopped watching soon as he thought it would be most unsettling to notice a 28 year old guy looking at you as if you were a god or something. Instead, he checked his cellphone to see how many stops there were left.

Fifteen minutes later, he got off the train and walked up to the surface: the station was blocks away from the most popular beach. He walked a few meters but started to see loads and loads of people, coming in from every street and side. When he got to the boardwalk, he realized the place was packed.

Liam was alone and couldn't afford to leave his backpack where there were at least two hundred people watching. He was not only worried about being robbed, though, As he walked along the boardwalk, he also remembered how self-conscious he could be about his own body. He hated it but that was the way things were.

He walked, looking for an emptier part of the beach but that appeared to be useless. He crossed a marina and then a park and, finally, got to a much nicer and calmer beach. There was a huge rock in the entrance, possibly to make it a little less noisier for everyone.

Liam stepped on the sand and walked a bit until he saw the perfect spot by the ocean but with a good view from the water to check the backpack if it was needed.

He looked at both sides, seeing very few people and then took off his T-shirt. He put it in the backpack and pulled out a big blue towel. He sat on it and started to put some sunscreen on his skin when he noticed something peculiar.

A woman, maybe in her sixties, laid in the sand topless. She was not very far and Liam couldn't understand how he had not seen her before. The woman seemed to have fallen asleep as she was enjoying the sun.

Liam ignored this and continued to put on some sunscreen. He laid on his towel and put on his headphones to listen to music as he tanned with the sun. He sure needed it as his skin was very pale and in urgent need of some color.

He was starting to doze off when a volleyball hit him on the side. He was more scared than hurt but the young man rubbed his ribs anyway. Someone came running on the sand and grabbed the ball.

 - Sorry man. Are you okay?

 - Sure...

When the guy started to walk away, Liam gazed upwards and stopped faking he had been hurt. The guy was naked. Stark naked. not even wearing sandals or a watch.

Liam looked at him walk to his friends, who were also naked, and start their game again. He couldn't believe he was witnessing a naked game of volleyball.

Then he looked in another direction and he saw an older man walking a dog and behind him a couple playing with their baby. All of them were naked too.

The young man grabbed his phone and quickly wrote, already too nervous, the shame kicking in. Yeah, just what he thought. He had apparently walked straight into the only nude beach within the city limits.

To be correct, nudity was allowed but it wasn't exclusive. People could wear clothes if they wanted to and some were, mostly women wearing the lower part of their bikinis.

Liam looked for his T-shirt and put it on. He put everything back inside his backpack and started to walk when someone called him. And he knew they were calling him because they were yelling "metro boy".

Unbeknownst to him, the guy and the girl from the train were not very far from him. He hadn't seen them either, like the topless woman. For a moment, that seem to go for ages, he had no idea of what to do. But he had no other choice when the girl came up to him and greeted him, as if they were long time friends.

He grabbed him by the hand and took him to were the guy was. They said they had seen Liam in the train and that he looked foreign. He confirmed it and they told him they were foreigners too, from New Zealand. And they were brother and sister, so he had gotten that wrong.

It was all very nice but Liam was too uncomfortable. The girl had her top off and the guy was totally naked and, as expected, they both looked great. They had to be models or surfers or something like that.

 - I have to leave. Sorry. - said Liam, after 15 minutes of chatting.

They begged for him to stay but Liam insisted he had to leave.

 - Maybe you would feel better without the shirt. - said the guy.

Liam looked at him with anger but also with shame. That was maybe true but it wasn't that easy for him. Fed up with everything, he decided to be honest. He told them how uncomfortable he was at the moment and that he'd rather leave than make everyone feel awkward too.

The guy told him they had decided to speak to him because he seemed nice and he was alone, like them. He insisted on him taking off his shirt and talking to them. He clarified it was their first time in a nude beach too but that bodies were overrated.

Liam sat down and asked the guy to explain that to him. He responded that people that were really into people, had no trouble getting naked as they knew bodies are just a fraction of what a person really is.

 - An important fraction. The one you see at first glimpse. - replied Liam.

 - True. But you don't stay for it. And if you do, you're just a shallow idiot.

This made Liam smile. He then changed the subject and talked to them both for hours, about heir lives, their countries and what discoveries they had made in the city. They played UNO and, finally, Liam took off his shirt to swim with them.

When night was arriving, they went for dinner to a restaurant and then had some drinks. When he got to his hotel, a bit tipsy, Liam realized he had made new friends and, even if it only ended up being a "Facebook friendship", it didn't mattered. What was important was the fact he had decided to listen what others had to say and that opened more doors than the doubts he had.

Payaso

No era un nombre normal para un perro. Muchos decían incluso que los nombres de personas no eran para perros aunque había algunos que quedaban muy bien y ciertamente hubieran sido mejores para un animal tan noble como ese.

Era un golden retriever y su nombre era Payaso. Mucha gente prefería decirle "perro" o "perrito" que su nombre ya que pensaban que lo estaban insultando si lo decían en voz alta. Daba algo de vergüenza llamarlo en un parque por su nombre, sobre todo sabiendo que el perro era tan bien educado que solo respondía cuando decían su nombre completo, no de otra manera.

Su propietario, el señor Reyes, no daba explicación para el nombre pero decía que tenía buenas razones para llamarlo así. El señor Reyes tenía unos 70 años y tenía el perro desde hacía unos 3 años, por regalo de su hija, a quien tampoco le gustaba el nombre.

A pesar de que no era un hombre muy agradable en general, mucha gente había empezado a hablar con él desde que el perro había llegado a su hogar. La gente veía que el hombre era amable con la criatura y que este era gentil y dócil, y era imposible que fuese por entrenamiento previo ya que algunos vecinos podían jurar haber visto al perro cuando cachorro. Tenía que haber sido el señor Reyes.

La gente se les acercaba en el parque y acariciaban al perro y descubrían que ahora el señor Reyes era menos huraño y le encanta hablar de su mascota, un ejemplo de educación y bondad, según sus propias palabras.

Pero pasado un tiempo, algo cambió. No en la bondad de ambos seres, sino en el aspecto del señor Reyes. Era un hombre robusto, no muy alto, con cabellos rizado negro y ojos verdes penetrantes. Pero en días recientes sus ojos habían parecido perder brillo, su cabello lucía menos abundante y parecía más pequeño de lo que jamás había lucido.

El perro, sin embargo, seguía igual, eso sí, inseparable de su dueño humano. El señor Reyes ya no podía caminar tanto como antes y Payaso no tenía ningún problema en ayudarlo y esperarlo.

Entre los vecinos y amigos, corrieron rumores de una enfermedad grave pero nadie supo nada con certeza hasta que la hija del señor Reyes, la misma que le había regalado el perro, apareció un día en el edificio que vivía su padre para visitarlo. Salió llorosa de allí y cuando una mujer, encargada de la limpieza la consoló, le confesó que su padre tenía cáncer.

A nadie le importó de que o desde cuando. Los vecinos, los que más apreciaban tanto al dueño como al perro, fueron visitando de tanto en tanto. Había días que las visitas estaban fuera de discusión pero había otros en que el Ssñor Reyes los recibía como si la realeza estuviera de visitas.

El perro ayudaba como nunca antes. Ahora tenía un chaleco con bolsillos en los que estaban las pastillas que debía tomar su dueño, su celular e incluso un rastreador. Esto último porque un día el señor Reyes se había perdido en la ciudad, después de recibir noticias desalentadoras en el hospital. El animal lo había cuidado pero estuvieron perdidos juntos por varias horas.

Un vecino traía pastel y otra empanadas de carne. Otro más revistas y otro venía solo a charlar y el señor Reyes se sentía agradecido por todo. Después de que se iban era común que el hombre, antes una roca, se desmoronara y llorara por algunos minutos. Su mascota le brindaba una pata y su cabeza para acariciar y eso hacía magia en él.

Las sesiones de quimioterapia empezaron por esos mismos días. La hija del señor Reyes lo acompañaba cuando podía pero era tal la cantidad de trabajo que no podía cumplir con su responsabilidad todos los días. Habían contratado entonces a un entrenador para Payaso, para que este aprendiera todo lo necesario en relación al cuidado de personas en un estado tan delicado.

El perro aprendió bastante rápido, como si no pudiera esperar para empezar a ayudar. Y fue él el compañero ideal en la quimioterapia. El dolor, las ganas de vomitar, la desesperanza. Todo eso sabía manejarlo espléndidamente y de paso ayudaba a otros pacientes que estuvieran allí para el mismo tratamiento.

Los pacientes más cariñosos eran los niños sin duda. Y esto le partía el corazón al señor Reyes. Ver criaturas tan pequeñas, con una vida por delante, en semejantes condiciones. Solía pensar que él al menos había tenido una vida larga y plena. Había hecho lo que había querido y, aunque le dolería partir de este mundo, no sería algo injusto.

Había meses que se sentía mucho mejor y otros en los que no salía de la cama. La terapia se detenía durante un tiempo y revisaban como iba todo pero parecía ser un descenso lento pero progresivo.

La hija, harta de estar alejada de su padre, pidió vacaciones que tenía acumuladas y lo llevó con ella y su hijo a la playa. Payaso también los acompañó y se divirtió como nunca. Fue sin duda uno de los momentos más felices en la vida del señor Reyes: compartiendo recuerdos de su esposa con su hija, viendo a su nieto jugar con Payaso con tanta energía que parecía recargarlo y sentir el sol en su rostro. Todo eso lo hacía sentirse vivo y eso era para agradecer.

Lamentablemente, su salud decayó de golpe a su regreso. Tuvieron que internarlo y, solo un día después de aquello, el doctor avisó a su hija que no tenía mucho tiempo más de vida. Ella lo acompañó en la habitación, todos los días e incluso consiguió un permiso especial para que Payaso se quedara todo el día, ya que ella debía regresar a casa en la noche.

El día antes de su muerte, mientras su hija conseguía un café de máquina, el señor Reyes miró a Payaso y le recordó, sin palabras, porque ese era su nombre. Por la simple razón de que le había alegrado su vida, desde el primer momento. Era la chispa que lo había mantenido viviendo durante los últimos años y le agradecía a la vida haberlo conocido.

Le acarició la cabeza y el perro la apoyó en la cama. Cuando la hija llegó, su padre había muerto. El perro chillaba a su lado y ella lo acompañó en su dolor.

El funeral fue sencillo y asistieron bastantes personas, muchos vecinos y nuevos amigos que el señor Reyes había hecho en poco tiempo. La hija les agradeció a todos por su presencia y su apoyo y dejó a Payaso descansar junto a la tumba de su padre hasta que todos se hubieran ido.

El perro vivió entonces con ella y con su hijo y le dieron todo el amor que pudieron. La mascota tuvo cachorros con una perra vecina y se quedaron con uno de los perritos. Lo llamaron Rey, en honor al padre y dueño de Payaso.

Un día, en el que ella dejó la puerta abierta sin intención, el perro salió y recorrió la ciudad hasta llegar a la tumba de su dueño. Y allí murió, en paz.

The Hunt

He let his body fell into the water. It felt like ice surrounding him but he didn't mind at all. He spend a whole minute below water, before he had to emerge again, a bit less dizzy.

The lake was almost pitch black at this time of night, only the moon casted some light over the water and the nearby trees.

The man pulled out of the water, on the other side of the lake, and stripped down, entering the water again, now naked. The water felt less chilly now but he shivered anyway, his teeth chattering also.

He swam a few meters away from the shore but came back after his buttocks and feet started to hurt from the cold. As he had no way of drying himself with a towel, he remained naked, sitting down on a big rock, waiting for the water to slide down his body.

As he stroke his skin to get the water off, he heard the barking of dogs, far away, on the other side of the lake. So he had run far faster than them but they were still looking for him. He kept drying himself with his hands, making a special effort to hear every single sound on the forest.

Again, he heard the dogs, nearer. He grabbed his clothes and hid among some trees and waited there. Sure enough, a group of five men, each with a german Shepard dog, scouted the area, walking fast all along the shore. The dogs seemed puzzled as his scent ended there, in the edge of the lake. They were there for almost an hour, even checking the water with a flashlight.

After the hour, they left, entering the forest on the other side. The man could finally breath at ease and came out of the trees again. He left his clothes on the floor and sat down. He began to think on all that had happened that night. It was unreal to him, it seemed like a really bad prank. But it wasn't. Somehow, all of it happened.

He gazed at the clothes and saw that they still had stains of blood all over. Even if he got rid of the stains, he knew the police was aware of his clothes when he escaped their custody, so he decided to dig a hole and put them there. As he covered it all with dirt, he watched the sky: the night was clear and beautiful. He could see all the stars above and the constellations. He finally found the North Star and stood up.

He pointed at the star and moved his hand down, to a point behind the trees he had been hiding on went the dogs and police came. He then washed his hands, stomped on the ground to make it seem natural and then penetrated the forest.

The man walked for several hours and when he finally got to the edge of the forest, he encountered a road. No car was visible. it must have been really early in the morning and he knew it wasn't wise to be a naked guy near a road as it would be very suspicious.

He decided to cross the land, away from all roads or paths. His skin got scratched and hurt several times by barb wire and other elements that separated every single lot on his path.

That night, he didn't sleep. He just couldn't and wouldn't either. He decided to keep walking and when he got tired, he just lay on the ground, preferably on grass or against a tree, were shadows protected him.

The next day, he passed by a house that appeared to be empty. He grabbed some sweatpants and a hoodie from their clothes line and then stood by the back door for several minutes. He doubted if he should go inside or maybe try some other site. He needed shoes and socks, if he could find them. His feet were in very bad shape.

He finally decided to go in, as he was desperate and waiting was not an option. He knocked on the door and shouted "Hello?". He preferred, if people were inside, to be believed a homeless man and not a crazy killer or something.

The first room was the kitchen and his stomach growled instantly. He looked on the cupboard and grabbed some bread and drank milk that he found in the refrigerator. When he was done, he walked to the next room, the dining room. Connected to a sitting room.

Everything was so well done, so well decorated. There were pictures too, of a happy family: Mom, Dad, an older son and two younger daughters.

 - Who are you?

Scared by the voice of a young girl, the man dropped the picture and the glass shattered into a thousand pieces on the ground.

The girl was standing not too far from him. She was holding a knife. She looked 14, maybe older. She was wearing pijamas and slippers.

 - What are you doing here?
 - Please...
 - I'm calling the police.
 - No! Please. No...

The girl did not move from her spot. She got closer as he walked back to the kitchen. There, the girl opened a drawer and pulled out a gun. She left the knife on the counter. Pointing at him, she talked again:

 - Why did you took our clothes?
 - I was... I don't have clothes. Just, let me go, please.

The man gave a few steps towards the back door but the girl charged the gun and yelled " Don't you move!". The man, too weak to argue, fell on his knees and begged her to let him go. He swore he wasn't a thief or a murderer. He only needed clothes as he was escaping.

 - So you belong to the police. What innocent person escapes?

He gazed up and looked her, straight to her eyes.

 - Someone who is desperate.

On that precise moment, the girl flinched. The guy took advantage of this and stood up fast, pushing the door hard and running as fast as he could. The girl stood on the door and fired three times but she seemed to have failed her target.

When her parents got home, she told them all about the intruder. Her dad called the police and officers scouted the area but no one was found. However, some blood did appear on some corn crops belonging to the family's neighbor.

No one ever saw that man again. Months after his intrusion into that house, they found the clothes he had taken in a bin inside a restaurant located 20 kilometers to the north. But they never stopped looking for him. He was believed to be the killer of, at least, six people in the most brutal way possible. but the truth was even more twisted and difficult to believe. It was easier to hunt him down.