I’m a man haunted by his mother’s death, specially now that the anniversary of this horrible event is looming on the horizon.
Some people I know would say that I’m feeling guilty, but that’s just an instant case of hoof’n’mouth disease on their side: open mouth, insert foot into it. Period. These are just idiots that don’t know what they’re talking about.
You see, my mom choose her fate when she dismissed all my offers to follow my footsteps and leave Venezuela. She simply wouldn’t abandon her illusion that things wouldn’t get any worse. Meanwhile, I was the one who had to listen her on the phone every other week, complaining she had lost twenty pounds and was starving. I wanted to shout at her, yelling that she ought to abandon that place and come. That there was food here. Clothes. Hot, running water. But I had to bite my tongue up to the point of tasting blood, because it was to no avail. She stubbornly stuck to the point that her place was there, in that hellish jungle.
I see a few more heads shaking out there, muttering ‘Guilt, guilt, guilt.’
But there are a few more points to consider here.
I have read my mother’s death forensic report, you see.
Not an experience you’d wish to anyone, mind you.
That piece of paper didn’t say much, but as a writer I’m able to extrapolate a lot from a few simple facts. My mom was dressed in only a bathrobe when somebody broke into our house down there, either forcibly or with her consent.
Then they stabbed her in the belly five times with a sharp knife, and then they let her bleed to death while these thugs freely roamed through the place, trashing the entire house to see what they could steal.
She was found the next day, lying on a pool of her blood.
The labor of a writer is simple; aided by his or her imagination, an author would then work on a few real or imaginary facts and people and build a long series of ‘what if’ scenarios into a coherent story.
There are no ‘what ifs` here. I know there was no other solution than to extract her from that terrible place, but she wouldn’t yield. But I still have to contend with all the dreams I’m having every night. Dreams concerning her death.
Well, I guess this blog post won’t solve anything, but at least is a rant that takes off some weight off my chest.. at least temporarily..