𝐋𝐚 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐚|𝐑𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐜𝐜𝐢ó𝐧 (𝐄𝐒𝐏-𝐄𝐍𝐆)

Te levantas tarde. El sol entra por la persiana rota y tu madre ya grita en la cocina que son las doce, las doce del mediodía, pero te quedas en la cama escuchando los pasos de tu hermano que va y viene por el pasillo, siempre el mismo recorrido, siempre el mismo ruido contra el suelo. El móvil no tiene notificaciones, lo miras igual, y la foto de él sigue ahí, no la cambiaste.

Tu nombre es Laura, tienes veintidós años, dejaste la carrera en tercero, Literatura, no se lo dijiste a nadie hasta dos meses después, cuando tu madre se enteró por una carta de la universidad y te preguntó cómo se te ocurría y qué ibas a hacer ahora, y no supiste qué responder.

En la cocina preparas café, tu hermano Pablo está sentado en su silla, la misma silla de siempre, moviendo las manos frente a sus ojos, y le dices hola pero no responde, no mira, sigue con sus manos.

Tu madre pone un plato en el fregadero, golpea la loza y te pregunta si vas a hacer algo hoy, respondes que no sabes, y suelta ese claro que te deja sin aire, friega con fuerza, la espalda tensa, hay un silencio pesado y luego dice sin mirarte que ayer vino su madre, y no preguntas quién porque sabes que habla de él, que ya tiene novia, una chica de la facultad, de tu facultad, y el café sabe más amargo cuando dices que te da igual, y ella se ríe diciendo claro, como todo te da igual, y no respondes mientras Pablo golpea la mesa con la palma, una, dos, tres veces.

Sales a la calle sin despedirte, el aire caliente, gente, ruido, la ciudad siempre igual, caminas sin rumbo hasta el centro, ves las terrazas llenas de gente que ríe y habla, gente que no eres tú, te sientas en un banco donde una mujer da migas a las palomas que se pelean mientras ella sonríe, y piensas en él, en cómo decía tu nombre, en cómo te sujetaba la mano, en cómo una tarde hace tres meses te dijo tenemos que hablar, y ya sabías lo que venía, cuando dijo no es por ti, es que necesito un tiempo. El móvil vibra con un mensaje de Carla preguntando si sales esta noche, que van a "Vereda Tropical", ese sitio al que fuiste una vez y odiaste el ruido, la gente, sentirte fuera de lugar, y escribes vale sin saber por qué dices que sí, tal vez porque no tienes nada que hacer, tal vez porque tu madre tiene razón, tal vez porque todo te da igual.

Vuelves a casa al atardecer, tu madre no está, Pablo sigue en su silla viendo la tele sin volumen, dibujos animados, él sonríe, y le preparas la cena, pan con tomate, jamón en trozos pequeños, siempre igual, él come mirando la tele sin mirarte.

Tu madre llega cuando ya es de noche, trae bolsas de comida, las deja en el suelo, respira hondo y dice que mañana tiene turno doble, que te toca quedarte con tu hermano, respondes vale, ella te mira, luego sube las bolsas a la encimera y dice que podrías buscar trabajo, y ya sé, que podrías hacer algo, y ya sé, que podrías dejar de mirar el móvil, y eso no lo sabes responder, ella tampoco espera respuesta. Te duchas, te vistes, te miras al espejo, la misma cara de siempre, la misma ropa de siempre, y luego el portal, la calle, gente que va y viene, tú también vas sin saber a dónde.

"Vereda Tropical" está en un sótano, música, luces de colores, gente sudando, bebiendo, buscando algo, Carla te ve y te abraza, huele a perfume barato y alcohol y te dice tía qué alegría, vas a ver qué noche, te lleva a la barra, te pide un trago, lo aceptas, bebes sin sed, el alcohol quema, bailas sin saber bailar, te mueves, la música es fuerte, no puedes pensar, y en un momento te separas de Carla, vas al baño, espejos sucios, luces blancas, otra vez tu cara, otra vez la misma.

Cuando sales lo ves en la pista, abrazado a una chica de pelo largo que ríe mientras él le susurra algo al oído, te quedas quieta, la música late en tus oídos, la gente pasa y te empujan, no te mueves, él te ve, te mira un segundo y luego mira hacia otro lado. Te das la vuelta, buscas a Carla, la encuentras en la barra, pides otro trago, te lo bebes de un trago, ella pregunta qué pasa y dices nada, bailas más, te mueves sin sentido, todo es borroso, y cuando miras hacia la pista ya no están, miras a los lados y no los ves.

Sales y el aire de la calle te golpea, adentro ruido, afuera silencio, se oyen coches a lo lejos, te sientas en la acera, enciendes un cigarro, no fumas casi nunca pero alguien te dio uno y lo aceptaste, piensas en tu madre, en lo que dijo esta mañana, en cómo se ríe de ti, en que tiene razón, piensas en Pablo, en sus manos, en su mundo donde todo es orden. Vuelves a entrar, Carla está con un chico, hablan, se ríen, te acercas y dices que te vas, ella pone cara rara pero sonríe y dice vale, hablamos mañana, y sabes que no hablaran mañana.

Llegas a casa a las tres. Entras despacio, no quieres que se despierten. La luz del pasillo está encendida. Tu madre está en el sofá con la tele puesta sin volumen. Le preguntas qué haces despierta. Te mira. Tiene los ojos rojos, ha llorado. Dice que Pablo no quería dormirse, que se puso nervioso, que lleva así desde que te fuiste.

Entonces lo oyes. Desde su habitación. Un golpe. Otro.

Entras corriendo. Pablo está en el suelo, tirado al lado de la cama, golpeándose la cabeza contra la pared. Una vez. Otra vez. Otra. Gritas su nombre, te tiras al suelo con él, intentas agarrarlo, es más fuerte, mueve los brazos y te golpea sin querer, duele. Le dices tranquilo, tranquilo, pero no para. En la pared hay una mancha de sangre. Tu madre llega y las dos intentan sujetarlo. Pablo grita, pero no es un grito normal, es un ruido raro, como de animal, como si no fuera él y después se queda quieto. Respira rápido, los ojos abiertos pero no mira nada. Le dices Pablo, estoy aquí pero no responde.
Después te abraza.
Después de sientan en el suelo.
Los tres.

Te quedas mirando la mancha. Es pequeña. Oscura. Parece cualquier cosa.

_{This is an original text written in Spanish and translated into English using Google Translate}

You wake up late. The sun streams through the broken blinds, and your mother is already shouting in the kitchen that it's noon, noon, but you stay in bed listening to your brother's footsteps pacing back and forth in the hallway, always the same route, always the same sound against the floor. Your phone has no notifications, but you check it anyway, and his picture is still there; you didn't change it.

Your name is Laura, you're twenty-two, you dropped out of your Literature degree in your third year, and you didn't tell anyone until two months later, when your mother found out through a letter from the university and asked you how you could have done that and what you were going to do now, and you didn't know what to say.

In the kitchen, you're making coffee. Your brother Pablo is sitting in his chair, the same chair as always, moving his hands in front of his eyes, and you say hello, but he doesn't respond, he doesn't look at you, he just keeps gesturing with his hands.

Your mother puts a plate in the sink, taps the dishes, and asks if you're going to do anything today. You answer that you don't know, and she says that "of course" that leaves you breathless. She scrubs vigorously, her back tense. There's a heavy silence, and then, without looking at you, she says that his mother came yesterday. You don't ask who because you know she's talking about him, that he already has a girlfriend, a girl from college, from your college. And the coffee tastes more bitter when you say you don't care, and she laughs, saying, "Of course, like you don't care about anything." And you don't answer while Pablo slams his palm on the table, once, twice, three times.

You step out onto the street without saying goodbye, the hot air, people, noise, the city always the same. You wander aimlessly to the center, see the terraces full of people laughing and talking, people who aren't you. You sit on a bench where a woman feeds crumbs to the pigeons that are fighting while she smiles, and you think about him, about how he said your name, how he held your hand, how one afternoon three months ago he told you, "We need to talk," and you already knew what was coming, when he said, "It's not about you, I just need some time." Your phone vibrates with a message from Carla asking if you're going out tonight, that they're going to "Vereda Tropical," that place you went to once and hated the noise, the people, feeling out of place, and you type "okay" without knowing why you're saying yes, maybe because you have nothing to do, maybe because your mother is right, maybe because you don't care about anything anymore.

You return home at dusk, your mother is not there, Pablo is still in his chair watching TV with the volume off, cartoons, he smiles, and you prepare his dinner, bread with tomato, ham in small pieces, always the same, he eats watching TV without looking at you.

Your mother arrives after dark, carrying bags of food. She sets them on the floor, takes a deep breath, and says she has a double shift tomorrow, so you have to stay with your brother. You reply, "Okay." She looks at you, then puts the bags on the counter and says you could look for a job. I know, I know. You could do something. I know, I know. You could stop looking at your phone. You don't know how to answer that, and she doesn't expect an answer either. You shower, get dressed, look in the mirror—the same old face, the same old clothes—and then the building entrance, the street, people coming and going. You go too, without knowing where you're going.

"Vereda Tropical" is in a basement, music, colored lights, people sweating, drinking, looking for something. Carla sees you and hugs you. She smells of cheap perfume and alcohol and says, "Auntie, what a joy! You'll see what a night it is." She takes you to the bar, orders you a drink, you accept, you drink even though you're not thirsty, the alcohol burns, you dance even though you don't know how, you move, the music is loud, you can't think, and at one point you separate from Carla, you go to the bathroom, dirty mirrors, white lights, your face again, the same one again.

When you come out you see him on the dance floor, hugging a girl with long hair who laughs while he whispers something in her ear. You stay still, the music throbbing in your ears, people pass by and push you, you don't move, he sees you, looks at you for a second and then looks away. You turn around, look for Carla, find her at the bar, order another drink, down it in one gulp, she asks what's wrong and you say nothing, you dance some more, you move aimlessly, everything is blurry, and when you look back at the dance floor they're gone, you look around and don't see them.

You go outside and the street air hits you, noise inside, silence outside, you hear cars in the distance, you sit on the sidewalk, light a cigarette, you hardly ever smoke but someone gave you one and you took it, you think about your mother, about what she said this morning, how she laughs at you, how she's right, you think about Pablo, about his hands, about his world where everything is order. You go back inside, Carla is with a guy, they're talking, laughing, you go over and say you're leaving, she makes a face but smiles and says okay, we'll talk tomorrow, and you know they won't talk tomorrow.

You get home at three. You go in quietly, not wanting to wake them. The hallway light is on. Your mother is on the sofa with the TV on, muted. You ask her what you're doing up. She looks at you. Her eyes are red; she's been crying. She says Pablo didn't want to go to sleep, that he got agitated, that he's been like this ever since you left.

Then you hear it. From his room. A thud. Another.

You run in. Pablo is on the floor, lying next to the bed, banging his head against the wall. Once. Again. Again. You scream his name, throw yourself to the floor with him, try to grab him, but he's stronger, swinging his arms and hitting you unintentionally; it hurts. You tell him to calm down, calm down, but he doesn't stop. There's a bloodstain on the wall. Your mother arrives, and you both try to hold him down. Pablo screams, but it's not a normal scream; it's a strange noise, like an animal, as if it's not him, and then he goes still. He's breathing fast, his eyes open, but he's not looking at anything. You say, "Pablo, I'm here," but he doesn't answer.

Then he hugs you.

Then you all sit on the ground.
All three of you.

You stare at the stain. It's small. Dark. It looks like nothing.