Friday, October 21, 2016

Emily's Gallery



James Wall arrived to the tapas restaurant at around 7:00 pm. The night was colder than it used to be around that time of the year – mid September – maybe because it was about to rain after a long drought or maybe because that particular night was somehow special.

He sat and reviewed the menu with clinching curiosity as if he had never seated on that chair. He liked the suspense, the little details that made his regular visit to the tapas restaurant a unique experience every single time.

Habits, they say, are formed out of menacing self-awareness and in his case even more so. James carried a life full of dangerous habits and questionable company. His time, it seemed, had ran through him faster than it should have and his hopes were all like reflections on turbulent water.

His eyes, watery and weak met the doctor’s eye when he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. His nights became gradual nightmares of which he couldn’t wake up from and his ability to carry out a normal adult life degraded to the point where James found himself alone, shivering without control.

He knew that his disease was product of the irony of this, our world. Maybe if he hadn’t spent so much time complaining and being trapped by his own trivial demons, maybe if he could relive those moments he could act differently and not tempt the sadistic master of destiny. Maybe he could develop a pattern, a healthier, minimalistic conduct that would cast a defense against the Gods of luck.

Every Friday of every week he went to the very same restaurant, he examined the menu and acted impressed and delighted by all the options that were set in front of him.

The night was cold and then the place started to get more and more crowded. He used to hear the continuous banter that went on and on at the tables next to his. He could see those like him who were just passing by and being sentenced by their own mischief. But that night, he noticed a different thing, a new thing.

Across a couple of tables to his right a large group of what seemed to be work buddies had set a long table and they invited women, the count was nearly one girl for every guy, nearly – I reiterate – because there was a woman who seemed to be alone. She was there, she engaged in conversation with the others but her mind was elsewhere, or else James Walls thought.

He would start, as always with the Colombian potatoes and a glass of Duckhorn red wine. Then he would wipe his mouth twice trying to hide his aggravating shivers and follow up with a nice filet mignon, bloody but tender in the core, medium rare, like the folks use to call it.

The woman, fragile and soft mannered kept sliding her hand across her short straight hair, almost showing her vulnerable stance or her inadequacy amidst the whole situation. She carried a small purse and wore a skirt (not too short or too long) just a skirt that looked as appealing and interesting as sober. She smiled a lot too but not to catch any guy’s attention but more to fit in.

 James Knew those smiles, he understood how it felt to be dislocated from society, he knew deep down what that woman was going through and felt an urge to let her know that the Gods of luck do not hesitate to cash in all the insecurities. But he couldn’t do anything about it, his hands shivered, even more now that he was nervous and processing all those feelings at his usual table in the far back.

Hours went by and with the strike of a lightning the cold still night transformed into a loud and menacing monster. Pouring rain fell and fell as James Wall observed the soft mannered woman, and then, it happened. The girl stood up and started walking toward the exit.

“Had she arrived in a car?” James asked himself.

She walked out and started walking across the flooded street, right past James Wall’s window. He almost felt she could feel his gaze hunting her path and intentions. She just walked, soaking wet, under the Georgia rain.

He stood up, reached for his wallet and left a couple of hundreds on the table, then he rushed toward the exit of the restaurant and started following the woman.

Gargantuan explosions roared within the black sky. He could barely see her from the water that poured down his temple. He was freezing and so was she. They kept walking for at least a mile and half or two before she turned at an alley on Peach Tree Road and entered an alley. He followed and found a door illuminated by a flickering white light.

He reached for the door knob and entered.

James Wall found himself amid an elongated hall that had enormous paintings left and right. At first he wouldn’t advance for the floor was entirely covered with a burgundy rough carpet. That place seemed far too elegant for a chump like him, but there was not a trace of the mysterious short haired woman. He took his shoes off and put them next to the entrance and started walking ahead. The sublime paintings hanged adorned with the most magnificent frames James had ever seen in his life. He could even smell a unique aroma in that dark Hall of the arts.

But what was that place?

He sat at one of the benches and saw one particular painting along the hall. A painting of a field, a field of red grass and heavy black clouds. A storm it seemed to portray, a storm pouring down on a field where a modest wooden cottage stood and a man trying to resist against the forces of nature, carrying a dog inside, rushing to escape the might of space and time. A man that reminded very much of himself. His hands, they were calmer, his pain, somehow relieved. He sat there and felt peace.

He stood and tried to continue walking but he couldn’t, she was there. The woman he saw at the restaurant stood there soaking wet and with her sight fixated upon his. “Hi, I’m James” he said.

She advanced toward him and turned to face the painting. “Hi James, I’m Emily” she replied.

“I followed you here because…”  Emily raised her hand and interrupted James before he could enunciate his reasons, “The man, he seems frightened. He seems to be someone who doesn’t understand what’s happening around him and yet he tries to help that dog, I’ve always found that fascinating about this painting too”.

“Yeah, I thought he was… brave” – He commented.

“Ignorance and bravery are often mistaken by one another. This Gallery is my nightmare, James Walls, and you are part of it now”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re cured”.

James Walls didn’t know how to respond to such a statement. He felt rage at first but then he let it go and felt a chill that went all around his body and ended in his eyes, in a tear that went down his cheek.

“I’m cured?”

“I took something from you and now you’ll have to exit my nightmare and go back to the world as a new man, a different man. This is not my choice it is more like my…curse”

“Who are you?”  

“I’m the storm and the rage and a dreamer who occasionally dreams about sorrow and pain. This is your reckoning”

Emily smiled and turned her head towards James who was now pale and petrified. He started walking away from her, fast, fast as he could, running even toward the door. He reached out for the door knob, turned it and exited the building. He fell on his knees; his eyes were watery the storm has ceased to rage. He was alone on a sidewalk, his hands were perfectly fine, his shivers had disappeared.

A man who happened to be walking his dog approached James. “Sir, sir, are you alright?” – He asked

“I think so” - James replied.   







Thinking of Atlanta, Georgia


Saturday, September 17, 2016

Jane Cunnings: The girl from the diner


Loud emptiness fills the living room for once in God knows how long as Dick finds himself sitting on the couch, breathing, trying not to think that this moment might be part of yet another nightmare. But it is not, Little Nell is at a birthday party and he is alone, at least for an hour or two.

The house that once knew screams and blood now floats – once more – untouched; without a slight drop of remorse. Dick considers the shadow that his wedding ring left on his finger like a scar, like the brand that was sealed onto sick, unwanted cattle, a reminder of what his dream turned out to be.

The one thing that holds his mind sane is his daughter, a wink of immeasurable joy in a pitch black void of nothingness, the kind of joy that you wish never to fade away and yet there he sits, static, frightened and he knows something is odd, something seems to be out of place and a chill runs up his spine disturbing every muscle, every hair, then… The whistle of steam pierces his nerves and he stands.

It’s teatime.

Jane Cunnings, a girl of little means with a beauty undisputable grew up in desolate West Texas. Not the most flattering of places to become an independent woman, hell, not the best place to keep your mind in one piece.

The sun, it was the sun what Jane hated the most. Some folks there say the sun dries and sickens your soul; it brings the noblest, kindest of men to the dirt, to act like wild beasts. Jane was not exempt from the myriad of difficulties that her hometown imbued into her spirit, she saw days come and go and the pearly whites smile deteriorated and transformed into the hint of a mourning, the look of a mad person trying to reach out for help.

It was then that the twenty-something gal found her chance – some like to remember – The day was Thursday and it was a hot as hell one too. She had been assigned the tables at the far back of a small diner that was not too far from Jane’s folks. She wore the same coffee stained dress and greasy socks for eight hours a day, every day, but that Thursday something happened, a man walked in the place, a different man, well mannered and quiet Oregon lad who was kind enough to smile at Jane on sight. He took out his handkerchief and tried what most folks down there just renounce after a couple of years; he tried to dry his forehead off.

Jane approached the table, needless to say that it was not her client to serve but what the hell? The recently hired meth addict Jim Clemmons wasn’t going to complain.

“Howdy?” she said.

“Hey, how are you?”

“I’m Jane, It’ll be serving your table sweetheart, and may I get you something to drink?”

“It’s really hot here isn’t it? – He asked.

“Hot and dry, hun. Every day, all day long…

“Help me with that, maybe… water, ice… “

“We ain’t got no water, unless you want some tap water and then die from a nasty gutpain” She looks at him in the eye and then “But hey, I got something better for you cowboy”

She touches his hand and then walks away toward the kitchen. Dick liked the girl; at least she made him forget about the heat for a minute or two, a pretty girl flirting with him the middle of nowhere.  But he felt something deeper too, something dangerous. Jane had brought him uneasy and curious for her manner was confident and blunt. He wanted more of that mysterious southern pearl; he was jinxed and trapped within the sight of Jane Cunnings. Daunting if I might add, for that was the day when desperation met wickedness.

Dick Chambers and Jane Cunnings got married not to long after that Thursday but something obscure had come to life in that West Texas dinner, something far more gruesome than anything those lovebirds could have possibly foreseen. The tension, the desire for total annihilation and regret still ran through Jane’s blood stream. The sun, West Texas sun, still burned her skin and blinded her eyeballs.

They moved to a nice house that belonged to Dick’s late grandmother in the outskirts or Portland. There they developed a normal life, Dick worked a lot out of town and Jane had a chance to little by little let Oregon drop its spell on her. She enjoyed the morning hikes she used to take to the woods; she would even go into the lake naked and swim until wrinkles appeared on her fingertips. No one would ever disturb or confront her. Jane loved it there.

Little Nell came along a year later and added yet another drop of happiness into their lives. Jane loved her daughter deeply and with all her heart. But there was a problem.  Inside those naive dark brown eyes Jane saw the horror that had been hunting her forever. Her child, she felt, could see directly into her soul and there resided the most terrible of monsters… her true self, the Jane Cunnings whose skin is burnt and bloody, the Jane Cunnings who fucked a man with the hopes of being saved from that hell. She knew, and then… Jane Cunnings felt exposed.

Dick moves towards the kitchen and serves a cup of steaming hot black tea with two drops of honey – his favorite -. He walks across the living room, looks through the window, it is almost dusk, the reddish sunlight enters the room uninvited and he glances at the horizon over the woods for a second -Life, what a contradiction! –  Dick walks back to his couch and lies down on it as he turns his TV on. Local news play, the perfect scheme to finally get some sleep.

One night eerie, Jane got up at around four in the morning and without disturbing her husband she left the house wearing nothing but her underwear. She walked and walked until she found the lake and then she went into the lake letting the freezing water got to her bones, to the very fabric of her spirit, she drank the water; she dove and screamed underneath it. It was time, she had to do something, she had to let her family know about the pain she was going through…

A thick drop of fluid smashed against Dick’s forehead.

He opened his eyes.

There she was, Jane Cunnings all covered in blood, her scalp was missing and her eyeballs were bloodshot. She laughed with the wickedness of the devil and wept with the anguish of a dying hog. Her face, her deranged face showed nothing but Hellish release as she screamed her daughter’s name over and over and over again.

Dick pushed her off of him and stood up to find a pool of blood underneath his feet. He saw the woman he once knew lying on the bloody wood twisting and rolling, enjoying every bit of it. He ran toward Little Nell’s room, her tiny bed was also covered in blood and an immobile hump lied under the sheets. He cried, he advanced toward the bed and with one hand took the sheets out to find a headless animal, bleeding.

Then.

He heard a cry, a faint sound of despair coming from the other side of the room. He turned around and opened the closet. There she was – untouched – Little Nell, shivering in terror, drowning in tears. Dick picked her up and exited the house as fast as he could. The newborn sun projected it mighty light over the woods far ahead, the horizon of a new day…

He put Little Nell in his truck and went back in the house. He picked up the phone and went straight to his room. There she was… immobile, eyes wide open, bleeding scalp, deranged face… poor Jane Cunnings…

“911 what’s your emergency?” 

“I…” Dick couldn’t breather, couldn’t believe that the girl from the dinner and that monster were the same creature… “My… my wife, she uh, she is badly hurt she tried to kill my daughter…”

“Sir, are you hurt? Is your wife still in the house?”

“I’m ok, I’m ok… I’m ok” Dick sits on the bloody floor as Jane crawls toward him, in pain. “She’s hurt, please, send someone…

“What’s your location, sir?”


Local news plays on the background as Dick falls asleep. The weather seems to be just about the same and gas prices are going down. Politicians talk their talk and ads fill the space between the known pieces of information, but then something unexpected happens, something that brings Dick back to his everlasting state of vigil.

“Breaking News, not long ago three Seyward Sanatorium for the Mentally Ill patients escaped from the facility. Two of them were apprehended but one is still at large. This woman is considered to be very dangerous…”

Dick then knew that the chill that went up his spine accelerating his heart and disturbing his mind was indeed sustained by something real; the scent of a perfume that came from upstairs haunting him like a ghost from days gone by. It was her perfume, and there was no doubt about it. 

He stood up and as he did a daunting sound impregnated the room. The very laughter of the monster he had sent away… but he didn’t turn, he didn’t look and he walked towards the doo, he found the doorknob in his hand.  The laughter continued and transformed into mourning deep and everlasting, screams full of sorrow and pain…

Dick opened the door, exited the house and step-by-step he went away never to look back again…
















Monday, January 11, 2016

A particular happening on a cold winter night


Would you like to know the truth?

I’m scared.

And even though that has never stopped me from doing what I must do, I am starting to feel an uncanny sensation. Maybe the past year was not as good as it was supposed to be.

Hell, maybe our lives are not going the way they are supposed to go. I don’t know. But the truth… what on earth is that?

Let me tell you a story. I promise I won’t take much of your time but please, do pay attention, what happened can only be described as “particular”

Darkness.

What a unique feeling to fall asleep is. I often times find it enriching for my life lingers amidst a lake of breaths and desires. My body floats and elevates itself from the roaring ground; I enter then to the absolute obscurity of the unknown.

“It’s ok” – My mom used to say.

I can still hear her as I advance through the red fields, the tall red grass that pours pain all over the scorched earth. I walk on by and by towards the light of a thousand falling stars ahead. The lights… in all their majestic nature sing songs from afar and beyond.

I walk on by and by

“What is the truth?” – She whispers.

As I feel the inevitable flooding starting to rise among my fingertips, the cold water of that outlandish scenario. The cold water and the tremors that go up my spine and to my brain… I remember and I feel as I approach the gallant gate at the end how my body flies without flying, how it soars while still walking on - by and by -.

“I love you, child” – She murmurs…

And the tall grass collides with my knuckles as I try to grasp her spirit. She is there, that much I know. Her love is tangible and transformative. Her presence… Oh memories…

I slide and fall again just to see the void within me – Once more –

And the truth you seek.

And the truth that keeps you up at night.

And the glimmer of the minuscule lights ahead.

She’s gone.

But… somehow… I can hear her voice.

Somehow I can touch her skin.

And someday I’ll fly beyond the falling stars and exit the void from within just to see myself from without – Like a ghost – That much I know.

But death is not the end.

I still have to wake up every single night…

And that night, the night I’m telling you about, was no different.

I opened my eyes. They soared – of course -.

A gently silverish light entered the room and painted a ghastly painting on the roof.

What a despicable routine it is, to wake in the middle of cold winter nights…

But I was not alone.

There was someone else on my bed.

Another human being – it seemed -.

But not the one I expected, that body, that complexion and the heavy breathing – I will never forget it’s heavy loathsome breathing –

I tried to sit as the creature slept. I tried to move without disturbing it’s longing.

The wind howled as I managed to get in a position that would allow me to see the entirety of that being’s true self.
Blood! – That is what I expected -

But blood I found none.

And as I sat I saw an opportunity to leave the bed and runaway forever from that room of terrors and from that unknown creature to my side.

I put one foot on the wooden floor beneath me.

Then the other…

And as I tiptoed my way to never be seen again the deadliest of human curses casted it’s gruesome spell upon me

- Curiosity -

So I did the unthinkable.

I approached the covered beast.

I thought of my life, of the red fields and the void within, I remembered my mother and what she used to say… her sweet voice and delicate manner.

I have had a good life.

I have had the life I deserved, I believe.

So I pulled the sheets from atop the beast and I saw the inexplicable!



The truth.


Tuesday, April 28, 2015

Donald Davis: El encuentro en Pont des Anges



- Perdido en la miseria de un tiempo que no podré recobrar -

Ha pasado cierto tiempo desde la última vez que pasé por acá. Lo sé. Pero prometí que volvería, espero que hayas tomado eso en cuenta.

Cada celebración de nuevo año me hace sentir más ligero, más alejado de la tierra y de mi mismo. Es como si la corriente de los momentos pasados me llevara hacia un desenlace trágico, inevitable.

Los colores resonantes en el cielo, las risas conmovidas de las metas pocas que han sido y las lágrimas tímidas de las metas que probablemente no serán jamás.

El tiempo nos arrastra con fuerza y nos resta humanidad, poco a poco, terriblemente. Y ya ha pasado casi medio año más, medio año y poco más de tres meses desde que volví del viaje del cual les hablé a algunos pocos cercanos a la causa de mi familia.

La vida cansa por el hecho de ser vida y la candidez se disipa sin dejar rastro alguno de que alguna vez allí residió.

En enero tuve oportunidad de, finalmente, comprar el tan codiciado pasaje de avión con destino a Puerto Príncipe. El final de mi vida parece estar cerca y no podía dejar este pequeño sitio de relatos sin el fragmento escuálido de lo que viví en esa tierra foránea.

"Zanjosa" es el apellido del hombre que me guió una vez allá y fue él también quién me dijo por primera vez que la fijación que tengo con la muerte podía ser algo peligroso estando en Haití. Mis miedos son muchos y muy profundos pero lo oculto no forma parte de mis miedos, de hecho, lo oculto sólo funge de combustible para el insano motor de mis curiosidades.

Zanjosa me llevó en tiempo de una semana por las zonas que fueron más afectadas por el terremoto de hace unos años atrás. Conocí gente humilde pero poderosa y hasta probé comidas que en ciertas ocasiones pasadas juré que nunca intentaría probar.

Todo fue interesante, como siempre lo ha sido.

Y por supuesto, el Vudú fue una parte importante de mi visita. De hecho, el Vudú es la razón por la que, desde hace diez años atrás, había querido ir a la isla.

Hace diez años mi abuelo, hombre sabio y tenaz, me habló de un lugar terrible al que ningún hombre cuerdo se atreve a ir y en el cual reside la prueba misma de que el Diablo existe en este mundo terrenal nuestro. El lugar, me dijo, se llama "Pont Des Anges" y está alto en la colina más alejada del centro de Puerto Príncipe.

Como comprenderás, ese pequeño comentario llenó mi mente de imágenes y sonidos que hasta hace unos meses inundaban mis sueños placenteros y mis pesadillas también.

Zanjosa me advirtió que una vez que yo entrase en aquel lugar nuestra amistad terminaría para siempre. Y que sí salía con vida, él  jamás podría volver a tener contacto de ningún tipo con mi persona.

Todo esto ocurrió previo a mi visita, por correos electrónicos y sé que tal vez pienses que es un tanto radical pero no hay nada que aterre más a los haitianos que ese lugar. "El infierno sobre la tierra" como me gustaba llamarlo.

El camino de tierra es irregular bajo el sol inclemente del Caribe. A los lados de la vieja y descuidada carretera los bateyes rodeados de sal y las tiendas hechas con lona que dejaban ver las finas colecciones de animales desollados colgando de los techos de las mismas.

Los negros te ven pasar como si se tratase de tu funeral. No te ven a los ojos, parecen ver la sombra que te ha seguido desde el día que naciste y ven también como esa sombra avanza lentamente hacia su fin.

Un fin inevitable para ti y para mi también.

A lo lejos se divisa una construcción imponente que no parece haber sufrido  daños por la ira de la naturaleza pero que posee cicatrices profundas por los avatares del tiempo. Una mansión como ninguna otra que haya visto antes, Pont des Anges.

Zanjosa tomó un collar color rojo sangre y lo colocó sobre su pecho mientras el jeep destartalado avanzaba hacia el lugar. Sus ojos llenos de terror me vieron por última vez cuando me dijo que ahí dentro vive la criatura más peligrosa de esta dimensión y que ni los Loa podrían ayudarme una vez adentro.

El jeep se detuvo.

Le di un abrazo fuerte a mi amigo, le besé la frente y agradecí sus servicios de guía. No había palabras para explicarle la sensación que tenía latente en mi pecho, la extraña certeza de que entrar a ese lugar, de algún modo, sería caminar paso a paso hacia mi destino, hacia una especie de reunión de mi conciencia con el fin de mi vida.

Y así lo hice.

Oscuridad plena rodeándome y un olor a madera moribunda que caía sobre mi como rocío de una mañana veraniega.

Apreté el botón y mi linterna iluminó la sala de la imponente edificación. Candelabros rotos, mugre por doquier y una pesadez horrible, como si se tratase del calabozo en el que murieron mil esclavos o la fosa en la que arrojaron sus cuerpos desdichados. Pont des Anges es, de hecho, un lugar donde tus memorias son aplastadas por la tragedia que es el envejecer y tus miedos minúsculos se ven ante la historia horrorosa que soporta el peso de los tablones, de los pilares.

Todo eso lo esperaba de aquel lugar.

Una casa embrujada en la cima de la colina más apartada y más lúgubre.

Mis ojos se impregnan con lágrimas.

Mis manos tiemblan.

Yo no estaba preparado.

Nadie lo está.

Un ruido leve destrozó el silencio perfecto que me rodeó por horas en aquel lugar enorme.

Un ruido de pasos tímidos que se aproximaban a mi por la derecha, por el pasillo que llevaba a lo que alguna vez fue la cocina.

Pasos de un criatura pequeña, lenta, torpe.

Mi linterna apuntaba hacia el frente, hacías escalinatas putrefactas y mi corazón empezó a latir más rápido que nunca.

No quería iluminar el pasillo, no quería ver qué era aquello que se aproximaba con tanta parsimonia.

Y entonces...

La escuché.

Un balbuceo inteligible con una pureza inexistente y una aspereza casi absoluta.

Como el de un humano que lucha por tomar aire, como el de un perro que se ahoga en el mar. Un quejido, un lamento sordo.

Giré mi linterna poco a poco

Los pasos erráticos se aproximaban

Un gélido viento se apoderó de la construcción, como si el monstruo del pasillo trajese consigo a la muerte misma.

Entonces la vi.

Era una niña y vestía un elegante pero desgastado vestido antiguo. Su piel era verdosa y su cabello gris. Sus dedos estaban fuera de posición y sus pies llenos de sangre coagulada dejaban un rastro de enfermedad y muerte detrás de ella pero lo que más me impactó fueron sus ojos.

Unos ojos cubiertos por una capa espesa transparente y sucia como parásitos alimentándose de un manjar.

Caí al suelo de golpe, temblando.

La niña, el monstruo avanzaba vociferando el quejido, arrastrando toda la maldad del mundo, cortando más y más sus pies contra la madera podrida del suelo.

Cerré los ojos.

Regresé a la oscuridad plena, al único sitio donde me he sentido verdaderamente seguro desde que tengo conciencia.

El olor a enfermedad me golpeaba con fuerza los pulmones, mis lágrimas brotaban sin parar.

Zanjosa tenía razón.

Mi abuelo tenía razón.

Entonces colocó su garra sobre mi frente y gritó con fuerza desmedida una y otra vez

- Homme! -

- Homme! -

- Homme! -

Abrí los ojos y vi directamente en los ojos de ese monstruo vi el dolor y la agonía de un ser humano que había sido despojado para siempre de su mortalidad y vi el odio que la mantenía caminando los pasillos olvidados de Pont des Anges. Sentí el horror y la muerte, la nostalgia y la desesperación de una criatura que estaba ahí no por la maldad del hombre sino por la voluntad de un Dios antiguo que no es misericordioso, palpé la desesperanza y el abandono de una niña en las eras infinitas de una isla poseída.

La criatura agarró mi cara y pegó su frente contra la mía.

Ese era el momento.

El momento que tanto había esperado.

El momento de mi muerte.

Acercó su boca y la apretó contra mi pómulo izquierdo y dijo:

"Kúhhh...."

Me agarró fuerte la cara, como aferrándose a una roca en lo alto de una montaña...

Me aferré con todas mis fuerzas a su vestido, temblando, sangrando incluso.

"¡Kúhhhkenán!"

Un sonido agudo pero constante marcaba la distancia entre mi cuerpo y el mundo de los que ya no nos acompañan.

Abrí los ojos, Zanjosa estaba ahí, a mi lado, sus manos estaban llenas de sangre. Había un cuerpo a mi lado, parecía estar muerto.

¿Por qué no lo estaba yo?

Resultó ser que tuvimos un accidente en la carretera subiendo hacia la mansión. Una camioneta que bajaba por la colina perdió el control y nos impactó de frente.

El conductor de nuestro Jeep murió al instante, Zanjosa se fracturó el brazo derecho y yo sólo tuve un par rasguños en la cara y una costilla rota.

Zanjosa me advirtió que cosas malas le ocurren a las personas que se acercan a la mansión. Aún así, no puedo sacar el recuerdo de aquella niña de mi mente, su aroma de muerte, su sufrimiento y las palabras que me dijo.

Aprovecho este pequeño momento para preguntarte, y espero que seas, como siempre, honesto conmigo...

¿Qué sucedió en Pont des Anges?

Necesito ayuda y espero recibirla pronto. Por los momentos me retiraré, me dirijo a un lugar en el que no podré acceder a internet para checkear que estés bien o para ver sí has respondido a mi pregunta.

Me dirijo a Venezuela, a un Tepuy llamado “Kukenán”, tal vez allá podré entender qué fue lo que realmente me pasó aquella tarde en Pont des Anges.

Contigo siempre, Donald.