10: Memory

Diego Ballesteros

by Diego Ballesteros

Story

I meandered my way to Names’ room, crying so loudly that people locked their doors as I passed by. Snot and tears flew in and out around my face, creating a horrible cycle that left me almost drowning in my own body fluids. I walked hazily, unable to see at all, guided only by the faint sunrise beside Names’ door. My nose was burnt from wiping it repeatedly. I felt like I could rip it off my skull with every single wipe I took. I was crying as hard as the day I lost Tibu at the Avenue park when I was little. Tibu was the shark plushie my dad had bought for me before my birth, before he died. I was seven when I lost it, and I felt seven then.

I reached what I hoped was Names’ door and knocked as hard as I could.

Names screamed on the other side with such horror and rage that my tears dried instantly.

“STAY AWAY FROM ME!” she shouted. “LEAVE ME ALONE!”

My organs fell straight to the ground, and I collapsed to my knees, puking snot onto her doorstep. She must have realized it was me because I heard her steps quickly approaching me, almost with excitement.

She slammed the door open, holding a big kitchen knife, as I knelt in front of her, completely surrendered and devastated. My face met hers, and somehow she seemed to be having a worse time than I did, which made me smile a little bit for some strange reason.

She dropped the knife and held my head with her cold hands, then hugged me tighter than I’d ever been hugged before, literally.

“I had to tell his girlfriend that he died,” I told her. “She didn’t know.”

I looked up trying to find her gaze, and my teary eyes were met with her hollow eyes. My weary mouth was met by her somewhat smiling lips, and my coarse hands were held by her soft fingers as she dragged me into her bed. I splattered her pillow with my tears and snot, and she crawled up to me and held me, hugging me by my lower back, shoving her face into my chest.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

She shook her nose on my chest, and I felt her smile pressing on my upper belly. I lifted both of my arms and wrapped them around her ears, holding her head and brushing her beautiful white hair through my fingers. Time stopped at that moment, and it pondered as our breathing gradually became one. The first rays of sunlight seeped through the window and illuminated my smile. Looking around the room, trying to figure out if I was dreaming, I saw a big, dark wooden cross with a faceless Jesus Christ nailed to it, which confused me immensely. She always said she was an atheist.

“He wanted to live,” she said, barely able to utter that thought. “He begged God in Gethsemane to let him live. He spent thirty years building dreams, figuring it all out, only to be thrown to the wolves by his own Father. He had a life. He laughed and cried and hoped until they stripped him naked and cut his flesh to the bones.”

“And all that for what? For us? For this?”

© Diego Ballesteros 2024-07-23

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Novels & Stories