She comes home only to cry on the bedroom. Everything around her is just a bunch of bullshit, so filth, but not only cause the full house is unclean. Since she can recall, the word "despair" pursuits her, like fleas to a mongrel.
Her husband gives pats on her back, not to confort but to understand. And therein lies their disgrace: almost half a century together, and he still cannot wreck her wall. The fucking mental wall she keeps building against the whole world -him more than no one– since they were just kids, listening the echoes of a bloody Tlatelolco at the radio, in the store in front of high school.
Not even the sacred vow of a life together is enough. For her, he is not a support; not even trustworthy; but the worst of all is that she is not the one who wants it that way. But the paradigm of her childhood at La Petrolera is stronger than her willing to trust the only one that, despite his almost deaf-mute personality, trust her.
Not even the sacred vow of a life together is enough. For her, he is not a support; not even trustworthy; but the worst of all is that she is not the one who wants it that way. But the paradigm of her childhood at La Petrolera is stronger than her willing to trust the only one that, despite his almost deaf-mute personality, trust her.
The minor disappointment will be at school 'til sunset, ignoring all that is happening at home, while the bigger one keeps listening while hiding in plain sight, not even breathing. Luckily (?) the most feared words doesn't appear at the conversation, and its immature heart goes back to a normal beat. Unfortunately, and as a part of the problem, it can't help the ones behind the bedroom's door.
Words like "robbery", "fraud", "disrespect", "gossip" or "idiot”, escape from the poorly sealed enclosure of the master bedroom. The usual and already known bullshit. The same crap that keeps going since a year ago, the same as always, plus the newest crap that came out just this weekend. Both of them are so jaded, so sick and tired...
And Despair is the only one, the only occupier, along with the dog, who lives at home on those four walls. The gray monster that crawls under the beds, feeding with her crying, with his guilt, with the minor disgrace's nihilism and the invisibility of the big one. And knowing it all, none of them is brave enough to take the broom and kick it out through the front door. Sometimes, someone trows the meat knife to the nearest inhabitant, in a failed attempt to threaten it so it goes away and never come back. With screamings that, for the deaft monster, are nothing but a small voice.
Words like "robbery", "fraud", "disrespect", "gossip" or "idiot”, escape from the poorly sealed enclosure of the master bedroom. The usual and already known bullshit. The same crap that keeps going since a year ago, the same as always, plus the newest crap that came out just this weekend. Both of them are so jaded, so sick and tired...
And Despair is the only one, the only occupier, along with the dog, who lives at home on those four walls. The gray monster that crawls under the beds, feeding with her crying, with his guilt, with the minor disgrace's nihilism and the invisibility of the big one. And knowing it all, none of them is brave enough to take the broom and kick it out through the front door. Sometimes, someone trows the meat knife to the nearest inhabitant, in a failed attempt to threaten it so it goes away and never come back. With screamings that, for the deaft monster, are nothing but a small voice.
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