I see her in front of her plate of fruit, beautiful, so perfect that I choose to ignore how crazy her complaint sounds.
"I swear someone watches me at night!"
"Maybe you had a bad dream."
"I'm sure that's not it. I know I woke up without any problem, but I couldn't move, nothing!" — A couple of things flew toward me, but it's nothing serious, I picked them up and put them back on the table — "Don't you dare treat me like I'm stupid!"
"But I never do. I'm sure it's that phenomenon known as sleep paralysis."
"You never believe me!"
The impact of the door tells me its hinges aren't at their best. The house is in that state, but to fulfill (one more) of my fiancée's whims, we accepted a classic property, not to say decrepit. There's nothing I can do to justify it. I don't like seeing her angry, so I end up accepting each of her conditions. That's how it's been for the last four years. Apart from that characteristic, she's perfect.
The property needs a lot of cleaning. I started yesterday and hope to finish before my vacation ends. While I run the rag and bleach over the blackened tile floors, I can't help but admire the choice of our new nest. Her mother inherited it, but I paid a fortune to have the papers changed to our name. The place is remote, so much so that not even the little shops that swarm everywhere are here. There's a guy on a motorcycle who brought us groceries, and I think he's the only person I've spoken to since we arrived.
"Talk to the boy!"
"What happened?"
"The broom broke. I told you I don't like these wooden things!"
I go up, and a little plastic on the thread keeps it working.
"Thanks, love. I know I can be a little desperate sometimes."
The tears flow again. It's not the first nor the last of her emotional falls. She has no tolerance for failure. A clear example is this place. She lived here with her grandmother for almost a decade, and now we're paying almost 30% extra for them to sell it, only because she didn't want anyone else to have it. They wouldn't value it, she said. Here we are with her hitting surfaces with a broom, which lost its head at that precise moment from the impacts. So she sat down, leaving everything in the same state it was in—a place full of boxes and furniture, some covered with tablecloths or sheets, the rest labeled without any care.
"This was my room, and I never left it this dirty... why did no one think I would return here?"
"Well, we'll sleep in the main bedroom."
"Of course! My grandmother had the best one. Here there's only history, and I don't want to know anything about it."
"Don't you have memories you'd like us to move?"
"No. What's more, can we burn these things?"
"It's illegal."
"Everything here is trash. I want to clean as a tribute to my grandmother, but as we get paid, we'll change this old style and put in something minimalist."
"Well, I don't know. I don't think the house can handle many modifications."
"Say yes."
"But the walls and floors aren't the right height or materials."
"Come on, say yes!"
"Fine. We'll see."
That's how every argument was resolved. I could present all the reality to her face; it didn't matter. Only having her answer in the end mattered, which mostly adjusted to her tastes. At times she sounded so selfish, but it wasn't that costly to please her, just tiring. When what she longed for was covered, that's when you really knew her: attentive, affectionate, concerned about me. The rest—like being combative or stubborn—was the least of it. For the relationship, it's enough for me.
An hour later I found myself cleaning alone. She, calmed down, worked a little and fell asleep in her bed. She looked very cute, so I moved several boxes to the front door to avoid waking her. Just as I was about to call her so we could stop and prepare food, something happened.
I felt a little cold. Nothing I couldn't handle after sweating from working. Maybe because she was trembling—not much, but as I approached I saw her with slightly blue lips. She seemed agitated. Running, I reached her side, knocking over the last boxes in the process. But not even the noise woke her; that worried me.
"Wake up, it's just a bad dream!" — But she didn't react. Worried, I grabbed a rag to wet it in her bathroom. When I wiped her face, I saw it wasn't dirt; her face was blackened. That gave me a very bad feeling. I hugged her tightly, feeling her cold while I was all hot from all the activity. Minutes passed, and I felt my body losing its heat. "My love, don't do this. I'm not going to abandon you."
She won't hesitate to do what you don't want
It wasn't a scream, not even a murmur, perhaps a sigh. It was there, right behind my ear. But upon hearing it, my wife calmed down. Her color slowly returned to her face. A few minutes later she opened her eyes, crying. According to her, she'd had a nightmare where she had abandoned her grandmother, her, and the whole family. It took me many hours to console her.
The next day nothing happened, apart from a renewed need to be by my side. She seemed to have the attitude of a daddy's girl. It was strange, but not so much that I stopped cleaning. The only thing I rescue from this hustle was a rag doll. From the last boxes it peeked out, a little flattened by the weight of the rest of the memories. From the tear in the cardboard, its eyes asked me for freedom, so I gave it. Dirty and all, it was a doll that perhaps formed part of my beloved's past.
The uncomfortable dreams became common. Not like the first day, but now she didn't need to sleep. We could be organizing the pantry and suddenly she'd cry—about the clothes she left poorly arranged, about her friends she never told we were moving, about the experience of bringing me to a house in such bad condition. The good thing is she doesn't get that cold, except at night when suddenly extremely cold feet attack my back or any part of my body. But according to my friends, that's not unusual.
I've been working for a month, and today I returned to find the bedroom full of children's things, even though the rest of the house remains dilapidated. When I asked her why she wasted the budget, she used her Bambi eyes. Because in her head, this was better than having reliable wiring or useful plumbing. I complained. I even took out the washed doll and told her it was necessary to use what she had. Her reaction I didn't like. She said it wasn't hers and she would never have something so old. I suppose she saw my expression because she changed her tone, saying I wasn't in that category... I didn't like it, and even less because I heard the voice again.
That's how you'll end up...
Like she left me.
That night I didn't sleep.
The funds are running low. I work without rest, but she does too. Still, I don't see anything progressing. I went to bed quite dissatisfied with how the house functions. At one in the morning, I felt the cold again on my back. I think I fell asleep without realizing it. My mouth is dry. I get up instinctively. She sleeps wrapped in the blankets, all of them, even though she says she doesn't. I considered taking a photo, but I preferred to let it go.
I go down to the kitchen, but I haven't finished drinking water when I hear her. She calls me.
"Where are you?"
"I'm cold!"
This is annoying! I was just about to drink water. Anyway, let's go back. However, upon reaching the bedroom, I don't see her. I don't know where she is. I start calling her, but I can't find out where she is. The hallway on the second floor begins to look terrifying. Creaks of old wood sound slowly, announcing to everyone that I'm advancing. The old house, dilapidated as it is, now makes the long shadows hide the light coming through the main window, giving the sensation of watchers, enemies hidden behind each of the hallway doors.
I've already checked the main bedroom. Next is where the deceased's husband lived. I firmly believe in the need to leave when things don't work, but they lived in another era. The door doesn't creak, but it doesn't need to. You can feel in its hinges that it doesn't want to be opened. I don't remember if I already put grease on it. It doesn't matter. In there is only a single bed, a closet, and a bathroom. The man lived abandoned by the family. He had nowhere to return. Strange as it may seem, he didn't mind staying in this house as a tenant, despite not sharing bed or table with the deceased. Even when there's daylight, the place doesn't seem to receive it. The switch tells me there's no electricity in the old wiring. So with my cell phone as support, I illuminate under the bed, inside his closet where his clothes still announce that he only had a few sets of shirts and two pants. The bathroom, curiously, is impeccable, but also empty.
"I'm very cold!"
The next room was for guests, but it's without a door. The hinges, however, are open, and upon entering, they seem to vibrate. The room is almost identical to the old man's, only they added a trunk at the foot of the bed. But the print of blue flowers on green backgrounds could have looked very beautiful when new. Now the flowers seem to stain their surroundings, as if with blood? I think I'm not in the right context to think of that word, but the feeling this room gives me with that print doesn't generate any calm.
"Why don't you want to come!"
There it is! It's the last room. Leaving this room, I feel the air is a bit heavy, as if it doesn't want me to leave. I can even see the hinges closed. Did I grease them too? It doesn't matter. I go to the room at the end of the corridor, where the woman who cared for the old lady in her last years supposedly lived. The door creaked. Inside, she was there, so beautifully asleep. On the floor was the doll. I don't think I saw it here last time. Maybe she took it while wandering, but it's strange. The room looks a lot like the one that was supposedly hers. There are boxes, many, of the same style as those I saw in her room. It doesn't matter. She's here. Surely she's cold. The moment I try to cover her with a blanket (what does it matter if we sleep here tonight? It's better that she rests), it begins to disintegrate. It doesn't make sense. I saw it, and it looked almost new. Is it dust, perhaps? No. With just applying a little force, my fingers tear the fabric.
That's why I'm always cold.
The voice didn't come from my beloved. I know. Better to wake her. It was hard. She couldn't open her eyes, and when she did, she bit me. It took me a while to calm her down. She says the bite was punishment for moving her to grandma's room... Before anything else happens, better I get her out of here. Tomorrow I must go to a church.
The temple received me quite well. It doesn't belong to any of the predominant religions. It's one of those small branches of Christianity, somewhat deformed but without abandoning its fundamentals. There, the preacher receives me, asking me everything she deems pertinent. I make sure she understands that I don't know much about the house. So she searches in her archives to know if there's anything non-sacred there. For some reason, they only talk about the former owner, a woman who loved the community, living one of the saddest stories they had on record:
The children began to get sick. Just when the lady reached her early sixties, she lost her son—an accident while trying to prevent a box from crushing her daughter. The sister and her entire family lost their lives from a heater that had a leak. The painful thing was her death. It happened when they gathered for dinner on a cold day in January. The police assume they were trying to enjoy themselves, until exhaustion alerted them. The child managed to make a call, but it was too late. By the time the police arrived, they weren't breathing anymore. The last of them, the woman, managed to reach the door, which unfortunately was closed. They still keep the photo of the hand on the door, with food grease. It didn't make much sense. But that wasn't the end of it. The deaths reached her nephews, uncles, even the second granddaughter, who lived on a scholarship abroad. She's been missing since last year. But there I had to confess that I now live with her living granddaughter. I got worried. I felt the weight of so many lives that, without thinking, little by little abandoned the community and those around them.
Before leaving, I asked if there were any other relatives left. They told me about the lady's sister. Her residence wasn't a very pleasant place to visit, but like everything, and in a desire that we could finally live comfortably, I made an appointment.
Upon returning, the problems continued. For some strange reason, the objects in the backyard, which represented a beautiful landscape with some stone garden ornaments, were invaded by an endless line of ants.
There I found my beloved. All the earth and gravel had been splashed while she, wearing beautiful designer boots, jumped without care in an effort to eliminate that path of insects.
"Why won't they disappear from my life?"
"Calm down, beautiful. They look ugly, but there aren't many plants that can be eliminated by such small ants."
"You don't understand! This is my grandmother's garden. I grew up here. All my beautiful memories while I played alone with her watching me are in this place that these damned demonic spawn are trying to steal from me."
It was late afternoon when I finally convinced her to return to the house. Although she fell asleep in the living room, I didn't dare separate myself from her. She seemed very fearful, as if something I wasn't seeing was causing her much unease.
When night came, I convinced her to go up to the bedroom. Unfortunately, sleep didn't come. There were little tapping sounds on the wood. They seemed very close, but even with flashlight in hand and going through all the rooms, I couldn't find the origin.
The next morning, with a stabbing pain in my head, I went out to observe the garden again. And there she was, laughing a little more sharply than anyone should, holding in her hands a disposable plastic bag and a lighter.
I know that kind of process. As a kid, I used a bag held by a little stick, set it on fire, and watched the trash burn. But she ran from one side to another with the bag flaming, dripping plastic onto the path of those insects. The truth is, it was shocking. But it's dangerous to do it without a tool that keeps the boiling rain away from your clothes and skin... much to my regret, there wasn't even time to warn her.
From laughter to a terrifying scream that sowed the whole house, I knew she didn't know the trick of the little stick. From there, everything happened quite quickly. At the sink, I managed to clean the affected area. Her forearm received splatter drips, and I had to pull off those small fragments of melted plastic.
"Be careful! Don't you understand it hurts?"
"Sweetie, you have to be very careful. Fortunately, it doesn't look like there will be long-term wounds."
"Don't lie to me! From here I can see how those damned bags of water are forming on me."
"They're blisters, and they won't hurt you. They'll just protect you while the scab on that part of your skin regenerates."
"I look horrible. I'm sure you're going to leave me."
The battle that day was very long. Hours trying to convince her that she was beautiful as she was. While I hugged her, I could see those blisters. They didn't have the traditional circular shape that a drop would generate... the splatter gave the impression of being a group of crying eyes. The only good thing is that I finally managed to get her to let me visit her grandmother's sister. I prefer not to tell her until I know what she knows.
The place screams two things in all directions: isolation and misery. High walls, somber colors. It's not a depressing colonial house; here they consciously built an entire hymn to sadness.
The reception is completely soundproofed. The lady who receives me there explains with grace that no one can enter until the medications are administered. So I sit and wait.
The music is drilling into what little patience I have left. The house is still far from ready. With suicidal determination, I managed to eradicate the garbage from the ground floor. But, according to me, the cost of furnishing this place is immense. I laughed without tears seeing the luxurious furniture she showed me, with lavish details, on the only screen in the living room, screaming with excitement while a color or photo of the furniture in question was displayed.
Finally, after an act of bureaucracy worthy of a public hospital, I got to meet the only living relative of my wife. The lady seemed anything but needing to live there. Wrapped in a couple of very cheerful flowered garments in a disgusting, old, ruined room, she knitted a tablecloth with a flower pattern in total oblivion.
"I'm sorry I didn't come before. I didn't know she still had family."
"I imagine you're that special someone she's always mentioning in her letters."
The question I was going to ask got choked up when I saw a pile of folded papers on the table. They didn't seem to be the type of papers issued in a letter accompanied by good intentions.
"May I?"
"You want to think she's a better person than you believe. My, how innocent you are."
"Better tell me what's happening. I'll read them as we go."
All the letters, without exception, asked her, begged her even, to go live in a slightly happier nursing home. Most were accompanied by brochures with information about various rest homes near where we lived... for a moment I considered if it really wasn't a good idea.
"Don't try it. Haven't you noticed the details? Don't tell me your brain turned off when you first kissed her."
"What didn't I see?"
The papers, while it was true they didn't seem very elegant, weren't threatening either. And the always flowery handwriting of my little one showed that she really cared about her aunt.
Until I saw it. The first papers were clear, and the pen barely touched the paper. As time progressed—and they were very short intervals, sometimes two letters the same day—the marks on the paper became deeper, thicker. She stopped using the stylized pen and started using a ballpoint. At the end, the last letter she had received in the morning was marked with stars in a sky using quite dark colors, as if trying to project her thoughts at that moment.
"So?"
"If I go to a place with fewer restrictions, you won't know about me."
I wanted to scream. It was hard to admit that the person didn't want to be happy just for the act of staying alive. The reality, on the other hand, was there, threatening with a quite horrifying love.
"Don't complicate yourself. You want to be there, don't you?"
"Yes... I don't know. These days have been quite complicated."
"Look. Without her by your side, fix the house as you want to see it. Learn to see yourself by her side, or not."
Leaving the place, the sensations don't pass. I'm certain that the person I love isn't truly interested in this old woman's well-being. But what alternatives are there? Does she really want her at risk? Is there perhaps someone interested in the place?
When I got home, dinner was ready. A rare thing—I'm always the one who prepares food. But like divine food, a soup and a couple of pieces of bread waited for me.
"What do I owe this miracle to?"
"I think I've abused you too much. I plan to cook for you from now on."
"Well, let's eat."
For some reason, she didn't comply. She looked at me with reproach. At that moment I saw her fingers, all bandaged. As I suspected, she didn't know how to cook. She held her gaze until I tried it. It tasted like any broth prepared with cube concentrate. But I didn't question. There were potatoes, carrots, and frozen vegetables. I couldn't ask for more. Except for this: dinner in silence. After years of knowing her, it was the first time she said nothing... she just smiled while she watched me see the bottom of the bowl.
The night brought me another benefit: intimacy. Weeks waiting for her. But it arrived and took away the bitterness and fears of situations beyond my control. My tired eyes saw the wall and the access door for the last time.
Pain and urgency snapped me out of my stupor. There was no time. I ran until I found a door I could open. The scarce light in the house barely let me see anything. But I didn't find the bathroom. I didn't see any, despite supposedly knowing where they were. I couldn't even find the one in the bedroom. At least the fresh wind tells me I'm in the backyard. Sweating, I cling to a pot, trying by all means to retain something. But I can't. I vomit. Everything. Including what I shouldn't. There was no meat, but there were some pieces and the aroma that only semi-digested protein has. The clouds opened a crack. Curiosity, the desire not to think, to forget weakness. I checked. There wasn't much to see. Until I imagined the pieces: poorly chewed tubers. With a small twig, I moved what looked like a skin. Lifting it, a couple of black threads accompanied it. Hair? Certainly it was the length and color of my beloved's. But I didn't eat any of that. It was broth, damn it! You don't hide something like that in there. At that point, while I lifted the stick and all my attention was on the hair, I felt a pull. Something wouldn't let it continue its ascent to my eyes. But seeing what held it—it was a hand! Small, chubby, with blue nails. I threw everything and ran back to wake her. Again the labyrinth. The doors didn't correspond to the rooms. I saw the double door of the study on the lower floor. The basement stairs passed before my eyes again and again like an old cartoon. The scream trying to leave my mouth couldn't. What if I attracted them? Who? When I reached the main stairs, I calmed down a bit. It wasn't possible. Or was it?
"Is anyone there?"
ignorant
The word emerged faintly, a mix of old wood and nails creaking.
"Is anyone there?"
everyone
"Will you leave? What did I do? What do I do?"
ignorant
The moon was kidnapped, and a wind blew from nowhere. I hold the railing to not lose myself. I fear that if I try to turn on the light, it won't come, and I'll remain inside this nightmare of shadows and voices. My hand, after winning the fight, presses the stair switch. Like a blessing, the light came. But upon turning, I realize my hand rests on a skull, which seems like a macabre motif at the beginning of the railing. When I forcefully withdraw my hand, it pushes this discovery. While the object falls backward and a thunder deprives the recent clarity, it resounds.
soon... justice will be done
That night I screamed until I lost consciousness. The next day, a cold hand told me the bathwater was ready. I wasn't at the house entrance. My exhausted body looked at her from the bed. What the hell am I doing here?
"I want a grill!"
"What?"
"You heard me. And I don't want something bought. Build it!"
"I've never tried... what's this all about?"
Breakfast was ruined just like that. It didn't make sense. She hates manly things. Besides, it's been a long time since I've known any friendship that would justify this. But there they were, the tears. There was little time left: accept or listen to her believe that I did terrible things and that's why no one loved her. So I looked for a spot in the house with good signal. There I watched videos on how to set walls (whatever that meant). I ordered the material, and by lunchtime the hardware store delivery arrived. I just didn't expect one more surprise.
"Come on, build. No food until then."
"But it won't be done in one afternoon. I think..."
"I want to see the charcoal burn!"
The door slam was heard all the way to the patio. She left for meat and charcoal. I set my hands in motion. At least these are quick-drying products. I made hollow columns with the bricks, put some reinforcements in the corners. Just when I was mixing the quick-dry cement, she appeared behind me.
"Why do you stink?"
"You're back?"
"Go. Shower. Wash your clothes by hand. And while you do, I'll finish."
"But what do you know about this?"
"The same as you."
I wanted to argue that I had a couple of hours of instructional videos, but it was ridiculous. So I went to the shower. I'd pay to have whatever we did today demolished and something new put in anyway. When I pass through the kitchen, I see a plate with bread spread with hazelnut cream. At least I won't die of hunger.
The water, for some reason, is extremely hot. Quickly, the grime from a whole day of activity comes off. But in the room, I'm not alone. I can feel the steam moving, not while I observe, but still, it feels like the whirlpool moves away, passes where the water falls, and goes to the door.
I dare you to burn me
I heard that clearly. Someone's here. The window leaves tremble from the impact. The steam abandons the room, but not the sensation of company.
Eat of me. You'll be guilty too.
I go out without putting anything on. The floor isn't wet. It's sticky. It doesn't matter. I run down while smiles sound in the walls, hidden in the noise of the wood as I step on it. The aroma starts to get very strong, so much so that I don't see the smoke. When I cross the door, the stench is terrible. I don't know how, but there was the grill. The steel grate held up by bricks deformed from lack of support. The charcoal burning with plastic and other flammable waste. In the center, my beloved, jumping, laughing while coughing. On the grill, some things resembling viscera, charred... for the first time I had no voice to speak to her. It was an image that made me return to the bedroom, get dressed, without rushing, take out the mask from when we painted, go down equipped. Now there were no laughs, only complaints, low, recriminations without voice. Upon entering, the table was set. Pieces of many things carbonized but raw inside rested on the kitchen counter.
"Nothing turns out right for me!"
"We'll order something online."
"You're not even going to try them? They're fresh."
The color wasn't right. The aroma, the shape. No! This has to stop.
"I'm not going to suffer from food poisoning. I'll take you out to dinner, but I'll throw this away tomorrow."
The screams were heard far away. It was our fight of the year. She insisted on eating it. Vomited. Then she chased me through the house with a piece of liver that was still dripping blood. When she saw my refusal, she threw it, then the rest. The downstairs floor won't be okay. In the end, she left demanding that I burn everything.
Here in the patio, about to light the charcoal again, I felt—of course it wasn't something real, but I felt it—there was someone behind me.
They deserve rest
I didn't want to think about it anymore. If that was enough, if any of these animals needed rest, I wouldn't refuse. At two in the morning, I finished digging. I looked for soft earth, in the corner. It moved easily.
It was always like this
I don't want to think. This needs rest. I dig, so fast my hands hurt, but it's not enough.
I loved her very much
Only me
Finally I felt solid ground. I had arrived. I don't know how, nor the hour, but finally it would end. They would rest, and so would I.
The little ones went first
Fortunate ones
I got out of the hole and ran, as fast as the legs of someone without food and with intense physical activity could. But it wasn't time to stop. I didn't want to keep listening.
The rest are here
Everywhere
But it wouldn't be easy for her
I reached the grill. I had already removed everything from there. The garbage bags had a surprising amount of meat for two people. Doesn't matter! This ends here. I dragged them, afraid they would tear, that the contents would fall. There was no alternative. My hands, full of blisters from working with the shovel, bled onto the bag. What did it matter! Only a few meters left.
Without bags
They would have wanted it that way
Fear made me follow instructions. I emptied everything. It made no sound. Finally it was over. Maybe I'll never eat meat again.
There's some in your mediocre walls
The night showed them with shadows (damn it that I didn't prioritize patio lamps), guiding my steps. I reached the horrendous construction. It hadn't dried, and this made it deform.
THROW THEM!
GATHER EVERYONE
That way, maybe, you'll save yourself.
The kick almost fractured my foot. I returned to the house and put on boots. I didn't see clocks. Everything was dead time, cold. The hostile house wouldn't let me in beyond the ground floor. So I didn't waste time. I returned and kicked everything down. Inside there was garbage, a lot. I put it in bags. The house creaked, pressured me to finish.
You were going to die anyway, you knew?
"Leave me alone! I'll finish your request, but don't torment me. I can't leave."
She worries you?
I didn't know how to respond. I don't have brain problems. I know or intuit what she did. Over how many people she stepped to achieve this. Love her? I don't think at this point that's possible. Even if she did things out of love... actually, I knew her well.
She was a sweet girl
But she wanted my house
I began to pour everything into the hole. I could almost swear that among the construction pieces there were bones. Doesn't matter. Neither that nor the scraps, pieces of charred fabric, a ring... God, let this end.
Today it's fulfilled
Pray for your choices
The shovel strokes were amidst gasps, tears, desperation. Would anyone believe what I lived? I wish someone would. I leave everything there—a blackish-red mound surrounded by grass. I walk back. No one stops me. I could flee. But after what I know, would there be forgiveness? I returned to the shower, abandoning hope. I don't think I deserved it. Everything happened so that these last two years would hurry. She really wanted the house. I returned to the bedroom. I wasn't cold, nor hungry. Perhaps that's the only consolation, a grace. I lay down. She was facing away, looking at the wall. There was no peaceful sleep. Maybe she deserved it. I closed my eyes.
I hear the door open. The floorboards no longer lamented. There, a hand of something, enormous, composed of everything bad that happened for us to come live here. Its face, despite the putrefaction, was still that of an old woman. But it had many arms, each holding something, except the one that only wore a bracelet with beads. That one rose to the face.
Shhhh
I could save her. Escape without her. At least scream in fear. But I didn't. The old woman had sutured eyes. The whole mass seemed a living sore. The aroma of burnt flesh assaulted my nose, but I resisted. I closed my eyes and slept. We deserved it.