by Hades
My eyes clung to her, half to look away from the fear of inclemency, half to find myself again. My heart’s pulse was somewhere in the distance, for it felt somewhat different, as if I was in two places at once. I could feel myself there, but part of the time I was somewhere else, somewhere higher, watching over my own body. It was a taste for the omniscient, knowing for the first time what it meant to have a soul.
Chills ran down my spine. They had been going down the whole time, but I hadn’t paid attention to that until now. For a second some sanity crept in my brain; but could it have been a breach of lunacy instead, saying I was doing something wrong? I had to throw out the possibility of sin. The man had said everything was good and I had to believe, for I was feeling better. Noelia was somewhere in the depths of my unconsciousness, but not close enough to have made a difference. It was only the present that mattered now. So, I held to my course, allowing the currents of fate to take me as they deemed fit, in straight path towards heaven or some unknown hell.
Mannerly conduct was consumed by flames and my mind slanted into the feral; I had become one with the black celebration.
Thus it was in this state of mind that I took no measure of morality, or what might come about because of it. I took her in, took her to me, and we embraced.
I do not think I was a victim of circumstances, but I cannot help to give myself an ounce of pardon for choosing the path I chose.
Putting it another way, I might quote from the note that was left for me on my doorstep sometime before the mountain incident, and that now fits in quite well. At the time I got the damn thing I thought it inconsequential, but of course it later proved of greater significance, for I did choose to follow its ideal almost to the letter. Thus, in order to better understand what happened in the mud, I will refer it now...
THE HUNGER
When the pulling of the mind, that causes one to think properly, begins to fade away as if torn by long-kept nails, one begins to see reality in a blissful wanton way. The talking of others only points to their desire to be near. One starts to contemplate the many ways to lure them to the place where all may start or stop to happen. It is this place where we are placed as we begin to disembark from inadequate to impulse. Here we begin to meditate upon the statements of morality – and wonder whether they (the morals) were given by some "Divine", or merely made of man. For if the latter... Then why not indulge – for a while – and think of common sense some other day.
I woke with the feeling of still being in a dream – awake, but with the sensation of being in a fairy tale. It was very early, about six, and the lady of mud was gone. I must have fallen asleep, at some point, but I couldn’t remember. In fact, the whole of it was dismal, again like a dream. I was on my back, by some shrubs, very confused about how I should feel; until the guilt prowled in.
It took a while for me to come to my senses, but when I did, the impact of “things happened” began to dig itself into my heel.
Shame: it is an ever-bruising substance that eats you, replacing other brain activities, so that gray matter can be left to function for this one purpose alone. It penetrates, always digging another hole into a part that’s still sensitive. And the sensitivity never dies, it just goes on, in different ways, always finding another mark to sore. I know now that the shame will never die.
This monster didn’t happen all at once. I will explain how it happened. As I remember, the more I walked down that place, the more the reality of what I’d done grew worse, as the fullness of my senses reawakened. Although I knew my mind must have been altered that night, I could not blame it on the drugs that must have been used. Though it was as a memory that engulfed me in mists, I can still clearly remember making the decisions. So I walked down the mountain that morning, every second the guilt becoming more intense, while my senses and sensitivity took on life. The severity of it came in waves, one after another, growing stronger and more destructive with each pass.
I tried to refuse the guilt at first, trying to deny my own blame of involvement.
“It had not been me, but the altered state which the whole of it had brought,” I told myself, walking faster down the slope to get away from it all. Then I pricked my bare foot on one of the necklaces made with thorns that had been left on the path. It made me more ashamed, as I had to stop and tend to the bleeding.
My mind came tumbling around me. Perhaps as Adam must have felt after the forbidden fruit. A full awareness of his bite must not have come at once, but in waves of awful increasing awareness, smashing down. That was the way I felt.
I walked, in the twilight; dark layer scaling and flaking off my skin. From afar, it might have made me look clothed, but up close I was just dirty. I walked like that all the way back to my room. The sun had already come up and by then it must have been close to seven, for there were people in the streets. It was an awful walk, for they looked at me, although to them I must have been a common sight, for most likely they too had come down from the ritual in a similar state. Luckily there were only a few out that early and only some of them were alert enough to take a second look, or to think anything of it. Still, it was embarrassing and the length of it went on and on, even though it wasn’t long before I reached my room.
There was the note, swaying in the wind and rippling back and forth. Getting closer, I could hear the crunching of the paper as the wind tossed it back and forth. (The breeze was mighty strong that morning, and it was phenomenal that the paper wasn’t blown off of that tiny nail.) Ripple-raffle, back and forth, went the vociferation of the man that had written it and enchanted life to it, so that it could laugh at me as I drew near. A bewitched paper, that had life to move, making the crunching-laughter that only I knew was laughter. There it swayed, making a mockery of me and while it did I realized it had all been a mistake that I could have avoided.
“IT” was not fate, but my own will, which cornered me into that awful spot. I had just followed suggestions, as a weak mind, but if I’d been strong, things could have been different, instead of this harsh reality. That knowledge pricked and scratched as if from the inside of my skin; but perhaps it could still be hid from Noelia. “I did not have to tell her. She did not have to know.”
I released the note from its place and read. Again, it was in Guarani, but that was of no difficulty. Perhaps the ritual had opened my eyes and taught me more about the language, for I could read and understand it as if it were written in my own tongue. And yet, I wish it hadn’t been so, for those words have anchored sadness to my soul and have stayed with me.
BREATH IN ARMOR
Breath standing
Mind wondering
Myth ending,
Reckless path.
All awaiting silhouette seducing
Passion leering at me.
Eyes over
Vision interest of a valiant end.
Pressing muscle tie to life
Pouring dirt then passing, and simply stating;
There is path.
Impulse of a visit to me
Take a stinging need-to-stretch wound in,
Like a rope, around your waist
Pull The Prong – path of mud .
Sinking still – another sting.
Watch beneath my breath for life.
Tell of story – bearing vision onto this,
A tragic night.
The wind caught the paper and began to make the same rattling laugh inside my hands: taunting me, dragging my nose in the grave mistake. “Rattle, rattle, rattle, ha,” it chortled, and again I knew my fate could have been altered. There it was, making me its object of chafe, and all the while I knew there could have been something other than that terrible decision taken. I could have altered this destiny, but instead I was a fool that had become a puppet, obeying suggestions that could have been disobeyed. I had created the path, I knew that now, but there was no turning back. The clock could not be reset, for I had made it run. The only thing left was to be angry with myself for following the music su
ng by the evil piper.
“Why?” I chastened myself, “Why, when it didn’t have to be this way? Why did it happen, why did I let it? Why didn’t I quit when there was still a chance?”
But what was there to do? All my anger would not help. It was done. I had let myself be deceived into thinking there was nothing I could do to fight fate, and now the night was gone. Although the blindness had insisted, I now realized fate was not already written, but only a blank tapestry full of suggestions.
So my heart sunk into despair, as I thought of the consequences to come. Though I tried desperately to find some escape, thinking maybe fate might yet be authored for tomorrow. Still, I knew that the shame would somehow give away my guilt. I had to lie to someone and tell myself there was some way to evade doom.
“Maybe it’s not too late for me” I said. But what I had really meant was “maybe it’s not too late for Noelia and I.”
Part 3
Beyond End
The night had faded and turned into day. I lay asleep as the hours rushed by, exhausted. Two o’clock became three, and still I slept, though I should have woken. It would have been more important to see her early and make amends. Five came and finally I woke. I noticed the depression had lingered, even through the dreams, although I had only slept the sleep of the damned. One cannot escape the buffeting of the guillotine that waits upon one’s neck while the hours of the night approach. All night I was pestered with the voice of my own conscience. Echoes of its disgust reflected from one side of my open skull to the other. And so I woke with a headache, by virtue of the inner beating that had played the racket on the inside of my cranium walls.
The bathroom mirror showed me eyes red as the apocalypse moon. My intentions were nowhere drawn on self-improvement that morning. Notwithstanding, I cleaned myself up a bit, but nowhere close to what I was usually satisfied with. Still, I wasn’t looking to be satisfied. I would have remained a mess, had I not seen the filth and grime I’d smeared all over the bed sheets, making me return to the shower.
The basin was cold as I turned the handle, and warm water came as it always did on the island. Cold water was a buried treasure, only found in the richest places. When I had just arrived on the island, the water was a little cold; but now in mid-summer even the cold handle spewed out warm. So there was no chance to catch another cold shower, even if I’d want one.
The water washed the soap-scum off my skin, but somehow filth and grime had found their way to my insides. I could find no way to scrub them out. I was dirty still, though my outward had been scrubbed till it hurt. The scrubber from the kitchen had made scratches on my skin, as I’d tried to feel clean, but only felt dirtier with each pass. So all my attempts were useless.
“What could I do to wash it away?” I asked myself the question but there could be no answer. Full of remorse I tried to figure something out. “Could not the dirt and the pain leave somehow?”
And so, as I continued trying, the shower pressure decreased (it always did after some minutes) and drained all hope of my becoming clean. I watched the last of the bubbles go down and left the shower with a bit of soap still clinging to my body. I cried to myself again, asking the same question: “What can I do to wash me clean?” I dressed, but didn’t care to make it look good. The only thing standing tall was the feeling of depression. Not at all like the depression I had been used to. This was a depression mixed with guilt. I was driven out of my insanity, for a moment, and left staring blankly at the face of “big reality.”
What was to come? The only thing now was to go and see her. I would find out what would be the end soon enough. So I went.
On the way to her house, this strange new depression dragged behind me, like a tail making noise. I couldn’t stand the shock of actually being in my shoes and on the way there. There was no turning back. It was so hard to believe that I was actually on my way at that very minute. Every second up till then had been tolerable, even good. But this moment was dreadful! It was upon me, like a howling mad dog that I could not turn from. I could only watch as the fangs came to me and sank in the painful bite.
“Maybe somehow she’ll take me,” I tried to reason insipidly. “Perhaps she will not know when I get there.” This was the greatest thought I’d had, almost leaving me without worry. The fact was that I was going to marry her. Chances were that word had not yet gotten to her, and we could just go, get off this island, and marry back home...
“Who had seen me?” I told myself, as each new step brought back confidence. “No one that she knew. She didn’t even like to go to those things. So why would anyone there know her? There were so many people there anyway that who would recognize me? And if they did, who would have stayed to watch me all night?” It was certain that no one knew what I’d done. And I didn’t have to tell anyone about it. I could just go to her house and pretend it never happened, put it behind me, and never remember it again.
In this way, I convinced myself of the better thing to do. She didn’t have to know, and I wouldn’t be the one to tell her. What was the alternative, I thought, losing her? There was no way I could do that. My very life depended on her. No, I could not do that. So with that awful thought came the subdued satisfaction that it would be left a thing of the past, hid from everyone, that way everything would go on as if it never happened. That resolve brought a bit of guilt, but it was buried by the absurdity of telling her. That would mean losing her, and that didn’t even merit consideration. There was also the issue of all the drugs, which undoubtedly had caused me to commit the act. Thus my conscience rested and my composure lifted again, as hope came over my horizon.
There stood her house, and she was sitting on the porch. Her brothers and mother were there, but I couldn’t see what they were doing, for I was yet too far. Then I approached and saw the scene of what inevitably was to follow. My head sunk into my shoulders as the words of my stupid plan came back to me. That she’ll take me back; that maybe she wouldn’t know. Those words echoed through me as I realized how erroneous they’d been. She looked up, just enough to see me, and sank her head again in tears.
Her mother threw back her hand and commanded the boys, in a harsh voice, to go in. They did, and then her father came out. He draped a furious face in my direction, as he stampeded towards me, with a full determination to trample me down. My heart leaped, and Noelia held him back as she cried (speaking in Guarani), “No father, leave him alone! I will take care of it. Leave him!” The tears in her speech were the ones that must have made him withdraw.
They would have made me do anything for her. But I was there, as a condemned man, to face my castigation. There was nothing to do, because she knew... Then came her mother, a small locomotive full of steam, stopping in front of me, screaming.
“You are a bandido!” she yelled. “Condenado, maldito! Look what you have done to her! Look! You are a disgrace to your whole country! The whole town knows what you did! All of it! Look at her. You have destroyed her! I hope you die!” Hijinia’s little fists were in the air, a menacing mini-tornado, and all the wile Noelia was trying to stop her, but Hijinia went on.
“Mama...”
“No, I will tell him, Noelita.” and she turned to me with more of the same dose. “You are a maldito y pordiosero! I hope you rot in hell for what you’ve done. We gave you our hospitality.”
“Mama... Please, stop!”
“No, mijita, I will tell him. He has to know, the maldito condenado.” She muttered the last words of the sentence between her teeth and again carved into me with all her anger. “We gave you our trust and our daughter... And you... you...” Speaking in ragged bursts, she trailed off. She could not stand to finish and say those ugly words I’d done. Then she was overcome with emotion. The only thing she could do was throw her rag at me, as she went inside crying.
Then Noelia began to speak. I approached, trying to console, thinking that perhaps there was some possibility left or something I could do, but she began into me immediately. She struggled with
her words, because the tears came uncontrollably, drowning out her speech. She even coughed in bellows, as she tried swallowing her tears, but breathed them in and choked.
“You are a bastard. I am ashamed of you. I wish I’d never met you.”
Her mother tried to get her last words of anger through to me from the window. “You have done this to my little girl,” she yelled while the tears continued down her face. “I hate you! May you rot in hell. May you never live again. I wish to curse you. I wish I could curse you so you would die! Bastard!”
Then she closed the window and went back in and I never saw her again. But her words choked me from that moment and were painful, biting at me and leaving me a crippled man. And what was the worst is that I knew that I had hurt them all and could never make it better. It felt as if I had just lost my mother. But as harsh as those words were they were nowhere near as painful as Noelia’s.
“It is over! There is no way back...” Noelia trailed off, overcome by an incessant attack of convulsive tears that made her crouch over herself and let it all out. I was moved with remorse and compassion towards her intense state of agony and tried to help her. I bent over to console her, for it killed me to see her like that – and at that very moment I wished I really could die so that I wouldn’t see her like that. I wished that I had never been born so that I’d never lived to commit such a heinous crime against the woman that was more precious to me than life.
But she flung me away, full of rage towards me, as was her right. There was nothing left for me to do. “Get out! Get out! I never want to see you again!” She trailed off again, full of tears and gulping air spastically; but recovered as I again tried to come forward. “Get out!” she hollered, “Get out of my house! I hate you!”
