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Author: Caleb Y.Y
A woman with wrinkles on her face sat under the sun. She was barefoot, and the light fell on her thighs, gilding her tired skin.
I carefully lowered my feet from the bed and felt the warm floor. Then I heard her complaining:
—Tsk… Why is there so much light? I'm thirsty.
—Kell, bring me some water, please, son.
I had to obey. After all, this woman was my mother.
—Alright, Mom —I replied.
I passed by her. At least she was covered on the lower part, I thought.
I went to the kitchen. As soon as I crossed the door, a rotten smell hit me like a punch straight to the nose. My stomach churned.
An old fat man was sitting by the table.
That animal was picking between his teeth, digging insistently for scraps of meat stuck there. He licked one side, managed to get what he wanted… and ate it again. A knot formed in my throat, a shiver ran down my spine. It was… disgusting.
—Hey, boy —he said without even looking at me—. Here, buy me three cans of beer.
He raised his arm, offering me some wrinkled bills.
—Alright, but first I need to bring water to my mom.
—Well, hurry up.
I took a plastic cup and filled it with some water. I handed it to my mom. She thanked me with a weak voice.
Her body… carried the marks of men. Some on her abdomen. Others, bolder, on her neck.
I grabbed my shoes and started putting them on.
—Where are you going, son? —she asked.
—The man said to bring beer.
She lowered her gaze, a mix of sadness and anger.
—You don't have to obey him. I told you, if he speaks to you, don't answer.
That woman didn't want me involved in her kind of life.
But I couldn't help thinking: "If you don't want that, don't be a whore in your own house."
I didn't say it, of course. Still… I loved her. After all, she was my mother.
—Alright, Mom —I whispered—. This will be the last time.
I took the money and left. I walked to the liquor store.
—Here's your change, boy —the clerk said.
—Thanks.
At sixteen, everyone mistook me for a twelve-year-old. My height didn't help.
On the way back, I crossed a path full of rusty wires. One tore my jacket, and I had to force my way through to get out.
As I approached the house, I heard moans.
The fat man had noticed my arrival.
—Boy, bring the beer —he ordered.
—No, son. Don't go in! —Mom shouted—. Leave it at the door.
I placed the beer cans on the floor, along with the change.
—I'm leaving the money here —I said.
I heard my mother get up… then the muffled hits of the man against her.
Her moans mixed with the fat man's.
—Son… come back in the afternoon —she said through sighs and pain.
I didn't answer.
The man spoke for me:
—Your son's gone. I told you, he didn't listen.
I took a few steps and walked away.
I walked for two hours. I arrived at the market where Mom sometimes shopped.
My stomach growled, empty, reminding me I hadn't eaten anything.
I could've at least stolen ten bolivianos from that damn fat man, I thought, as hunger clenched my gut.
The sky had turned gray, almost black.
Then, without warning, it began to rain. Fast, cold drops fell with force.
The sound of water hitting the metal roofs was the only thing filling the street.
I covered myself with my torn jacket, but it was useless. Soon I was soaked.
The hunger hurt more in the cold.
I saw a dessert shop across the street. It had some tables outside, empty under the rain.
I thought about approaching, even just to smell something sweet.
Then I saw him.
Someone ran through the drops, completely dressed in black, head to toe.
Even his shoes shone wet.
He had a slender, almost elegant figure.
His dark brown hair stuck to his forehead, but when the light hit it, some strands seemed golden.
I don't know why I kept staring.
Maybe because, among so much misery, he seemed not to belong to this place.