Drownings, I felt drowned in memories I’d never lived, I was Tomás. I had... I had orange hair, a simple cut, I was a kid, maybe 14 years old. Was I... was I 14? I lost it, but only inside. I remember feeling a wind like the beach in winter, but it was autumn. My younger siblings, there, all innocent, running in the garden, stepping on the trimmed grass, playing tag near me, I was sitting on the swing with all the guilt in the world, I don’t remember anything else.
I was paralyzed. Mortified, butchered, caught on the run. But in reality, I didn’t move a muscle under my control, my mother was coming out of the garden shed, running toward the grills, holding up her long green dress so as not to dirty the grass, she grabbed the meat with a steel skewer and turned it so it wouldn’t burn, the smell coming from there was suffocating, charcoal mixed with blackberry perfume, there was no worse combination, pessimistic, right? I was just analyzing, not looking, not facing, just appreciating. Feeling nothing when nothing is impossible to feel, any child would give anything to be in my place, healthy family, healthy belongings, my stuffed animals were still loved. I could only think one thought at a time and they were big philosophers, mischievous but affectionate, but they burned energy that could power a trip out of this country. I was cornered by the rules, within my power as a minor. No second meaning, I wasn’t an author and never was, but I had the right to write one story per life, one I was supposed to be proud of, but I felt I’d reach chapter 25 of a long 19-season series. The episode system was getting obviously obsessed. That night I didn’t eat, I retouched the steak with care and still made mashed potato dunes. A barbecue outside, at night, with family, outdoor lights covering our area of culture and pleasant conversations about romances I could hold hands with, but never grab or feel. There was no texture, just ha... ha... ha, I felt guilty for not participating, I fell as if there was no ground, but the rug was covering me from the next fall: hell. I wanted to live until I was “independent,” to leave that house because I felt nothing for anyone, to leave because it was the place I cried the most, but also where I smiled the most, where I lived the most, but also where I had the greatest chance of dying. Anyway, today I woke up to the neighbor’s lawnmower, he seemed to be venting his breath into the atmosphere, covering fabrics with his fluids, didn’t do much, but didn’t do little, he was old, poor guy, I had school tomorrow, not like that guy, he had a good life until 27, exchanged a few smiles when I was 7 and never saw him the same way again, just because he avoided contact with the outside. Last week there were 7 cars at his door, he was taken somewhere and the next night he came back on foot from somewhere with torn clothes and blood in his eye. Theories: none, maybe it was his wife who pretended to like him for money, or one of those who wanted to inherit a lie. He never had anything to offer, had a weak smile, but with good intentions.I also remember carrying my unhappiness to school every day, no romance, just platonic kindnesses. I loved the staff lady, she was my best friend. Even if she ignored me, rolled her eyes, sighed, forced her voice and yelled, I felt good intentions behind that steel-door-level hostility. She never hit me, it was forbidden, but I’d report her for not doing what she should have done. It might sound rude, but she was worse. Imagine your Tiago stealing a chocolate milk, insulting you, suspending you, and if you fought back, you’d be the one in trouble and they’d victimize her. Let them burn in the depths of hell, making a good-hearted person look bad compared to someone who only wants good. You can’t have good in this world, it either goes bad or it goes to death. Not pessimistic, just realistic since I was four.
Speaking of age, I started driving at 15, a year after I’d had enough, I floored it, because my friend Michael pretended to be physically disabled at school, but in reality, he was a little mafia ninja, just faking it to skip class, rest his foot, and cry to get out of that life when no one was looking. I didn’t feel empathy, he understood my side, childhood sociopath. I skipped the 3:33 class to do donuts in the parking lot of an abandoned mall, a mile and a half away. Good memories, I defined them for myself, I’m proud. Let’s skip a few years: 21 years old, I’m working at my adoptive parents’ job—adoptive because I wanted to leave home even without the means, I was looking for transparency, perfection isn’t for me, you get it now? Well... continuing my little story: I worked as a waiter, table to table, spaghetti this, lukewarm coffee and a croissant that, steak with white rice, I was tired, about to faint. Imagine a guy with a shaved beard, face with red spots, sweaty, hair slightly up, waiter suit with a mustard stain on the sleeve... And now the camera is down by my stomach, slightly behind, looking up at my face from a low angle, every curve and movement recorded by left and right rotations. It was chaos, I could barely regulate the blood from my head to my legs and back again, didn’t need my head anymore anyway. I accepted it, 8 hours a day plus 2 extra, minimum wage plus 80 bucks, inappropriate vocabulary, sorry for the lack of formality, but I’m tired from my full-day shift, I was mistreated, few tips, but I always smiled and said “come again,” “thank you,” “how can I help you?” and that wasn’t for me. Even in those conditions it was better than perfection, I felt tired, but emotionally unavailable, a locked chest full of nothing. My adoptive parents wouldn’t stop commenting on my life, in front of me and praising me in front of their partners and friends who spoke out of obligation, for money, but it was more transparent anyway. I wasn’t 25, 25 years to wear myself out like that, I showed up at my grandmother’s house and said I was fed up, my grandmother dead, it was her grave, she talked about how she missed being a child, a child who only swung on the swing every day for 17 years, she greeted me and signaled she wanted space, but there was plenty, it was a wall of wood and earth, she wanted something more. She didn’t understand me, I got frustrated for her not answering me properly, I accused her of ruining my childhood, just on impulse, it was all familiar, it had happened before. She scolded me and said she wouldn’t make lasagna next Saturday.I ramped up the emotions, escalated and let the conversation go unguarded, and before she could answer, I kicked her headstone, shouted “YOU WERE NEVER THERE FOR ME” as if she’d been there before I was born, disturbed the dead, forgive me, they’re not at peace anymore.
She ruined my life, creating a generation that served as loose ends for gambling. I felt like I’d won a prize for hunting, I felt immortal, but a cop, Beliniana (I saw the name on her vest), saw me yelling, she respectfully touched my shoulder and asked me to leave, I was making the dead suffer.-"MAKE ME!"I shouted at her.
-"HEY, show some respect! I didn’t do anything to you, I can’t be your punching bag or your pillow for screaming sighs."She said, nervous, just doing her job, she had plenty of patience, her calm made me realize the situation, I was ridiculous, full of feelings about to overflow.
-"Hey... sorry, I had a rough time, I’m really sorry."I said, tail between my legs, regretting it, feeling like I was at the bottom of a two-meter pool full of chlorine, lungs full of air.
-"Hey? Look, you don’t have to apologize for what’s not your fault."I liked her, gained respect, we both knew it was my fault, but I didn’t want to make it explicit since she was questioning the opposite behind that statement. My arms were still numb from grabbing plates, and my legs sweaty from rubbing my skin while running through the place I’d just been. I just nodded, looked one last time at my dear grandmother’s fallen, cracked headstone, I wanted to kick it twice, but no, too much pressure. I lost good days thinking about what happened, in my second home (my adoptive parents’) with that suffocatingly familiar atmosphere, the transparency slowly getting cloudier, I couldn’t see anything but light, I wanted to see, to face and notice textures on the other side, but it was just light blinding me. I HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE! Without saying goodbye, I just grabbed underwear, pillow, money, posters of my favorite rock band, and of course, my stuffed animals. I left home exactly at half past midnight. I ran to the bus stop that was blocked by construction that hadn’t finished soon enough, it had been eight and a half years since I’d seen anyone interact with it. Luckily, the bus still passed there because of schools and colleges that forced students to have a future, or at least try, on the night shift. I’m in a hurry, I’m not well, life doesn’t wait. When the bus stopped right in front of me, causing a wind twice as strong as the one already blowing, I just walked the other way, I had no patience to wait... to wait for something I didn’t even know, I just knew I wanted to go the opposite direction, whatever that was. I wasn’t willing to go house to house my whole life, I wanted a family that would reveal itself. Just that.
I was willing to have a frame for every family, but there wasn’t enough space on my desk for all the ones I could have had. Words can’t describe the taste of sponge I had in my mouth after every scream muffled by pillows at night. I booked a hotel for that, to call it home for a while, until a little more than minimum wage lasted for a carton of milk, which isn’t that expensive these days. A lot has happened lately... let’s keep it simple—
— End —