Click, click… boom

I thought about the time I was raped by three of my closest friends… the way they took turns satisfying themselves and the way I squeezed my teeth as I tried to fight back and eventually got too tired.

It’s like your heart is being squeezed with every breath you take because maybe you’re not meant to be breathing anymore.

I thought about this as I drove with my son to the park, I was crying and couldn’t stop and he sat quietly in the back watching a video on his tablet. I used to think I would never be one of those parents that would use a tablet as a substitute babysitter… everything changes once you actually have them with you. His handgun sat in its case under the driver’s seat. We hit a red light and I almost became afraid to carry on with it. I thought about the time I was raped by three of my closest friends… the way they took turns satisfying themselves and the way I squeezed my teeth as I tried to fight back and eventually got too tired. I thought about the time his father told me he was leaving me for another woman because I no longer satisfied him as a man. I thought about the look of disappointment on my mother when I returned home that day telling her she was right all along and he wasn’t a good man. I thought about my ex boyfriend and how I walked in on him making love to my best friend on my bed. And finally… for some reason I thought about he last guy that tried to date me. He didn’t seem like a bad person, he was nice to me… he called me everyday and was always there when I had car trouble or plumbing issues. He never mentioned a girlfriend, not even after three months and we had sex for he first time. I found out through a common friend… he was engaged. His friends didn’t tell me, it was an old college friend, she was her co-teacher. I found out one afternoon when I stopped by to drop off an invitation for my son’s 5th birthday party … she had a picture of them on her phone as a screen saver. Her phone was ringing while she went to the restroom and I picked it up to hand it to her while my friend graded papers behind her desk…and there he was. I gave the invitation to my friend and left, I didn’t even stay to find out if he was he one calling her. I sent him a text message that night letting him know I knew I had just been a hoe on the side.

My self-esteem was at its lowest now, it was my ex boyfriend’s gun… maybe he left it behind for a reason. I had attempted suicide in the past at least three times. All three times someone called or showed up at my house at the moment when I was about to drink a cup of car coolant, mixed with my entire bottle of sleep medication. I never really bothered to find out if it would actually killed me. One day you wake up and you feel it; or in the middle of the day you just can’t take it anymore. Sometimes it’s at night when you’ve done all your laundry, the house is spotless, the dog has been fed, your son is spending the weekend at his grandparent’s …and then,the bottomless pit of loneliness is overwhelming. You know some people may be sad in the beginning, but eventually they will be better off without you. There is the never-ending fear of the unknown  of course; but this hurt today, and all the days prior, is unbearable and even what lays ahead, as doubtful as it may be, seems more welcoming than the hurt that is happening right now. I never wanted anyone to feel sorry for me, there were days when I wished with all my heart to stop time and be able to go back a few years back and be more of myself…  I wanted to not disappoint and do things that would make me happy, skip around the people who had hurt me and feel like I have had a fulfilling life.

I keep driving towards the park with him in the background… I feel sad because I know this will somehow mess him up… I’m hoping it won’t, I hope that it will somehow turn him into an outstanding human being. Since the day he was born, I begged that he is  stronger than I have ever been and that he makes a good life for himself. I want him to be better than me, often I have told myself that I feel so much unhappiness because I have given him all the one that was meant for me and he’ll never be sad a day in his life. I love my boy with all my heart, he’s the only good thing about me,  is what I tell anyone that gets to know me beyond the joyful person I pretend to be. I exercise every day at the police department after I’m done filing papers for the deputies…. but I’m exhausted. They never explain the tired feeling  when you’re depressed comes from existing and not so much from daily tasks you complete. Living is what hurts you, it’s what drains you.

I play in my head over and over again, the rifle marksmanship we went over in basic training while I was still in the ARMY… aim, breath control… trigger squeeze. I don’t have a rifle… it’s a handgun and he thought me how to use it a few times. I have a full magazine but I know only one bullet is enough… I was afraid to fail when I made the decision that this is how I would go; so I decided to leave all the bullets in the magazine and load the gun. I’m tired and afraid but I’m in control this time.

We’ve arrived at the park, I give him my cell-phone and tell to go play in the slide. Don’t take the tablet because the battery is almost out. In reality I want him to see he’s the picture on my screen saver. I want him to see it because I want him to remember when he thinks back to this day, that his face was the only face I cared to see and that although I never loved myself enough; I have loved him more than anyone can love another person. I love him to the point that it hurts me and that I know I’m not good enough to be his mother… I live afraid to turn him into me. There are other kids at the park… that’s good, it’s Sunday. I park under the acorn tree that stands like a loving grandmother, heavy with thick leaves and a firm trunk. I don’t even want the radio on, I let the engine run; next to me a handsome older man smiles as he walks by my window, I look up at him. I’m sure he can’t see my teary eyes from outside the car window… the sun is too bright. He’s wearing a gray shirt, sunglasses and a blue  base-ball cap. His grayed trimmed beard, like a George Clooney, hugs his chin as he passes by me with a little boy a little older than my son. I almost regret what I’m wearing today… I took my time picking the right shade of pink blouse and white shorts and now I almost feel ridiculous. The short sleeve shows the heart-shaped birth mark on my left arm, not ironic at all I think. The white shorts are gonna be stained with blood though. I’m waiting until the real life George Clooney is out of sight to go under the car seat and pull the gun out. I don’t know the brand or what it is… a 40?… my son just left the phone in a bench and climbed the stairs to the highest slide. I want to stop him but I don’t want to save myself anymore. I’m done, I’m tired, I don’t deserve him or his grandparents …you piece of shit, you selfish piece of shit . He’s sliding face first down the slide… the magazine is already in, I don’t know why but I put the gun to my stomach, I see him slide all the way down and I’m trying not blink as I hold my breath in. Good… he put his hands in front of his face and didn’t land face first. He gets up with that million-and-one dollar smile and the single dimple on his right cheek as he looks in my direction and then gets in line one more time. I’m having problems pulling on that thing that slides on top… slide… there it is. click-BOOM!




Sunday funday

Trustee status


It was visitation day at the prison… from the outside I kept watch of the inmates as they were called out to get ready for their visits. Twenty minutes of agonizing hurt as they spoke to their loved ones through a glass on a shitty phone that reeked of saliva and snot. No one ever cleaned those phones, or the glass or the floor of the visitation hallway.  the lights were also always dim, making the almost white paint and dirty floors seem more depressing.

I heard the slider open as the last guy who got a visit that day went out. I don’t even know what the fight was about. Jerry Springer was on TV, I sat there trying not to see the time on the computer screen. I heard yelling, something like slapping a slice of raw chicken on a plate and more screaming. I was cutting out pictures on a bible, trying to create a book scenery with a piece of a staple I found on the ground while the main corridor. I heard the guards come in to get the guys that were fighting. The picket officer was standing by the glass, a piece of cookie in his right hand, some crumbs on his shirt. They took the guys out, I didn’t bother hiding the cut out bible… the staple I just placed it between my two fingers and continued to lay on my bunk.
– who started it?
The fat corporal with the little boy face and fuck-boy hair cut. You knew he made rank because he knew enough people and came from a family of money, but the guy was a moron. He didn’t care about the fight any more than the rest of us in the tank. We were all just waiting to be sent to the releasing facility from here, some of us had a few months left to go, others were on their last two years.
-The black guy started it boss man
(Stupid Son Of a Bitch, that’s what BOSS stands for…backwards)
The black kid was the youngest one in the tank, he was given 5 years for stealing cars and managed to get a sentence reduction. He had only been here a few weeks and had completed one year of his sentence, goddamnit he was a pain in the ass. He rarely showered and each time he jerked off he did it in the toilet and not the shower… we caught his pubes on the seat of the toilet and sink every time. He wasn’t the only dark-haired one in the tank, but when you spend so much time around all the men, you recognize that black dudes have thick pubes, mexicans are curly also but they’re thinner… and well white guys’ are usually blonde or white because they’re old.
He had poor hygiene and we didn’t want him in the tank, I think the fat Asian just took the fall for all of us when he snatched his soup from his foot locker as he was playing cards with the old man.
The old man told the corporal everything, he knew because he had been sitting with the kid playing spades when he saw him get up and push the Asian. The Asian was sentenced two years for DWI’s … the old man was a murderer…. he had served 18 years for running over his granddaughter’s husband because he saw her slap her across the a face on Easter. He wasn’t a nice looking old man, he had done his time before he killed that poor fucker, his skin hung on him like old leather and it was gray from shoulder to shoulder with tattoos. The old man could make good Hooch, we respected him but he didn’t run the tank, that was the Mexican Mafia guy. He was here because he beat his kids so bad he broke one of their  arms and left the other one with older fractures. Somehow his wife took the blame and she was sentenced to twenty years in the state jail. We didn’t fuck  with that guy, we all just wanted out. He didn’t mess too much with us, he controlled the TV and the phones, he never stood in line to use the phone and no one else changed the channels without checking with him. Same thing with the toilet paper, we were given each two rolls a week but he never ran out.
– Trustee! come pick his stuff up and put it in the barber shop
I shoved the staple into my fingernail… it hurt like hell. The guard handed me a red net bag where I placed all his commissary stuff, I went under his mattress and grabbed all his correspondence, I found a kill shot, I thought about keeping it but something got tight in my stomach and my heart sank a little. It was a young girl, she wasn’t wearing a thong, she just rolled part of her underwear into her crack and some of her pussy showed. You could see an Linkin’ Park poster in the background of an almost messy room. I put the kill shot between the rest of his mail and did my best not to wrinkle the letters, I don’t know why but I felt bad for the kid. I placed the red bag in the barber shop as a guard attached a tag on it with the kid’s name on it… he’d be spending the rest of the day in “seg”, the night shift would take him out and bring him back. The fat corporal locked the door to the barber shop and left the section. I went back to the tank,
– and then there were 12
said the old man as he sat down to pick the cards up. I wasn’t sure what he meant with that… the old man said a lot of things that made no sense sometimes… he was also a little schizo.
The kid had been raised in a foster home…. not the kind with a family that could either be good or really fucked up and did it for the money. He lived in a youth home where there are a bunch of kids that no family wants to take in….ever.  He mentioned once tha t he knew he was taken from his mom when he was about three years old and lived in a few foster homes until around 10 years old. He tried to join the army at 18 but wasn’t able to make it past reception due to his low weight and other health problems. He was pretty small for his age, he also had a sixth toe growing right between his right pinky toe and the other toe… he also had a limp. The kid was fucked up… he drooled a little when he talked, the saliva would come off the corners of his lips and he made a snorting sound after every few words. The girl in the picture was really ugly… I wonder if she had some retardation or was also a foster kid. No one kept kill shots of their ugly girlfriends or wifes, that’s why they were kill shots… just for cumming, not for reminiscing.
The kid came back that night sometime around two in the morning… he smelled like piss. He was hugging his red bag, he didn’t even bother checking his commissary, he looked through the papers… found the kill shot and went to one of the sinks. I faced the other way, I felt so much pity. This kid didn’t have a damn thing…

El General Villa

Llegamos a donde la bruja… o la materia.. como le dijo el indio a mi amiga Zulema, la que quería que le quitaran la maldición gitana que tiene desde la preparatoria porque a sus 41 años aun no encuentra marido. Lo que nadie se atreve a decirle es que cuando usa tenis, le apestan los pies y debería depilares los pelos del bigote…



Jamás he sido creyente fiel. Si lo soy de Dios, pero solo hasta donde el miedo me alcanza. Como cuando vas a la primer entrevista de trabajo, o a la primera cita y rezas a todos los santos para que no parezcas pendejo frente a la chica que llevas observando desde hace tres meses en la clase de química. También lo soy de vez en cuando al escuchar ruidos extraños por la noche después de ver una película de terror basada en hechos reales. Esas como las de los exorcismos o casas poseídas por espíritus maniáticos y diabólicos. Ahí es cuando me medio acordaba del padre nuestro que me aprendí para la primera comunión. Así es… cagadamente católico con un aire de ateo arrepentido.

Vine a dar a la casa de los devotos del Niño Fidencio después de visitar San Luís Potosí en un viaje con amigas. Estábamos aburridos del trabajo en la facultad, no soy profesor… Peor aún, manejo la contabilidad del distrito que es todavía más pedante que dar clase en una secundaria o primaria.

En fin, a mí estaban por correrme del trabajo, aun así, me fui de viaje. Nos montamos en el avión, tres amigas más y yo. Según esto para cuidar de ellas, ya que ninguna sospechaba que si llegaban los del algún cartel yo sería capaz de salir corriendo antes que ellas. Tampoco se trataba de ir de hotel en hotel acostándome con cada una de ellas, ninguna me parecía atractiva… Ni siquiera para una noche. Eran bastante mayor que yo y demasiado fuera de condición. A mí me gustaba el boxing de igual manera que el comer.

Fuimos a dar con la casita de madera sobre una cima a no sé cuántas horas fuera de la ciudad de San Luís. No toda la gente hablaba español, y muchas de las mujeres traían el cabello colocado con estambres de colores y canastas de comida sobre la cabeza. Se montaban en los autobuses con jaulas de palos llenas de pollos y palomas… Que peste hacía.

Llegamos a donde la bruja… o la materia..como le dijo el indio a mi amiga Zulema, la que quería que le quitaran la maldición gitana que tiene desde la preparatoria porque a sus 41 años aún no encuentra marido. Lo que nadie se atreve a decirle es que cuando usa tenis, le apestan los pies y debería depilares los pelos del bigote.

En fin… Allá fuimos a dar, caminando la sima hasta donde estaba la casita de palos, había una pileta cerca de la entrada debajo de un árbol de anonas. Tenían un chiquero al fondo de la casa, lo olí antes de encontrarlo. A un lado estaba el baño… un gran pozo en la tierra, y para algo de privacidad, tres paredes de palitos con una cortina de trapo… mierda.

Llegamos cerca de las 5 de la tarde… Teníamos que quedarnos a dormir allí… mierda. Era Enero, hacia frio y no había agua caliente. Llegamos bastante agitados mis amigas y yo, sus enormes caras rojas pulsándoles la sangre por el movimiento físico. A mí me pesaban las cervezas de anoche, se me bajo la cruda a mitad de cima. Nos ofrecieron café negro y nos sentamos a comer un enorme tamal… zacahuil le llamo el indio. No tenía dientes y parecía que los huesos le iban a atravesar su piel canela… Silvestre creo que es su nombre en español.

Nos sentamos a comer todos los creyentes excepto la materia… Así se referían a las tres mujeres que estaban por recibir los espíritus que llegaban del otro mundo. Doña Mari recibía al Santo Niño Fidencio, Gabriela hablaba un dialecto que no entendía… en sí su español era malo, pero daba limpias y levantaba molleras. Doña Silvia me impacto más que todas. Decían que en ella se materializaban espíritus de seres queridos. Esa noche me tocó a mí la gran sorpresa… en ella se materializo el General Villa. No lo hubiera creído si me lo contaran… en medio del rito de cruzar sobre la ollita con sumerio, y ver a Gabriela con los ojos cerrados recorrer y reconocer a las personas haciendo línea para que les quitara sus malestares y maldiciones; que más bien eran el resultado del mal gobierno en un país pobre. Y mientras a Doña Silvia le cambio la voz, se le pusieron los ojos en blancos y empezó a curar al niño con porfiria, y a sobar a la señora que venía desde Tampico con cáncer de estómago, y a acomodarle el niño a Mireya que tenía 7 meses de embarazo y que además llego caminando… escuche una voz ronca que me mentó la madre con mucho afecto. Andaba Doña Silvia descalza  con su habito blanco y rojo. Su voz tranquila ahora era ronca y fuerte, los ojos no se le cerraron ni se le pusieron en blanco. Los traía completamente abiertos pero su color café claro estaba obscuro como la noche. Se le borraron las canas y de ella provenía un olor como a caballeriza. Me quede parado frente a ella sin habla con la boca media abierta

– ¡y tu pendejo! ¡déjate ya de chingaderas a ver si vas aprendiendo a hacerte hombre de una vez! ya no estés perdiendo el tiempo a lo pendejo y cuida de tu chingada madre que ninguno de tus hermanos vale madre, pero a ti es al que más le llora. Y deja esa pinche vieja zorra y búscate una que si valga por lo que le estas reventando el hígado a tu madre baboso… y ya ¡quítate pendejo! ¡¿no ves que voy a pasar?!

Siguió caminando sin voltear a verme siquiera. Siguió mentando madres y dando órdenes como imagino lo hubiera hecho el mismo general. Se me callo la cara de vergüenza. Había pasado navidad y año nuevo y yo ni siquiera le llame a mi mamá. Llevaba así ya casi 11 años. Siempre por querer llevarle la contraria, me enrede con una vieja… una pinche vieja que me hacía llorar lágrimas de sangre y me estaba cagando la vida. No podía dejarla porque cualquier cosa era mejor que regresar con la cara llena de vergüenza a decirle a mi mamá que me había equivocado.

Nos quedamos a dormir, toda la noche no se me calentaron los pies. No sé quien más se dio cuenta de lo que me dijo el general… a mí me faltaba valor, pero me hice el pretexto de que era una orden. No tenía cara para volver a casa de Inés y terminar con ella y sus tres hijos de nosequienchingadosperonomios. Dejé con ella mi ropa, mis cosas y jamás volví. Deje el teléfono a propósito en un baño en la estación de autobuses saliendo de San Luís a Veracruz donde tomaríamos el avión de vuelta a Houston.

Volví a casa, con mi mamá. Me dolió ver la casa descuidada con más madera que pintura en las paredes de afuera. Cuando abracé a mi mamá la sentí pequeña y acabada, tenía un mechón grande de canas. Esa noche dormí en casa después de más de 9 años, a eso de las tres de la mañana me despertó un olor a caballeriza. Me volví a acordar del padre nuestro de la primera comunión, pero me retumbaba tan fuerte el corazón que no lo pude terminar. Escuche una respiración fuerte a lado o tal vez era la mía que no reconocía porque seguía siendo igual de miedoso que a los 10 años… murmure …se me quito lo pendejo general… Y así como lo dije desapareció el olor a caballeriza, se me acostumbraron los ojos a la obscuridad y me quede dormido. A la mañana siguiente vi el retrato del general villa en la cocina de la casa de mi madre, con una velita blanca a medio quemar por debajo. En la esquina había un papelito blanco doblado en cuatro partes, lo desdoble … Mi general, quítale a mi hijo lo pendejo ….