Top 10 Finalists in the #HealthyMind Short Story Contest

*****

1

THE TRAINS

ELENA BLÁZQUEZ VILLAR

The mother woke him up, as she did every morning. Under the dinosaur quilt, a tangle of unruly curls grooved and he didn’t want to rise. A little hand peeked out, threatening to swat. It was infinitely hard for him to return to the world each morning. His mother sometimes felt the child belonged more to the other world than to this one. Her dream was a chasm into which the boy descended each night with a cascade of vivid dreams that kept him in constant motion, which also meant his mother had to come in at midnight.

She ran her fingers along his back and a soft grunt told her he was returning from his nocturnal planet, though not in a good mood.
—Cereal with milk? Or would you prefer a toast with honey? Don’t play with the tablecloth, or the milk will spill. Today, perhaps fruit for recess. Tell me, do you prefer banana or apple? You’re wearing your freshly washed smock, please don’t stain it. Is it that you can’t play without making a mess?

She tried to comb the tangle of curls, though with limited success, because the curls, like the boy, were quite unruly.
—Marcos, where did you put your boots? Did you stash them again in the pantry? Use your memory, come on, you can’t go to school barefoot—what would Miss Elvira say? Help me look for them—did you find them a new hiding place?

When they finally get into the car, the sun has risen over the ridge opposite the house, and a pinkish light suggests a blue, cold day. As every morning, when they back the car out of the garage, they hear the flurry of small birds shooting off in all directions as the car passes the spruce. The mother, as always, tells him a moment before:
—Careful! The blackbirds and sparrows will explode in a flurry. Look how tucked in they are, poor things—what a scare they get! See there—a blue tit, how rare! It’s early for one in March. See its blue and yellow feathers? By the way, did you leave a little bread at the outside feeder? I reminded you when we got home yesterday. If we don’t put out food every day, they won’t survive these so-called cold winters.

The trip to the school passes in silence, the mother attentive to heavy traffic yet somehow absent; on the radio they discuss that the Audiencia Nacional has sentenced Trashorras to 34,715 years for his role in helping carry out the 11-M attacks. A man in a Volvo honks as they encroach slightly into his lane, pulling them from their reverie.

When they arrive at the school, the mother greets the other moms waiting at the door.

—Dress warmly, zip up, I’ll wipe your nose—the mucus is already dripping. Grab your backpack, come on! And the hat, put it on too, with this frost even ideas freeze, dear. Look, there’s Martín! And Carlitos has arrived too, what sleepy faces. Line up, the teacher Elvira is opening the door now.

The mothers exchange looks. They never know whether to follow the thread of conversation and prefer to stay silent. One more day.

—This has to end.
—But isn’t there anyone who can take care of this woman? Doesn’t she have family who could look after her?
—Any day now we’ll have a hard time. If, in the end, she could slip away and take one of our children. It’s a pity, yes, but I’m beginning to worry. Shouldn’t we talk to the police? The kids also suffer. Seeing her here every morning reminds me of Marcos.

The mother walks away with her endless monologue of care and admonitions toward the boy; the last thing you hear is: “Don’t forget, tomorrow is the 11th, I have to take the car to the workshop, so we’ll take the commuter train to come to school.”

**

2

THE PRISON OF MY MIND

ELENA BETHENCOURT RODRÍGUEZ

In the prison of my mind, the prisoners keep arriving. I tell you plainly, doctor, so you can picture it: most of the inmates don’t even know they’re serving time in my head, and they go on with life as if nothing happened, but I watch from inside. By the way, this couch is much more comfortable than the one from the last professional who treated me.

Take notes. As I was saying, when the condemned arrive, I follow the same protocol as in state prisons: I photograph them front and side, assign them numbers, and give them a uniform whose color changes with my mood. Sometimes I imagine them in orange; other times, in white and black stripes. Occasionally I dress them in gray, like the walls of this office.

At the entrance, I draft a report detailing, with meticulous care, the reasons I decided to imprison them. To ensure everything is crystal clear. Do not think I’m a monster or anything like that. Everything is documented; it isn’t whimsy.

The first prisoner was my mother. Guilty of my lack of self-esteem. A classic.

Since I was a child, she would tell me:
—You’re not cut out for this. Step aside. Don’t bother.

And in my early therapy sessions, the shrink explained it well.

—You have an childhood trauma. Your mother is responsible for making you feel unvalued in your youth.

And he was right. As soon as I put her in prison and cut her out of my life, I began to heal. Or at least that’s how it seemed.

My father came next.

For years he had been my idol, but after a regression therapy, the new psychiatrist concluded I had unresolved issues with the paternal figure. Maybe he spent too much time at work and never paid enough attention to me. A cliché.

—Sir, I didn’t think of it, but now that you say it, doctor, I see it too — I replied — not a kind word, not a kiss, not a hug, not a “well done, champ.”

Despite what the clinician said, it was hard to imprison my father because I adored him; but after his divorce from my mother, I decided to include that abandonment in the file of both of them. My mother was already inside, and what better punishment than to put them together now that they wanted to part?

My best childhood friend also landed there. He had that insolent charm, that ease at making friends. And I, no matter how many snacks and chocolates I bought for the other kids, they always preferred him.

He was a manual-worthy culprit. A culprit of what, you ask, doctor? Well, of provoking my envy. Into the dungeon he went as well.

My first girlfriend didn’t pass the cut either. She made me feel small. Not a hint of remorse she showed for making me jealous, mind you.

She didn’t realize that I needed to feel unique, desired, and happy. I had to deprive her of her freedom. And without bail.

And keep noting in that notebook, I haven’t finished yet. Over the years, coworkers, neighbors, distant family, and even a waiter who once took too long to bring me a letter, joined him.

They remain, crowded inside my head, without water or light, breathing the same stale air. They complain, thin out, suffer, fight. Let them rot! They should have thought twice before offending me.

Sometimes I even picture my old Language teacher dragging herself along a dark, narrow brain-corridor that oozes dampness.

—This is bleak and gloomy —she sobs.

—Bleak and gloomy, bleak and gloomy —I mockingly repeat— Can’t you learn or what? Do not use words I don’t understand, damn it!

My latest psychiatrist advised me to set them free. According to him, having so many people locked up in my head isn’t doing me any good. He said the real prisoner was me. It tore me apart that he could be so unsympathetic after I had poured out my heart. In the end, I had to tell him with tears in my eyes.

—Let’s see, doctor. Don’t you realize you’re my only friend? If they didn’t exist, we would have nothing to talk about.

He, stubborn as ever. That holding resentment only hurts the one who bears it. I should open the doors and let them out, little by little.

That I could revel in my own achievements. What a drag!

He gave me no choice. I dragged him out of the office and imprisoned him in my mental cell. That’s why I came to see you.

And don’t look at me like that, doctor; I could be next. Watch out, we’re just getting started.

Besides, this is basic psychiatry. You should know: what really destroys a person is having no one left to blame.

**

3

WITH AN UNCERTAIN COURSE

SOLEDAD LÓPEZ CRESPO

She flits among people, light as air because she is empty, and the murmuring follows her from a distance she pretends not to measure. With a vacant gaze and all of the past like a coat she wears, she wanders through unfamiliar streets. She sees, in the most absurd places, what she refuses to face. She recognizes her own face in any face, her name in every name. Then she stops, gets angry, and protests with someone who isn’t there.

But the emptiness in her eyes feels welcoming. I would say she longs for peace, for oblivion, to be hollow. To own an uninhabited space. To erase it. To disappear, so that no trace remains. To inhabit a world where their paths never crossed. Her fogged mind tries to believe that has already happened. That her senses have died, that she no longer recognizes it.

The flight of a bird brings her back. She watches it closely, with tenderness, calls to it, tries to caress it. Sitting on that bench, for a moment she no longer feels it inside, no longer occupies a place, no longer unsettles her by his name or similar eyes. She has let it go. She is ready to be born again, to inhabit that void. She smiles barely, shyly. A peace passes through her; she sees others, though she does not hear them. She laughs. I would say she no longer knows why she hurt.

She takes a cigarette to her mouth. Takes a long drag, squints, and exhales slowly.

A man passes by. He stops to look at her. She keeps her eyes closed. He looks through her hair at her face. Something inside him unravels, though his expression remains intact. He still thinks she is beautiful.

—Want a lighter? —he asks gently— What’s your name?

Even though she doesn’t need his answer.

She flares her eyes and searches her memory for a name. She only needs to say one name, one that describes her, distinguishes her from others, the name her mother used to call her. Her mother? She frowns. She can’t remember. A shadow crosses her face. Thoughts crowd in, disconnected, while one single sound emerges from memory: his name.

She sighs, tries to catch her breath, prays. Everything starts over again.

**

4

UNTITLED

MARÍA DE LA TORRE REGIDOR

1. I like to waste time. I like to stare into space, spend a morning reading or doodling. Take a walk nowhere. Do not do anything productive, let the hours drift by. Because it is impossible to waste time. Seconds don’t fall out of your pocket, minutes don’t forget themselves on the bus. Your time is always yours.

2. I hate wasting time. I hate the expression “waste time.” It’s impossible to waste time, but sometimes I don’t spend it on what I should; on doing something productive. I hate using the words invest and productivity when talking about time. It sounds as if I’m talking about a productive value rather than… about time. Yet I can’t escape the looks of disappointment that inevitably arise when people ask what you have done and what you haven’t. It seems that all the time you must be doing something. Even when you don’t feel like doing something or need to rest. Yet even then you feel guilty for doing nothing.

3. I like to eat. I like delicious things. Savor foods whose flavor and texture please me. Food is necessary to live and have energy. I know that well, but it’s also that eating can be a wonderful experience, full of scents, colors, and flavors that make you enjoy and be glad to be eating rather than merely satisfying a basic need. Savoring each spoonful of a bowl of soup, sipping the broth first and saving the pasta for last…

4. I don’t like the effects of eating. Feeling my body heavy, my belly bloated. Watching the numbers creep up on the scale. Feeling that each meal is a sum that will later require a subtraction. A subtraction to see my ribs again and forget about having thighs.

5. I like things to go well for me. For people to applaud when I do well. To feel admired by my peers and friends, to make my family proud. To crack a joke and have people laugh. To look as if I achieve things without effort because that seems more impressive than having worked to reach a result.

6. I don’t like failing. I’m afraid of failing. And the fear keeps me from sleeping. My stomach churns, my gut loosens, and the palms of my hands sweat. Nerves race through my body like electric shocks and keep me from doing anything. Perhaps, if I hadn’t feared letting someone down, things would have gone better. But honestly, I don’t know exactly who I fear letting down so much if others actually don’t care about my life at all… I suppose myself. I suppose.

7. I like…

8. What’s the point of making this list? What’s the point of going to sessions? What they tell me, I’ve told myself a thousand times. Maybe this is just a waste of time. Time and money… Because eighty euros an hour…

**

5

AUTOTHERAPY

ASIER SUSAETA DÍEZ DE BALDEÓN

The keyboard of his life has as many numbers as letters. The numbers cradle him while some words brandish sharp blades that, he says, cut into the fingertips. So, at that exact moment, at the same distance from the bravery of the masks thrown to the floor as from the cowardice that some third-person stories bring, he asked me to write this piece for him: his journey between what he can verbalize and what he still cannot say about “that.”

To break the ice, he tells me that on September 21, 2001, the AZF explosion in Toulouse killed 30 and injured more than two thousand. A few kilometers from the epicenter, in a second-floor classroom of an engineering university, during a thermodynamics class in fourth year, the building trembled. It was 10:17 in the morning on a cloudy day when a student turned in his chair and asked his roommate if he had felt it too. In less time than it takes to explain how the speed of seismic waves in the ground is faster than sound, the classroom windows shattered.

After the rain of glass and the hurried evacuation, that student freed his bicycle from the lock and pedaled home. He had gone to bed late after chaining a few beers at some friends’, so he decided to catch up on sleep. He pulled down the blinds and, before lying in bed, silenced his Nokia.

When he woke up, it was already dusk, and he found fifteen missed calls from his parents.

He often fantasizes that one day he’ll finally go to therapy to talk about “that.” His mother calls what happens to his father “that thing that happens to your father.” And for now, that is as far as he will write. In the session, the therapist (who he imagines as a woman, about fifty, dark-haired with a few gray strands) looks at him with that gentle gaze that would bother him so much. And she, around the second or third session, would ask: “Why don’t you call him Dad?” and he would stay silent for a minute that, he says, would cost a euro.

That September 21, 2001, he sat on his bed in his Rangueil neighborhood room and endured his father’s scolding for not having shown any sign of life, unaware that it would be the last time.

What happens to his father is like watching a plant dry out for lack of water. Or more precisely, as if, even wanting to water it, he had to witness through a reinforced glass how its leaves lose firmness day by day faster than time itself. This vision happens every Friday and Saturday at lunch, when he drives or walks to his parents’ house. Sitting at the table between the two of them, split by an equator that would divide him into two hemispheres, he looks to his right to observe his father through the reinforced glass; that man with a shell of retirement who, if science ever cloned him, would have in his son a reserve of intact DNA. It does not seem like such a big distance, even though that reinforced glass is impassable. It seems that the neural rhythms of those who attend a concert synchronize after an hour hearing the same songs. Some unreliable websites even claim that the Earth’s vibration is connected to human alpha waves. He watches the TV, where the final Wheel of Fortune board shows a garbled dessert: “B zcoho de ara ja y choco ate”; then he looks at the man who, a hand’s breadth away, struggles to guess which dessert it is. Then a few numbers come to mind with uneven impact: that he shares half of his genes with him, that he estimates that only 20 to 30 percent of that father who scolded him in 2001 will remain, or that if creativity improves when brain alpha waves approach 7.83 Hz, perhaps they should give those waves a little more time in this case.

He reads this text over my shoulder, paces nervously through the living room, and tells me to write that a few weeks ago — nearing fifty — he felt the earth tilt beneath his feet again. It happened in a grocery store in Izmir where he tried to explain himself to a product assistant using the Spanish-Turkish translator on his phone to tell her he was looking for a mosquito repellent. He felt as if that aisleed space laden with shelves was leaving port while the ceiling’s halogen lights swayed gently as if in the hand of an invisible being. That earthquake measured 6.2 on the Richter scale, caused two deaths when a building near the epicenter collapsed, and this time it was his mother who sent him a WhatsApp to check that he was okay.

Viewed in hindsight, it’s clear that when the ground shakes in his presence, the number of victims decreases while he becomes more of a father with each passing day, and his father, a son. They have crossed paths somewhere between Toulouse and Izmir, and one day, when the father turns away at a distance, he will almost vanish completely and ask, “Who are you?” and he will answer, “Your son.”

He sighs and tells me that that is enough for today. Before he closes the file, he asks me to show him the fingertips. “Lucky you,” he says when he sees there is no bleeding. Or perhaps there is.

**

6

MY HANDS

ANDRÉ WEISS

It was the first time I had felt something similar. It was real. I remember a pain in my chest and thinking I was having a heart attack that would kill me. The cardiologist told me a few days later that the heart does not hurt. No one spends two days at home with a heart attack and then goes to a clinic for a test.

I stayed two full days almost motionless, just to avoid forcing that heartache that ran through my chest. “It must be muscular,” he said with a smile.

Nor does it match the neurologist’s verdict: “You must be stressed.” I’m convinced I’ve suffered a stroke, though they can’t see anything in their tests. There were several days during which I sought different opinions, and all of them seemed wrong.

This was different, because the other thing I couldn’t see, either, was the cause of those other stabbing pains in my chest that are better left unsaid… The lung cancer had already claimed my mother and, this time, it was behind me.

No, now I could see it, I could feel it. And of course I could feel it if I had it within reach. That left hand, which had given me so much joy writing poems or drawing houses at the foot of a mountainside.

It was larger than the right hand. For some reason I’m still trying to figure out, it had mutated. I watched them side by side and made them touch. I confronted them palm to palm and the left hand stood out.

I couldn’t determine exactly when one hand had grown bigger than the other. I hypothesized many possibilities. One possibility that convinced me was that it was due to writing training. I related it to sports. For example, in development stages, basketball players, by constantly jumping, gain a few extra inches. If that could happen to them… why not my hand grow?

I already considered it a deformity. When I shopped at the supermarket, I kept my left hand in my hoodie or pants pocket. I never laid it on a counter, nor on a bench or at a shop.

It took me a long time to decide to see a specialist. I knew many trauma doctors or podiatrists, but what about hand specialists? If I asked, they would joke that I should go to a manicurist. Those jokers are never far away.

Luckily, I could greet people with my right hand. Otherwise, I might have been exposed all the time. I don’t remember how long passed between my discovery and the moment I decided to consult a hand specialist. It could have been months. Perhaps this problem was caused by a trauma, and clearly it wasn’t a mental trauma but a physical one. I booked an appointment by phone: the less I exposed myself, the better. When they asked the reason for the consultation, I simply said: “My hand hurts a little.”

Many nights I pondered the causes of my misfortune. I could never figure out when I started suffering from it, and I even thought maybe it was a birth defect. But if that were the case, had my parents, friends, and loved ones hidden this defect from me?

I remember very well the day I headed toward the clinic. Fortunately, I wouldn’t be treated by someone from the on-call team, but by a doctor who knew many hands and many conditions of these. The care during transport was quite extreme. For a moment I nearly stumbled in the bus after a sudden stop. My right hand wasn’t yet strong enough to support my entire weight.

A few blocks from the clinic, I wanted to pass a pharmacy to buy some tranquilizers. I was so nervous I would have taken the strongest sedative they had. My nerves betrayed me: the coins in my pocket to pay seemed to jump from my right hand and roll everywhere. My desperate search slowed under the watchful gaze of the pharmacist. Perhaps he thought: “Why doesn’t this man use both hands?” Of course, but he didn’t know my whole story or my problem.

When I could leave, a bit sweaty, I took one of the pills I had bought and kept walking a few more blocks. On the corner there was a furniture shop. In its display window hung a huge mirror that looked made for giants.

I couldn’t resist the temptation. First I looked around, and when I saw no one on the street, I pulled my left hand from my pocket. I stood tall, with a firm torso, looking toward the mirror. Arms and hands glued to the body.

My eyes saw something revelatory. My right hand was considerably smaller than the left. That made me wonder exactly when my right hand had shrunk. My pressure dropped a bit, and instinctively I put both hands in my pockets. I turned around and went home thinking about how I could get on a bus and pay without using either hand.

**

7

NINETY-FOUR METERS

MARÍA GÓMEZ-FERZ

Today, the neighbors of the town will remember for many years the day full of calls, rumors, visits and departures, hands on heads, hurried trips to the morgue, tears of anguish, and much confusion. Irene has left on her desk a note written in pen, beside the window where as a little girl she used to sit, fascinated by the moon: “Nothing lasts forever. If nothing lasts forever, nothing should hurt much. If nothing hurts a lot, it’s as if it doesn’t exist. If nothing lasts, it’s because it doesn’t exist. Nothing exists, nothing hurts. Not even me.”

Afterwards she walked out of the house on foot. She walked the same route she took yesterday with Lucas on the motorcycle. But everything is different now. The lush trees that accompanied her stroll yesterday are now a tangled, unpleasant undergrowth that lashes her face, and the sticky humidity clings to the grass on her legs. She has wandered for hours through the woods, snagging herself on thorns and slipping on the pebbles of a dusty trail.

She has just arrived at the viaduct. The sun has slipped behind her steps. She has gone away, through the mountains, calm, as if she doesn’t care to leave; she has taken the brightness with her, and the sky has fallen dark. The heat remains dense, though the back of her neck cools with sweat.

Irene stands before a ninety-four-meter abyss. The wind brushes her hair, tangling it in the lashes that frame her dull eyes. She closes her eyes and opens her arms. Exposed to the vastness, she raises her round face to the sky.

She thinks of other times when the wind has danced with her locks and blown across her face. Moments of happiness. Yes, they existed. Moments of love. Peaceful. With company. Moments of solitude too. She nods, her head moving to push hair away from her nose; her body shudders with vertigo in her stomach.

She drops her arms and looks at her white sneakers. Beneath the tips of her small feet, the void. It’s ninety-four meters, but she would reach it in a few steps if she moved a few more centimeters. The speed of the roller coaster at the amusement park where she spent those holidays with university friends, and the scandalous fear-laughter of everyone. The moment when Adrián hugged her by surprise as they walked along the ramp, “Crazy! You scared me!” and then he apologized between laughter and kissed her all over her face.

She looks again ahead, with no anchor anywhere. She could fall at any moment, without intention, simply because there is nowhere to grab onto. She has been on the viaduct for a few minutes; no car has passed. Lorena’s parents’ broad minivan, envying her self-confidence and serenity, and grateful to have been the best friends, even though many years have passed. Nicolás’ pristine sports car upholstery, he drove, his hand on Lucia’s thigh, teasing, and his satisfied growl, and her heart swelling, right before it breaks. Her mother getting into the car shortly before dying, without anyone knowing where she was headed. Her mother lying on the couch, the scarf tied round her head, calling her to give her a kiss. Her mother building the cloud house for the two of them.

There is no one. No car has passed, neither Adrián, nor Lorena, nor any college or workmate. Not even Nicolás. Nor is her mother there. On this bridge there is no one. If she goes down, Lucas will never be again. There will never be someone who looks, waits, hugs. No one who listens. No one who understands. No one who is.

If she goes down there will be questions, perhaps recriminations, or celebrations because Irene will be safe. Or perhaps there will be nothing. A damn deadly accident has taken away her only confidant; Lucas is no longer here; he was the only one left and he is no longer here. She remembers the boy, the teenager, the young man, the messages, the calls, the laughter, the attention, the looks, the complicity, the heart. He is no longer here, and he will not be.

Most of the people she knows do not have to find out that Irene has stood on this viaduct. Continue lying, or end it all to stop lying. Jump to stop covering up. Stay on this side of the mountains. Or have the courage to go down and face life.

How does one keep living when everything is lost. How to create a healing voice and truth. How to project a reflection in the mirror that returns an image of love. To keep walking to discover whether everything is a product of invention or of inaction. To speak to release and name to understand.

Going back down and retracing her steps exhausts her. One step forward, just a few centimeters, would be the exit. They would be the last. Reject a gift that was not asked for. Time to understand what one is here for. Down there there is nothing, only emptiness.

The inner voice stops being venomous and cruel. You don’t want to do it, you don’t want to kill yourself, you just want to stop being miserable, don’t throw yourself, Irene, I don’t know how we’ll do it, but we will, it will be hard, but wounds will heal, I’ll listen to you, I’ll hold you and we’ll take care of each other together.

The last hug from Lucas before fate took him: “Everything will be alright.”

**

8

TOAST

LEONARDO ECHEVERZ

On Fridays Luisa leaves a little early. She makes dinner and sets aside her nightly remedy. Before she goes, the old woman asks if she’ll come on Monday. Luisa says yes; she always comes on Mondays. They kiss. In the elevator she thinks the old woman sometimes forgets things, but never to ask if she will return.

She instinctively checks the bag with a quick scan: keys, wallet, the imported chocolates she gets as a prize from the old woman, discreetly.

When she steps outside, the heat is humid and it hits her hard. She walks to the bus stop, hugging the bag to her chest. People hurry at that hour. Luisa does not hurry. It’s been years since anyone has waited for her at home.

Her bus is late. She observes the people at the stop—the scene continually renewing. Some get on, others wait. When the 86 arrives, Luisa boards slowly, and a young man gives her a seat by the window. She rests the bag on her lap. She puts her glasses away in their case. She takes one of the chocolates and studies it. The wrapper bears gold letters and a name that sounds German. She is hungry. She still keeps that habit of not eating in front of others. It’s like something private. She contemplates opening it, but she keeps it for home where it will taste better.

The journey continues with the view through the window. She loves looking at the balconies of the apartments, imagining how it would be to live there. The bus lingers at a traffic light and Luisa focuses on each balcony. Some show movement. A woman watering plants, a man smoking at the railing with his phone in his hand. On another, a curly-haired child sits on a tricycle eating something.

On a third-floor balcony, white sheets flap in the wind. They puff and momentarily cover the entire window. Luisa thinks that she would like that apartment. She does not know why. Perhaps because of the sheets.

She recognizes the streets without paying them much mind. Some shops have already shuttered; others are gearing up for nightfall.

She gets off two stops earlier, as usual. She prefers to walk that stretch. She needs exercise after so much sitting.

At the corner, she waits for the light to change. A man sleeps on a pile of cardboard next to a pharmacy’s display. She carefully skirts around the white-and-red construction barriers. She threads around the pavement’s debris to avoid a stumble. They never finish tearing it up.

Finally she reaches the building. She looks for her keys before stopping in front of the door. She goes in and closes up quickly.

The hall still holds some of its old character: the granite floor, ceiling moldings. The walls have acclimated to the damp. The downstairs neighbor has filled the corridors with plastic pots and succulent jars.

She takes the old elevator up to the second floor. The corridor has only one light on. Luisa opens her apartment door, drops the bag on a chair, and unlatches her shoes.

She wiggles her toes and feels relief. She enters the living room and catches her reflection in the large, blurred mirror along the wall. She studies her belly and the breasts that once drew desire from men.

She lifts her shirt a bit. She tucks in her stomach. She releases it. She tucks it in again. She parades, wrists out, back straight as her mother taught her, this time without the book balancing on her head. She laughs. Some things one keeps doing even when no one is watching.

She seeks out the usual radio station. On Fridays, at that hour, they play zarzuelas and talk little. Luisa recognizes some numbers before the announcer says the name. Others she doesn’t. She turns up the volume and goes to the kitchen to drink a glass of water. She needs to reach the daily goal of a liter, as her doctor advised. She grabs the bottle of cleaner and the cloth from the white laundry cabinet.

Tonight it’s time for the old sideboard, that piece that holds all her treasures.

She must pull the bronze handle with careful firmness. When the doors swing open, a small lamp lights the interior. The movement makes a slight chime as the crystal glasses touch each other, never more than two seconds apart.

The sideboard gives off a special scent, a doughy mix of time with something fresh and surprisingly new. It’s a blend of all the things she keeps. The sum of the scents of her treasures.

She takes out the special-occasion dishes, the porcelain dogs, the party souvenirs. She places each item carefully on the table until the cabinet is emptied. She wipes the interior with a cloth and cleans each piece before returning it.

Outside, the grime persists, the smell of cat urine, the smog from the avenue that bursts forth without pause.

Inside, Luisa remembers the chocolate and places it on a small plate.

She pulls a bottle from the box and holds it up to the light.

She pours brandy from Jerez into a small glass, a gift from the old woman, brought from Spain. Perhaps the taste comes from her father, a Spanish immigrant. She knows there won’t be another bottle: every drop matters. She pours just enough, savoring slowly.

With the second sip the warmth travels down her throat and then to her chest. Luisa smiles.

The sideboard shines and the afternoon becomes another day.

**

9

THE SORROW

RAFAEL FUENTES PARDO

The sky, rather than just cloudy, looked dirty, as if someone had amused themselves hiding the sun with old newspapers. A strong breeze blew, waves breaking a few meters from the shore. A group of kids carried kites and boards from an old Caravelle van to the water.

I opened the chair and sat down.

After a while, a man stood beside me. He looked to be around forty, maybe in his early thirties; I never could quite estimate others’ ages. He had his hands behind his back and his gaze on the ground, as if looking for shells. Without lifting it, he said that foam tends to surprise us without leading us to boredom. He spoke with a seriousness that seemed aimed at the universe.

Then, as if nothing happened, he added that his name was Ezequiel.

I replied that my name was Antolín and offered him my hand. He held it for a few seconds, as if unsure what to do with it. When the moment started to feel awkward, he finally squeezed it and said that such a name for a port is odd.

I asked if he meant Antolín, but he denied it a couple of times and added that he referred to the boredom.

—Right.

—And about the waves, what do you say?

I remained silent. Ezequiel seemed a bit confused, perhaps it wasn’t wise to give him too much space or to contradict him. Eventually he answered himself and claimed that the waves need half the world and six thousand beaches to assemble the same silence that a conch shell offers from a small shop.

I studied his features more closely; perhaps he had some disability, yet he possessed an undeniable gift for words. I told him to take a towel from his bag and sit next to me. He looked me up and down, still very serious, and replied that he had not trusted the ground for a long time.

—And that’s why?

—Everyone knows that you die to have your own drowned people.

His share of reason echoed in my new friend Ezequiel, and what he didn’t know was where it would lead. I inquired about his profession. He said he worked the most miserable job in the world: as a boatswain.

—A boatswain?

—Yes; I’m always near the sea, but I’m always facing away from it.

Not wanting to stay silent, I said there were worse occupations, like in my case, that I’m merely a tourist. He looked at me with a little pity and said that “tourist” wasn’t even a real job. Not even a sad one. More like a joke. The first surfer began to rise. I asked if he enjoyed that sport. He nodded several times, as if a very small child or a bird pecking at seed. He added that that would be a good job indeed.

—A surfer?

—A kite.

We kept talking for a while and discovered that, besides the kite and the cloudy days, we shared a taste for beer and early retirement. One because of age and the other because of a syndrome called Williams-Beuren. He also told me other sea stories: how in great shipwrecks the ocean leaves the maps and there’s no place to dock a boat; that the Celts always had the sensibility to place theirs next to an island inhabited only by mermaids. After the last tale, he checked his wrist, where there wasn’t a single watch, and said the time had grown late. He said goodbye and headed toward the white building before the lighthouse. Later, at the hotel reception, they would explain to me that it is a multivalued care center.

Anyway, all of this happened yesterday, at the beach, while I spoke with Williams-Beuren as if I were another tourist. And I don’t know what you’ll think, but I think it was worth it. Maybe, which is why this morning I returned to the same place with a pair of chairs to see if my friend Ezequiel might come back. I must ask him if there’s news about the captain Long John Silver. After all, he seems the most suited — or perhaps the only possible — to continue our conversation.

**

10

UNHUMAN

MARTÍN SONDÓN

Just a few hours ago I had one of the worst therapy sessions I can remember. My anguish cut through me. That night-pill no longer suffices. Yet there are threads of perseverance guiding me. And I’m starting to write this diary at the suggestion of my psychologist. “It won’t work,” I told myself. “Try it,” she said. “What have you got to lose?” I said, “Okay.”

So here I am tonight, with a glass of wine alone, the glass and me. I write, remembering the path from the last session to my house. And I hope things will emerge.

Everything began after leaving therapy. I walk down a corridor and approach a beautiful door that leads outside. It has a blend of the old and the new. I see it as someone who crafted it wanted both the old and new to coexist with equal intensity. It’s like the talent for placing two opposites in one object. Like poets who love antitheses or oxymorons.

I feel that crossing that door will be fatal. This corridor is stirring tears that have not yet escaped. I feel this moment arriving. And as soon as I pass through that door I will cry a lot.

So it happens. I wear my glasses, which are like an umbrella. The mirrors protect me. No one crossing my path will know I am crying. No one will come near to ask me: “Why are you crying, ma’am?” I don’t want to cross paths with any known person. I don’t want to feel the necessity to tell. To explain. This crying is all mine. I hate it. I want it. I need it. I see it as inevitable.

I walk all the blocks toward my apartment. I dry my tears before they reach the rim of my lenses. I don’t want to savor them. I know I will when I reach my chair. Where I will remove the glasses like a sad clown who takes off his makeup after the show. It is very hard to be sad, to know you are sad, to have the same desire to cry as to heal. That is the essence of my anguish. And I practice it as best I can.

While I write this, following the therapist’s directions, I wonder if it will help tomorrow, or next month.

I go back in memory along the path of the tears. I pass a beautiful tree-lined promenade. I feel the temperature difference between this sidewalk and the one before. It is full of tiles, low shrubs, a sunny roof without the fresh shade of trees. I remember thinking: hello, environmental solutions. Imagine if every sidewalk in a city were a path with giant trees and grass as the ground. If we understood that those two degrees less are the closest we’ll come to a cure. Because we no longer talk about environmental solutions; we talk about illness. About healing, about mending.

And paradoxically, I am not healing. I am someone I want to be, but I won’t achieve. I have a voice that is heard. But I am three blocks away from the chair that will remind me that I am not healing that sadness, that anguish, that engine of pessimism that forces me to stay still. I don’t find that refreshing green path that would give me a breeze to caress me, to push me forward.

It’s very hard. I write knowing I am right in every line. I write with internal knowledge: I am what I cannot be. I firmly believe that that Place, of presentations, books, talks, compliments, is another Place. It is a character created by this Place that laments beneath the glasses and longs to reach the chair to continue the path of unrestrained anguish.

Why do I create this? And I know I will never know the answers. I only know the impulses that push my body down.

I talk to Grash and I look at him. And I cry. And I cry more. And I feel his shoulders, and his presence. His hugs heal me a bit. I see his patient listening and his desire to be part of the cure. And I accept inside that he is right. And I think I’m right. And in a few minutes I forget that optimism and I realize that it won’t be long before I find the lonely, tedious routine of my anguish. It’s there, latent. It has better weapons, more power than mine.

I am a battle with myself.

I have these weapons, I think:

1.- The love of my life. Beautiful, generous, singular, and companionable.

2.- The ideal job. Chosen, passionate, with infinite future.

3.- The growing recognition of a portion of society that thinks like me.

4.- The space of rest that a far yet close enough family grants me.

5.- The tireless and beautiful “siege” of my friends. Always ensuring we are together. Nothing more and nothing less than that. Being together.

But those are my weapons.

Now. As I write, I know they are not enough.

It is unbelievable that they are not enough.

Because when I reach the chair, they will be useless.

There are inexplicable forces. There are weapons that are only one. Invisible. They don’t smell, they don’t make a sound. They are there. Ravenous. And they know they can win simply by appearing in a second. And they are with me now. These words I’m writing now, recalling the path from the therapy session to this precise moment tonight as I sit before the computer, are a beautiful rainbow that appears after a storm. But the force I’m talking about, that constant gust, will make this writing just that, a beauty that disappears in a flash.

How will it be that I grew tired of writing. I hope I can continue this diary later. I hope the rainbow remains eternal.
Goodbye, Day 1.