Etiqueta: narracion

Luciano con O

Tampoco sé si a veces soy tomate o soy gato, o si simplemente soy Luciano con O. Soy como Sven que murió la semana pasada. 

Qué me importa si Luciana tiene el arma si el que disparó fui yo. A veces me gusta ir por la vida con una coca cola. Me gusta sentir la lluvia, la lluvia de olor a pólvora quemada, limpiándome la sangre de la herida. La sangre de tomate como el gato rojo de Amarilla. Amarilla se parece a Luciana con A. A veces, Luciana con A está celosa porque yo hablo de Amarilla. Le digo: “Tranquilízate nena” y ella enfurece. El problema es que Luciana con A no lee mis libros. 

Luciana con A siempre anda discutiendo. Pelea conmigo por las coca colas. Pelea conmigo porque no me apetece un buen polvo. Pelea conmigo porque le compro drogas. Pelea con el dentista porque no se lava los dientes. Luciana con A pelea con la vecina porque las sábanas que extiende le tapan el sol que cae a la terraza. A Luciana con A le gusta pelear. Yo le digo: “Vive nena” y ella enfurece. 

Me gusta Luciana con A. Yo soy Luciano con O. Así que es gracioso. Cuando tomo coca cola a Luciana con A le da celulitis. Yo me siento mareado. No sé si es por la sangre de tomate que me lava la lluvia con olor a pólvora quemada o si es por el brandy que le cayó a la coca cola en la mañana. 

Luciana con A dice que es de noche. A mí siempre me parece que está de día. Lo que pasa es que Luciana con A siempre dice lo contrario a lo que yo digo. Luciana con A dice: “Estás equivocado Luciano con O” y yo digo “Qué importa nena”. Y ella enfurece. 

Luciana con A dice que quiere el lado izquierdo. A mí me da igual. Diez metros bajo tierra la lateralidad no importa. Creo que Luciana con A y yo estaremos muy estrechos. 

I only have one photograph of him left

I only have one photograph of him left. I took it when he came to our house in one of his striking, commonly nocturnal, never-expected visits. The photograph is a portrait of a young man in decadence who had been living beyond the line for more than a long time.

He was no longer that joyful, peaceful boy that all of us used to know so well. His strange manners and compulsive movements, combined with his thinness, gave him a repulsive appearance that was not bearable for long. He looked like a walking bag of bones, and his long hair partially covered his cheekbones, which stuck out giving to his face the look of a skull just covered by skin. He seemed like a puppet of a skeleton that moved because of the action of a strange force…lifeless.

All of his body looked lifeless but his eyes… His eyes were strangely deep. They were black and deep as the universe, full of energy that hypnotized and frightened. One could see through his eyes. At some point, he stared at me and laughed and talked like a maniac. I stared at him too while wondering how this could have happened. I was mesmerized by the image, and then I took the photograph.

He left soon that night, and it was the last time we talked. Sometimes, I look at the photograph and wonder if I could have helped him, but I knew he would never come back. He always said that he wanted to be free.