JUANA
Again. She had to open her legs so that he could come in, she didn't want another beating, so she ignored the burning sensation or the awkward feeling of getting a piece of dried flesh inside her vagina.
There were no kisses, that stopped years ago, he was always late getting home, his tongue was a jumble of cheap rum and beer. With calloused fingers he touched her breasts, breasts that had fed three children with translucent milk and two others who did not drink a single drop because they were expelled from the cervix by the deadly impulse of the other.
She would close her eyes, she didn't like to see that greasy body on top of her, those legs that moved like those of a kicking horse, and he would curse because he hated her dryness. He didn't care, he stuck his fingers inside believing that this would bring the ocean that had retreated from the beach years ago. He would push, and push and push. He would get up furiously and push again. Her breasts ended up bruised from being squeezed so much as if they were a piece of lean meat. Telling him to stop was worse, he would lash out with more strength.
"Tell me to stop, tell me to stop." He would keep on pushing.
"Tell me to stop, tell me to stop." He would bite her.
"Tell me to stop, tell me to stop." He would hit her in the belly, he would squeeze her pelvis, flip her over and get inside.
The pillow by then was already wet from the sea of tears that she had to hide. If she cried it was worse.
When he let go off of her, her body was like insipid jelly, from not knowing how to run away or resist, he would get up with a beastly smile on his face and shout:
"That's right. Shit. Shit. Shit. You are my shit." And he fell over her body exhausted.
As soon as he fell asleep, she would get up to the bathroom, sometimes a little bit of blood would drip between her legs, at other times, just a milky fluid would come out. She had to go back to bed, or he would wake up, and she didn't want the little ones to find out that again, he had hit her over her lower belly, her chest, her childhood, her life.
In those moments she always thought about turning on the gas and curl up next to his children and be surrounded by a sweet death, but they knew nothing, they would wake up in the morning, laugh and go to school to learn new words.
"My mom spoils me; my mom loves me"
"My mom spoils me; my mom loves me"
"My mom spoils me; my mom loves me"
"My mom spoils me; my mom loves me"
"My mom spoils me; my mom loves me"
"My mom spoils me; my mom loves me"
"My mom spoils me; my mom loves me"
"My mom spoils me; my mom loves me"
"My mom spoils me; my mom loves me"
"My mom spoils me; my mom loves me"
"My mom spoils me; my mom loves me"
"My mom spoils me, my mom loves me,"
That’s what she read in of her child's notebook one night when she almost lit up the stove one last time. She couldn't. She couldn't. She couldn't. She couldn't. She couldn't. She couldn't. She couldn't. She can't. She can't. She can't. She can't. She can't. She can't. She can't. She can't. She can't. She can't. She can't. She wrote over her skin.
Del libro : Aquellas mujeres en Miniatura
