Follow by e-mail

Introduce your e-mail address to receive the news:

Blog Archive

Blog Visits: 143

Kindness

"I'm not a good person." She said it matter-of-factly, her gestures carefree. Her friends were looking at her in a serious face. Either they would burst out laughing at any time, or I just involuntarily attended to some form of confession.

I wanted to stop and stay to listen, I wanted to ask her why did she say she's not a good person. My legs ignored my curiosity and they continued walking, my mouth carried on with the ongoing conversation. But a part of me stayed with that confession and invented a whole person.

I thought about her appearance. She was blond. No. She was brunette. Reddish hair, blue eyes. No, green eyes. Average height, caffè latte was her skin color. She was wearing a white blouse, jeans, black boots. A nude colored jacket protected her against the wind, and I was satisfied with the way she was presented to my eyes.

Why did she say that she's not a good person? It wasn't enough to know how she looked like, I needed to invent a story for her.

It was likely that she had a sad past. Humiliated by her classmates, ignored by her parents, she must have thought that she wasn't good enough. But she was wrong.

Other times I imagined her being sincere, hindering her colleages, warning them like she was warning her two friends. No one believed her when she said, and she smiled.

I had imagined so many possibilities for this stranger that I had missed the obvious one.

My mysterious stranger, so many times by me reinvented, entered in the cafeteria where I was on a day that announced Spring. I still remembered her real look and, I don't know why, I beckoned at her and she interpreted that correctly, approaching to me.

I offered her a seat and she sat. Her smile left me speechless. I wanted to ask and I couldn't see the right time.

She waited and I asked, clumsy, why did she say that she's not a good person. Her calm smile muttered an only word. "Come". Hypnotized, I paid my bill and followed this stranger. She offered to get in her car and so I did. She explained that her name is Laura but that nothing of that mattered. That the only thing that mattered was to satisfy my curiosity.

She took me to a house in the suburbs and asked me to accompany her inside. I followed her steps after a secret, steps that led us to a room in the shadows. She caressed my hair and I shivered. She placed her lips on my cheek and her smile turned into grimace.

One. The shove that sat me on a chair that now I could see.
Two. The agile hands that closed the shackles around my wrists and ankles.
Three. She turned on the light and I saw the mutilated bodies of those that were listening when I first saw her.
Four. She nervously smiled, ear to ear, and only said "number sixty-seven".

The shadows came back and the pain was what remained.


Original in Spanish follows.


Bondad


"Yo no soy una buena persona". Lo dijo de manera casual, con despreocupación en sus gestos. Sus amigos la miraban con expresión seria. O estallaban en una carcajada, o acababa de asistir de manera involuntaria a una confesión.

Quería parar y quedarme a escuchar, quería preguntarle por qué ha dicho que no es una buena persona. Mis piernas ignoraron mi curiosidad y siguieron caminando, mi boca continuó con la conversación que estaba llevando. Pero una parte de mí se quedó con aquella confesión e inventó a una persona.

Le di vueltas a su aspecto. Era rubia. No. Era morena. Pelo castaño rojizo, ojos azules. No, verdes. De mediana estatura, piel color café con leche. Vestía una camisa blanca, pantalón vaquero, botas negras. Una chaqueta color crema le protegía del viento y yo me di por satisfecha con su apariencia.

¿Por qué dijo que ella no era una buena persona? No me bastaba con saber cómo lucía, necesitaba inventarle una historia.

Probablemente tenía un pasado triste. Humillada por sus compañeros, ignorada por sus padres, debió pensar que ella no era suficientemente buena. Pero se equivocaba.

Otras veces la imaginé siendo sincera, poniendo zancadillas a sus compañeros en el trabajo, avisándoles como avisaba a aquellos dos amigos suyos. Nadie le creía cuando lo decía y ella sonreía.

Había imaginado tantas posibilidades para esta desconocida que se me había escapado la obvia.

Un día que anunciaba primavera, mi misteriosa desconocida, tantas veces por mí reinventada, entró en la cafetería donde yo me encontraba. Aún recordaba su aspecto real y, no sé por qué, le hice una señal que ella interpretó correctamente, acercándose a mí.

Le ofrecí asiento y ella lo tomó. Su sonrisa me dejaba sin aliento. Quería preguntarle y no veía el momento.

Ella esperaba y yo pregunté, con torpeza, por qué dijo que no era una buena persona. Su sonrisa calmada musitó una única palabra. "Ven". Hipnotizada, pagué mi cuenta y seguí a esta extraña. Me ofreció entrar en su coche y así lo hice. Por el camino me explicó que su nombre era Laura pero que nada de eso importaba. Que todo lo que importaba era poder saciar mi curiosidad.

Me llevó a una casa en las afueras y me pidió que le acompañara dentro. Yo seguía sus pasos tras un secreto, pasos que nos llevaron a una habitación en la penumbra. Ella acarició mi pelo y me agité por dentro. Sus labios se posaron sobre mi mejilla y su sonrisa se tornó mueca.

Uno. Un empujón me sentó sobre un sillón que ahora veía.
Dos. Unas manos ágiles cerraron los grilletes alrededor de mis muñecas y tobillos.
Tres. Encendió la luz y vi los cuerpos mutilados de quienes la escuchaban cuando yo la vi por vez primera.
Cuatro. Sonrió de oreja a oreja, nerviosamente, y sólo dijo "número sesenta y siete".

La penumbra regresó y ya sólo quedó el dolor.
Posted by: Auryn Beorn on 02/02/2018 at 12:00:00 - 0 Comments

Comments :: Write a comment

There are no comments for this post.

Write a comment

Your name:
Your e-mail: (It won't be published.)

Your comment: