In the morning I was awakened by a terrible famine. And the birds, yes, the fucking birds too, singing his little song of love in the window. The sun warms us all balls, all right, but the birds I softened the brain. They sing about comes off as if the world had once been a beautiful place. Unaware that there are tough and resolute men, men like me, you know where to buy a shotgun. Those of my window, I thought, did not know yet the charm of the Ochmoniak. Les
spared in any case, I could feel the walls of the small intestine urging, sticking stamps like the one to the other, growling and roaring like lions in cages recently, the very daughter of a bitch. I had to do something with what I said. So, I'm sorry, I realized that Vanish still mired in eternal sleep and left it there, on their own, dealing with Morpheus and the islands and coconuts, staining the pillowcase with brown blood, quietly.
closed the locked room and went upstairs. He did not believe in miracles, but I expected a nod unexpected, a mistake on the part of the lot, which allows me to stomach some of what they had. I opened every closet again, one by one, until the cans of Campbell's cream of mushroom. Would at least fifty cans stacked. The most recent, which was also the closest, had a whopping seven years expired. Life had stood intact mom, but ended up dying with it. They were, somehow, survived pantry and my only link with my mother since 1960, but I was starving.
While looking for something to open them, I could almost see there in front of that same closet, spitting blood on the tiles. I would have no sixteen. Dad had just broken nose after one of his fights. Some things are hard to remember. Others will not. Others live with us until the last day in hell, like a can of cream of mushroom. He could remember some of them, yes. My father remembered with vivid clarity, yelling in the backyard House:
- Damn useless! A man who can not stick with both hands is not a man!
That kind of thing infuriated me. Well, who would not? It was just a kid, living trying to please my father. I knew that I represented everything he never wanted and I tried to look what was not. We were fucking different, dammit. Both belonged to the caste of the losers, was more than evident, but within that curse that united us, we occupied rungs too far apart. And that was what made us hate, if anything, harder.
- Can you know what the hell you left, you idiot? Learn to hit like men!
found my mother lying on the kitchen floor. After grind to death, my father always went to the garage. He used to fix things. It was funny: the most skilful hands were often also the most daughters of bitches. There he found in his desk, trying to arrange a transistor with its filthy paws of bastard.
I did not say a word. I went to him with all my strength, I grabbed his neck with the five fingers of my right hand, clenched my teeth and with all the hate in the world, began to stir with my left fist to knock it down. I remember her looking at my eyes bulging, bloodshot, his neck hitting the ground, transistor-like hum that could be heard inside my head every time my father went over my mother like a cyclone. Yes, I remember all those things.
I hit him and hit him to break his nose. Was the least I could do for my mother. Her face was bleeding. My fist was still finding it endlessly. I suppose it taught me I do not know, now I remember well maybe because I'm dead, but I do not regret a single one of the hosts I gave him that day. I became a man.
Then I fled. My father told everyone that I had driven away, but it was not. I left there because I knew my mother would not forgive me what I had done. She was like a fool, too. And anyway, would rather be me who was. At that age he was already a proud little bastard.
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