divendres, 20 de novembre del 2009

The Red Cloud

Relat curt escrit el juny de 2009.

THE RED CLOUD

The clouds are in all shapes and sizes. There are sheep, fish and any kind of animal you imagine. They move in the time of the wind as if they do not want to reach the finishing line. Niamh looks at them profoundly. Time does not matter for her.

‘Those clouds are beautiful, Mummy!’

Niamh looks around startled. Her eyes seek his body over the grey ground. She has heard Dallán’s voice. Nobody and nothing surrounds her but walls and wire fences. But she has already heard his voice. It seems like Dallán was lying on the grass with his reddish hair spread around it, with his deep green eyes looking at the clouds and his left hand pointing them.

It is the first time in her life she is alone. She remains in the yard looking at the sky, where a red cloud is about to appear. She feels her throat being choked by an invisible hand. ‘It is the same feeling. Again.’

Her body was stuck on the floor as a tree that is not allowed to run away from the ground. Her nose bleed and the pain entered her head making impossible for her brain to work properly. Her head was touching the floor, whose cold relieved her pain. She wondered why the floor was not bloodstained. She would have prayed him to strike her another blow. She would have done it in order to allow her blood to go outside the room. ‘They will believe me, won’t they?’ she thought. But that was not going to happen.

‘Niamh! Stand up right now!’, a deep authoritative voice cried. Niamh felt a cold black metallic object touching her forehead. ‘Stand up, you bitch or I’ll kill you!’

Her white body was not affected by his words. The shouting continued but Niamh only heard the wind and saw the sheep shaped clouds. She felt the cold metallic object pressing her forehead stronger than ever. She wanted to tell him ‘Pull it! Pull it now!’ but she had to resign herself to think about it.

The phone rang and a slam was heard. She was saved again but it did not comfort her. White cotton met her nose softly absorbing the blood rapidly.

‘He’s gone, Mummy. I’m here. Don’t worry!’

‘Dallán, go to room. I’m OK! If he comes…’

‘Don’t worry! He’s away and he’s not going to came back till night. You know that!’

Niamh smiled soothed. She tried to stand up but her legs did not respond and her arms did not have enough strength. She went crawling at the sofa and managed to hold on to it. She finally sat down there.

‘Mum. I know where Dad put it away.’ Dallán stated firmly.

‘Really?’

‘Yes, Mum. You must take it and make it disappear.’

‘Yes. You’re right. Show me where it is.’

Dallán moved towards the drawer and pointed it. Niamh stood up with difficulty and opened it. There it was. It was big and black as she had imagined.

‘Dallán, you have to go to class, haven’t you?’

‘Yes. Will you be OK?’

‘Sure.’ she nodded looking at the drawer.

‘Ok. Take care, Mum. Bye!’

She did not answer. She looked at the drawer and took the metallic object on her hands. It was heavy. She touched the trigger carefully, then the barrel and finally the muzzle. She extracted the magazine and looked at it.

‘One will be enough.’ Niamh muttered while she felt her strength recovered. She saw the room becoming brighter.

Niamh went to her room and cleaned it with a handkerchief. She had made a decision. She would call her sister and ask her to pick Dallán up from the school. She would wait until the evening. She would put on some gloves and go into his room. He would be sitting on his chair writing an email. Niamh would call him – because she is not a coward – and after a shot everything would be finished.

It was 8 o’clock in the evening and everything was prepared. Niamh felt like the strongest woman in the world. She was different. She was young again. Her weakness had disappeared and her eyes shone. She was about to solve her situation and start anew. Niamh was not running away. She was facing him for the first time in her life.

Niamh walked towards her husband’s room slowly. She could hear some low noises behind that door. She was becoming more exciting as the moment approached. ‘Just one shot will be fine’ she thought. The gun was becoming heavier as the seconds went by. She was nervous. She heard the phone ringing but she ignored it. Niamh closed her eyes, opened the door immediately and shot. A bullet moved from the barrel to the muzzle and went out touching the air abruptly. A body fell down to the green floor. She had forgotten to call his name before shooting.

‘I am the force that turns the flower to the Sun!’ Niamh cried with her eyes still closed.

Niamh opened her eyes and she went a step backwards. Her mouth opened widely and her body became stiff. A shiver went through all her body. The green floor was bloodstained. The computer was bloodstained. The chair was bloodstained. His green eyes were open but they were not looking at the clouds anymore. His left hand held a piece of paper, where some words could be read from it:

‘I’m calling the police this very afternoon. You all can’t stand this situation anymore. Take Dallán and come with me.

Your sister that loves you,

Eileen.’

Niamh’s eyes lost her brightness. Her face darkened and her legs stiffed. A siren sound was heard and the door was broken down noisily.

dilluns, 25 de maig del 2009

La meva musa

Escrit el 25 de maig a les 00.42.

La Meva Musa


Uns ulls lluents m'observen des de la cantonada d'aquesta habitació. Sabia que tornaria. Em mira fixament sense fer cap gest, cap senyal. La veig. És menuda, sense veu. Té la cara demacrada. És jove? No. Existeix des dels inicis de la humanitat.

És horrible. No puc mirar-la sense que em produeixi un nus a l'estòmac. No puc afrontar-m'hi.
Quan somriu és encara més devastadora. El seu somriure és la seva salutació de benvinguda. Em diu: 'Ja torno a ser aquí. Sabia que no podies passar gaire temps sense mi.'

L'odio amb totes les meves forces. M'adreça el llapis. 'Escriu o dibuixa. Tu tries'. Alegrament acceptaria el llapis i li clavaria a l'ull. L'esborraria aquest somriure malèfic. Però no puc. I ella ho sap. Sap que no ho faré. Sap que la necessito. És cert. Escric i això em fa veure-la menys horrible, menys maleïda.

'Ets la meva musa?'
'Sí.'
'Quin és el teu nom?'
'Solitud.'

Qui és?

6 de març de 2009.

Qui és que sempre m'acompanya?
Qui és que vetlla les meves nits?
Qui és que em lleva amb mots a cau d'orella?
Qui és que en la foscor s'enfila al meu llit?
Qui és que amb la llum es disfressa?

No la veig però hi és.
M'odia amb coratge quan sobtadament m'oprimeix el pit fins al punt que puc mesurar l'aire restant.
M'odia però no m'ofega.
No em destruex perquè jo sóc l'única companya que té.
Sinó fos per mi, ella no existiria.

diumenge, 4 de gener del 2009

Fa tant de temps

Fa tant de temps


Fa tant de temps que no escric que la mà se m'ha adormit. De la ploma res no sorgeix i minut a minut el paper es consumeix. Una teranyina envolta els meus ulls, que observen perplexes el full en blanc. Estic a vessar de sentiments i pensaments que necessiten ser expressats. Després d'oracions sense sentit, recentment guixades, el full en blanc esdevé un quadre amb pinzellades en totes direccions sense cap camí a seguir.

Sóc només titella del meu bolígraf. És ell qui traça els meus passos i qui m'obliga a endarrerir, a desfer el camí. És ell qui em lliura de les preocupacions, qui em resol problemes i m'aclareix misteris, mentre em transporta per carreteres infinites, per milions de paisatges i vides. Però és ell que aturant-se m'escurça l'existència, m'allarga el neguit i la impaciència. Em deixa sola amb els meus pensaments, m'enfronta als meus sentiments, em presenta les meves pors i em serveix en safata a la ment en blanc.

dissabte, 3 de gener del 2009

En una facultat qualsevol...

En una facultat qualsevol

Un dia qualsevol entraràs a l’aula i a la cadira t’asseuràs, en un mes qualsevol d’un any qualsevol. I estarà plena, amb el professor corresponent assegut. I la pissarra serà al seu lloc i els guixos ben col·locats esperaran impacients.

A l’hora assignada l’estoig obriràs. Un bolígraf qualsevol damunt la taula deixaràs. Atentament al professor escoltaràs, ignorant la remor de fora l’aula. Per inèrcia, t’adreçaràs a agafar el bolígraf però no hi serà. Ni els llapis. Ni tan sols l’estoig que estratègicament havies col·locat. Descobriràs que la carpeta típica de la universitat també ha fugit.

Resta, però, un llibre qualsevol que encara la remor no ha pogut endur-se. L’agafaràs. L’obriràs per una pàgina qualsevol estrenyent les mans ben fort, anul·lant les seves intencions de fugida.

Malgrat l’esforç, una a una s’alçaran des del bell fons blanc groguenc i rugós. Una a una de l’A a la Z, formant paraules, oracions, interrogacions, admiracions i tot tipus d’enumeracions i ordres, en un idioma qualsevol. Prendran les il·lustracions com a banderes i marxaran bramant per la porta de l’aula.

I restaràs impassible aguantant encara un llibre que va ser. Estarà en blanc, inservible. La remor creixerà en aquella facultat qualsevol, un dia, un mes d’un any qualsevol i Tu estaràs sol/a en aquell espai que durant un temps fou una aula qualsevol.