Twister.

José Miguel Fernández NápolesFollow

Jun 15, 20223 min de lectura

I woke up around noon like a mine without a fuze, a whirlpool of rage that came down from the sky with clenched fists, a dry throat and an urgent need to fight someone, preferably with the fist, with knives or with those spears with which the Roman warriors disembowelled anyone.

I still didn't know about Alina, my father had thrown me out of the house and I was living in the attic of the filthy apartment in Overtown, owned by my drunken grandmother, lying on a bunk, roasting in the sticky Florida heat. And worst of all, just entering lap twenty-one of the racing circuit of my life, I didn't give a damn about anything.

I lay on my back with my eyes perched on the ceiling, sweating profusely and suddenly unable to move. Feeling in my snout the radiation of the heat that emanated from the roof and a growing desire for annihilation that would end the suffering, however, something pushed me to feel the barrage of feelings and not resist.

The early years of childhood began to pass through my head, wrapped in the cellophane of having rich parents and a black maid, toys, whims and everything that wasn't a bit of time from my parents, or a wooden horse like me. Grandfather used to say, before a cancer gave him a mysterious ticket to nowhere and with no return.

I know that he escaped from this life so as not to continue watching how my father was getting into the chrysalis of his business, contrary to the natural process and ended up becoming a worm, drowning in his money. And my mother suffocating without affection, naked to cross the desert of TV channels and smoking the opium of selecting the most expensive in supermarkets.

Then I learned the philosophy of the whales that go out to get a breath of fresh air and plunge into a new discontent. When I was seventeen I had my first accident without a driver's license and I left an injury to a lady, for which my father had the audacity to compensate a quarter of a million, as if a limp for life could be paid with that.

And then to discover other ways to make the adrenals secrete adrenaline, a wild race to the shudder of the first seconds, a parachute jump, another shot of hormones coming from the gonads in the luxury suite of the best hotels, using the vagina of sad girls, like those insects that burn in the streetlights, fleeing from darkness and fear.

And the falsity of friendships that have a Guinness record in flattery, the ephemeral bait that brings sadness to parties of not celebrating anything, the patches of joy that objects provide, especially when they fall from the sky, when they cover leaks in the roof of glass of addictions.

And suddenly the car is filled with dynamite and the fuse between carrot and carrot becomes too short, complaints take over the garguero and discontent plants its flag on the crest of every half hour. Fear is disguised as arrogance, rage is allied with sadness and they stop a monster that goes up to the roof of a school with a rifle and unceremoniously murders the opportunity that life has given him, to live this dream.

At the moment the sweat didn't bother me and through the crack of the window, I managed to see that a ray of sun embraced the wind.