Despair Avenue

by A. P. Hernández

  "What name shall we give him?" – I asked.

  Lorena lifted her index finger to the corner of her mouth, doubtful.

  "Patoso bear!" She said, after a few seconds of thought.

  "So be it!" - And I took her in flying, circling my head, while Natalia watched us, wearing that splendid smile of hers.

  The solitude of the room made me return to reality. That scene, those memories seemed to me now distant. It seemed like it was an eternity, as in another life ...

  "Lorena,"- I whispered,- "my little one...-"

  I wondered where her new home would be, if she would be living with some boy, if she would have found work ... But above all, I wondered if she would be happy. I wished with all my forces it might be that.

  CHAPTER 6

  -Desperate Avenue -

  An unpaid bill I found on the kitchen table told me that my daughter had moved to a flat in the outskirts of the city.

  "Dr. Gutierrez Avenue," I said, trying to memorize the address.- Dulcinea Building, nº 13. Fifth floor. Letter C.

  Without losing one more, I started.

  I wanted to see my daughter as soon as possible ... I had to see her as soon as possible. I had to check that she was well, and that a shadow of doubts, questions and, above all, fears, began to persecute me. From the visit to where my home was once, dreary forebodings swirled around my mind.

  -"Why did I experience such oppression upon arriving at my old house?" -I thought-. Why had not only furniture, but also all pictures, portraits, and memories disappeared? Why was the last corner buried in a leaden gloom?”

  And among that bevy of questions, one was struggling to get afloat. Despite my efforts to keep him imprisoned in the depths of my being, that question scratched the surface of my consciousness and eventually materialized:

  "-What was that thing that grabbed my ex-wife?"-

  I had tried not to think about it, but it was impossible. I felt that all those questions had some relation to the thing.

  I walked for hours.

  The wealthy central neighborhoods were left behind, blocks of buildings (the vast majority with signs on some of their floors that indicated the services of a dentist, lawyer or psychologist) were replaced by more modest and lower ones. The downtown streets, crowded with vehicles, smoke and horn sounds, were decongesting until the time came when I could hardly cross a car.

  At each step, the appearance of the buildings that were happening before me, made worse. At first, the facades of the floors experienced a desirable lack of hand paint, then showed signs of desquamation and, finally, a widespread abandonment.

  But there was still much to get to Avenue Dr. Gutierrez, and that did not reassure me at all.

  I realized that I was on my way to DespairAvenue..

  CHAPTER 7

  -At Fifth floor –

  The Dulcinea building appeared as coming out of nowhere.

  I was in a deserted wasteland, watching children running around barefoot when I found it.

  If the ingenious nobleman Don Quixote of La Mancha knew of the existence of that building, if the atrocity had ever reached his ears when he assigned the name of his beloved to such a den, he would surely have spurred Rocinante to assault him with his spear.

  The Dulcinea stood on the esplanade like the skeleton of a giant. It had the half-ruined facade and two gaps in the upper part that seemed to behold the nothingness that surrounded it. A mountain of rubble and debris accumulated at its base. It was of such a size that it seemed to have been constructed purposely, perhaps in an attempt to maintain its verticality.

  -¡It has to be a mistake! – I told myself, noticing gulls scavenging through the garbage. It's impossible ... Completely impossible ...

  My daughter received a good education, or so her mother and I tried. She went to college and, as far as my memory was concerned, she had done good work. In order to pay for her stay at the university residence, Lorena gave private lessons to some secondary school children, she also worked sporadically as a waitress for a weekend and, shortly after finishing her studies in Tourism, a leisure and free time company hired her as Animator of youth activities.

  That's why I could not believe I was finished there. What did my daughter doing in that place?

  I looked back at the gaps in the building. The holes gave me a languid and somber look ... I was not able to hold it for long. I looked back at my feet.

  The children passed me, chasing one another in some kind of imaginary play. They were very thin. Despite the wind, one was shirtless. The ribs were marked on his thin skin, showing clear signs of malnutrition. I could not help but notice their faces. They had dirty hair, sunken cheekbones and their skulls hinted so clearly that for a moment I thought they were dead.

  But I was wrong. One of the children stumbled and crossed me.

  "The beheaded woman was dead," I remembered, "and I bumped into her.

  The boy fell to the ground and scraped his knees with the pebbles on the esplanade. Despite the trickle of blood that began to slide down his leg, he jumped to his feet and continued with the chase.

  In a store of courage, I looked back at the Dulcinea. Whether or not that direction was wrong, I ought to check it.

  "I have to get in," I said, stepping up. I do not have any other option.

  The silhouette that the building projected, disproportionately lengthened by the sunset, soon became enveloped. I ignored the feeling that gripped me and I kept walking. I remember how I dealt with that thought that was trying to surface and how, to my fate, I managed to hold it under the surface of my consciousness until, little by little, it sank (with so many others).

  It was not necessary to go through the main door of the building. In this sense, anyone, whether spirit or not, could have entered with equal ease. If there was ever a door, it must have been many years ago. Now some wooden planks had that function, or so I imagined, for I found them lying on the ground, covered with dust.

  A spiral staircase led me to the fifth floor. During my promotion, I tried not to look at the graffiti that decorated the walls (I FUCK IT GOOD, CALL AT ....), or the tattered pieces of cardboard (ONS OF A BITCH), or the cockroach that came out of a corner (HERE DID THE CHOLA) nor in fragments of glass scattered everywhere (THE BEST SHIT IN THE DULCI).

  When I reached the fifth floor, that thought I thought was sunk beneath the turbulent waters of my mind, it came to the surface. Only an insignificant part of what it really was, but it was terrible ...

  "No, please, no ..." I pleaded. I do not want to think about that ... No ... No ...

  I closed my eyes and hit him with all my might, wanting to tear him apart, praying that the water would flood again and make him disappear.

  Little by little, it was sending back until, at last, I felt its weight in the ocean bottom of my unconsciousness.

  -Much Better.

  On the fifth floor were five doors, each with a letter (A, B, C, D and E) bolted on their lintels. Upon seeing them, I experienced a surreptitious relief. The simple fact of knowing that the floor where my daughter lived had a door was a blessing.

  -As if a piece of hollow wood made any difference ... As if something so banal could protect her from the desperation that surrounds it.

  As I walked through the door, I found myself in a narrow, crowded hallway. I would like to say that surprised me, but I would lie.

  I walked among the young people who lay on the ground, watching their empty glances, the dirt of their nails, the wounds on their arms ... I watched the hypodermic thrown here and there, without anyone caring that anyone could get punctured with they.

  With every step I took, I begged my daughter not to be there, that this was a wrong direction, a misunderstanding, a confusion, an unfortunate ...

  I did not want to turn my head.

  On the couch were three young people: one man and two women. The man sat in the middle, and the girls, each one, by his side. He had a hirsute beard, as careless and long as his hair, which slipped
in a black cascade and curled on the shoulders of the young women. The girl on the left would be no more than 20 years old, she was blonde and had beautiful green eyes. She was leaning her cheek against the boy's shoulder. She looked dejected and weak. The woman on the right ("No, please, no, no, no ...") was sleepy, her head wedged between the young man's chin and her shoulder. The boy's black hair was intertwined with that of my daughter.

  I looked away from Lorena's bruised arm, from the elastic band she'd tied around her elbow, from the (empty) syringe that rested in the palm of her left hand ....

  That thought came again. There was no reason to sink him again; It was absurd to fight against him.

  -My daughter is a drug addict .

  I wanted to cry and, at the same time, to kiss her on the cheek.

  I fell down on my knees in front of her. I cursed myself a thousand times for having distanced ourselves so much, for not having maintained contact for years ...

  I was not alone.

  Hands settled (yes, yes, indeed, they POSED) on my shoulders. They were black and had long fingers. The concave nails scraped my skin. It was not the first time I saw them.

  The hands, after giving me a few tapping, in their own way, affectionate, let go of me. The thing went to the sofa and embraced the three young people. No one noticed his presence. The thing drew them to him as if he wanted to engulf them in their blackness, and then he looked at me while he dropped his hand on my daughter's head. He caressed her the way I caressed Luna when it was a puppy. Then it fiddled with her hair. I heard the sound of her fingernails as she slid through her hair.

  "It's mine," I thought. That's what it's telling me.

  CHAPTER 8

  -Closer-

  I had already seen my wife and daughter, I knew the situation they were going through ... And now what? What was I supposed to do next? What's more, what could he do?

  -Nothing. The answer was obvious. I can not help them.

  The next morning I went to one of the gardens on the outskirts. Then I did not notice the assiduity with which I used to drop by the parks and gardens, but later I thought that perhaps my presence there had some connection with the place where I died. I lost my life in a park and, precisely, it was in places like the one where I found myself the best.

  I sat on a bench and, with nothing better to focus my attention on, I watched the passing of people parading before me. They all sheltered from the cold: I saw women with scarves wrapped around their necks, gentlemen in long black cloth coats, children in corduroy pants, old men in wool hats ...

  - Winter is coming.

  I looked at the faces of the people. I could barely make out their features.

  A woman (I assumed she was a woman because of her long curly hair) sat down beside me. Even so, and even though they only separated us a few inches, I was unable to recognize er physiognomy. I could not see her eyes, nor her nose, nor her mouth. However, I heard her talking and laughing with a friend through her cell phone.

  "I fade away.

  How much longer would I stay there, on the threshold of the living and the dead? At the rate with which the faces of the mortals faded, I sensed that little.

  "I drift away ... I am distant from the world of the living ... That is why I can hardly see them.

  And that worried me. If so, why could I then appreciate all the details on the face of my wife and daughter?

  -They also fade ... They come closer to me ... Towards death ...

  Out of the human tide, a child appeared. He would be about eight years old and I noticed him because of his clothes: a simple hospital shirt. It reached his knees and exposed his back. At that moment, a gust of wind blew, and it shook the trees in the garden, moving them with their own will, but the boy's shirt did not flutter as might be expected. Like me, the wind did not affect him.

  - He's dead, "I said. He wander this threshold like me.

  I looked better at him. He had black eyes, purplish lips, aquiline nose and hair ... He had no hair.

  -Cancer?

  No doubt they had to be rapped when chemotherapy began to cause them to fall.

  "Hello,"- he said.

  It took me a few seconds to return the greeting:

  -Hello. "-I noticed he was barefoot.

  "My name is Ivan," -he introduced himself, smiling at me. -What's your name?

  I opened my mouth, ready to answer him.

  "I am ..." - I hesitated.- I ...- I hesitated. –“My name is...

  Silence.

  I did not remember it.

  -Do not worry.- The boy made a gesture with his hand, removing the subject. -It happened to me the same, you know? It took me several weeks to remember.-

  Ivan sat beside me. For a few minutes, we watched the comings and goings of people before us, in a strange and comforting silence.

  "-How long ago?"- It was the first thing that came to my mind. I said it without thinking, letting the words flow.

  -Eight years.-

  "I did not mean your age," -I explained, "-but the time it has been since you passed away.-

  Ivan looked at me with condescension.

  "-Eight years," -he repeated. -I died eight years ago ... Leukemia.-

  I was silent, not knowing what to say. I felt embarrassed by my indiscretion.

  -I am sorry.-

  -Do not worry, they're things that happen.- Ian sighed. -But I really regret it for my family, especially for my mother ... She has not got over it. She still keeps my room as I left it, you know? All my stuffed animals, my toys, my school books ... Everything is in the same place ... When I enter my bedroom I have the feeling that time has not passed ... I think that is my mother's problem : Does not let time pass, does not allow years heal their wounds.

  Ivan stared at me. In doing so, I realized that he was not a child. He might have preserved the body with which he passed away, but his gaze was that of an adult. There was nothing childish about him.

  -"I'd like to get close to my mother and tell her to go ahead, you know? Sometimes I feel like burning that damn room. It does her no good. It prevents her from healing her pain ... What's more, I do not like cuddly toys anymore. I'm almost 17 years old! What does it mean to keep all those things?

  Again, I just kept quiet. I did not know what to say, and besides, I still thought of my name. Why did not I remember?

  "-But let's stop talking about me."- Ivan crossed his legs, and leaned toward me. -What's about you?-

  -"I died because of a brain aneurysm. - Carlos, Pedro, Ramón, Javier ...? -It is a dilation in a blood vessel ...-

  "-I know what it is,"- he cut me, his tone dry and delicate at the same time. -There are those who call it Silent Killer ... But it's not the motive of your death that interests me ... "- Ivan played with the buttons on his shirt. -How long have you been on the threshold?-

  "-Some days ... Three, four ... Maybe five ..."-

  -And how do you carry on?-

  I looked away at a family walking among the crowd. Their faces were flat surfaces, shallow boards lacking in human features.

  "-Bad," -I said flatly.- I do not understand what I'm supposed to do here or how long this will last. But the worst is my family, I would like to help her and I can not.

  —Your family?

  I told him everything: the oppression I had when visiting my old house, the feeling of hopelessness that permeated the last corner, the apathy of my ex-wife, lying on the sofa, watching TV without seeing, my daughter's problems with the drugs and, above all, I explained the thing that stalked them. I explained him how the thing clung to Natalia's neck and how I saw her again on Lorena's floor, making curls with her hair.

  When I finished talking, Ivan had changed. He had a pale face (or at least more than before) and his eyes were wide open.

  -Did you see a Companion?" Really?

  -A Companion?- I repeated, without understanding. -What is that?

  "-The thing you're talking about ... That's what they're called."

  "-Well the
n, yes,"- I agreed. -I saw a Companion ... Or two ... I do not know if it was the same.

  "-And you say he tapped your back?"- Ivan's voice trembled. Suddenly it sounded like a frightened little boy.

  -So it is.

  I waited to see if he added anything else, but he said nothing. He stood up and stood in front of me.

  -Something happens?- I asked, fearing the worst.

  "-Your family is in grave danger."

  CHAPTER 9

  -Behind-

  Ivan started to run. He left without saying goodbye, without deigning to give me any explanation about the reasons why my family was in danger.

  -¡Wait! - I said, following behind him. -¡Do not go please!-

  I hurried through, crossing those who stood in my way. There were many people and I feared to lose sight of him.

  "He's scared,"- I said. -He's afraid ... That's why he run away.

  Long strides helped me cut the distance between us. Fortunately, I was able to stop him, holding him by the shoulder.

  -Help me! "- I really must have looked very desperate, for his face was filled with astonishment and fear. -If my family is in danger, I must help them, "- I said, trying to be right.

  "-You can not help anyone!" -The boy tugged my hand from his shoulder more tightly than he would have expected. -¡Your family is doomed! Do you understand? You can not avoid it!-

  Ivan looked around us, making sure no one was listening.

  "-Leave me alone," - he asked me, lowering his voice. -I do not feel like trouble ... Do not follow me again.

  He turned, but before he took a step, I grabbed him by the shoulder again.

  "-Tell me what you know about those Companions and I promise I will not bother you again."- That was my only choice. I would not get anything else from the boy.

  "-This is not a safe place,"- he said, hesitating for a few seconds. -Not here.-

  I followed him for a long time until we reached an avenue presided over by tall blocks of buildings. On either side of the road, luminous signs of the establishments blinked with neon lights, striving to catch the attention of those who passed by. But there was no one. It was just the two of us.