Round 12 – Fourth Fiction

Post under construction…

Probably done tomorrow (12/09/2009) – let’s make it 12/13/2009… (sorry…)

Round 11 – Fourth Fiction

Remember what I said on Round 10?  Well, same thing here, everybody:  I really wish to perform a full revision before posting, but since I’m so late and will have no time as soon as I can see, I decided to post it anyway.  Hopefully, there will not be (lots of) huge stupid grammar/misspelling mistakes…  :S

 

Round 11 challenge: Put your main character in danger in a new and hostile environment. There should be a struggle for survival through which new aspects of his or her personality are revealed.

1500 words.

 

Payback  really is a bitch, isn’t it?
This was the first thought that crossed WG’s mind when he finally wake up.  He was tied up, on the same bed he’d put Darla a while ago.
Darla…
He remembered her, falling on her arms, apparently lifeless.
Darla can’t be dead.  It can’t be possible.
“She was alive when I passed out” he talked do himself  “I know that bullet didn’t kill her.  I know!”
“Yes, it did.  I’ve checked. Didn’t want to commit the same stupid mistake she committed, leaving me alive on the floor…”
That creeps the hell out of WG. The goose bumps were worse than ever.  He managed to turn and saw the former dead man, staring at him, sitting on the exactly same chair he’d sit before, also smoking.
“Thanks for the cigarette, pal. Personally, I prefer Camel, but whatdahell… It’s better than nothing, right?”
The man had an accent that WG couldn’t identify. It was a little cockney, but also might be southern…  And what the blood hell difference would that make?
“Where is…” his voice sounds weak and he cleaned his throat before continue “where is Darla?”
“You mean the little whore? The fucking son of a bitch that put me in jail for six years? I already told you, bro…  She’s dead.  She’s fuckin’ lying on the floor, soaked in blood, right beside the stupid yellow cat. That’s where she is.”
WG’s heart broke as he heard this. It couldn’t be possible, he keeps repeating in his head. She was invincible, the strongest person he’d ever met.  People like her don’t die like this.
The pain in his soul was so deep that he almost didn’t feel the physical pain, from the wound he had, right above the left hip.
“Don’t cry, big boy. She deserved.”
“You don’t call me big boy, OK? You don’t call me anything!  You’re the one who deserved to die, you piece of shit!”
“Whooa! The big guy’s brave! She got you right by the balls, didn’t she?”
“Stop talking about her! You have no right to even talk about her!”
“Calm down, hero! I’m not the one who is tied and wounded here…  Well, I’m wounded, but it’s not even hurting anymore, I’ve been hurt before, this is nothing… She had no sight.”
WG had never felt this way before. Angry and pain are giving him a new sense of courage.  He wasn’t afraid anymore, not at all.
He now understands Darla, her desire for revenge.
He fells different; bigger, stronger, fearless.  He senses that he could beat this guy, if he wasn’t tied. In fact, if all he could do was yell with Darla’s killer, he would do that till the end. Nothing matters anymore.
“You wanna know why I did not kill you too, right?”
He does, but would never agree with him, ever.
“Not at all! I don’t give a fuck damn about that. You wanna kill me?  Do it! I couldn’t care less.”
“Right, man. Tell you what; I’m going to say it anyway. I didn’t kill you, ’cause I want you to know who she was. Your sex buddy over there.
She was a fucking hooker. And don’t pretend you’re not listening to me, man.
I’m no killer. I sell guns, that’s my business. Seldom, I might use them, but not for killing.
But when a fucking teenager  comes to your door, almost in tears, yelling that a friend is being raped, and you’ve fire in your hands, you don’t think, man. You act. You go and shoot the fucking rapist, that’s what you supposed to do.
That’s what we did.
And then, you imagine you’ll be some kind of hero. Instead, fucking sirens, cops, handcuffs, trial, six years in prison!!
And the motherfucker girl saying it was a joke.”
The man was close to him, speaking right in front of WG’s face.
His breath was horrible, and he spites while screaming; but WG never drop or close his eyes. He wishes to look direct to them, to the eyes of Darla’s killer. His first love’s killer.
“I don’t care a fuck! You didn’t need to shoot even if it was a rapist. You’re no fucking cop!”
The man pressed the cigarette butt against WG’s arm.  The pain goes directly to his brain, but he managed not to show it.  Instead, he said in a low voice:
“Very brave of you, burning a tied man…”
“Man? You’re no man, kiddo.  I’m a man.  Six years behind bars, and then you’re a man, okay?
But there’s one more reason I didn’t kill you yet.  I want to know how the hell did she get the gun.”
WG starts remembering the day they finally met.  About how she asked him to drive to a ‘friend’s house.  And how she had broken into the house, running with a package, while the alarm screams, saying him to go as fast as he can.
He never knew whose house was that.  She didn’t tell him.
But he would never talk to this guy.
Instead, he was trying to free himself, by loosing the ropes around his wrists.  Something he would never tried before, because he wasn’t that much brave. Not until his girl died, and his own life was in serious danger.
Looking direct to the man’s eyes, he asked:
“I’m wondering another thing…  Who was the other guy?  The guy we killed, you know…  Maybe he’s you lover?”
He said the last word with a conspicuous smile, betting that the guy will become furious enough to kill him, and end this charade, or, perhaps, untie him to a fight.
“He was my brother.” He said, in a very low voice, almost whispering. WG could see the anger in his eyes. He loved it. One point for me, he thought.
“Really?  You know what?  Darla’s sight wasn’t that bad, after all. At least a part of the family is gone, right?”
It worked.  The man’s face turned purple. It looks like he was one inch from a stroke.
He started to untie WG, while screaming:
“You’ll see, motherfucker!  It’s my brother you’re talking about, my little brother!!!  I’m going to scratch you against her body, I’m going to make you look to her while I step and jump on her dead crap chest!  I’m going to kick her, right in front of you, and then…  Then I’ll kill you!”
Almost free, WG wasn’t able to stop. The new brave WG wishes to talk, to hurt this guy:
“I thought you were no killer…”
“And I thought you were just a stupid in-love teenager; I thought she’d made a full of you, as she did on me, but now I see.  You’re like her, you’re as bad as she was.”
So angry, the man didn’t realize that WG was already free, and continued to untie the ropes.
WG’s didn’t waste the opportunity; holding the rope, he quickly turn his arm around, and catch the man by the neck, with the rope. The surprise made the guy’s movements not fast enough to react.
WG hold the rope on his neck, and start to pull it.
“Who’s the kiddo now, big guy?”
The man couldn’t talk. He was fighting for air.
Then, the door was opened, and they both looked at the same time, WG loosing the rope a little with the surprise.
In a tough voice he almost didn’t recognize as his own, WG yelled, still holding the guy by the neck:
“Who’s there?”

Round 10 – Fourth Fiction

People, I really wish to perform a full revision before posting, but since I’m so late and will have no time as soon as I can see, I decided to post it anyway.  Hopefully, there will not be (lots of) huge stupid grammar/misspelling mistakes…  :S

Round 10 –  to kill off one of your characters.

He thought about what she’d just said.  Maybe it was true…  If those guys had spent six years in jail for a prank, they must be really mad with her…

Guys who carried guns like that, who shot without hesitation like that… Couldn’t be nice and warm people.

“Who are those guys anyway, babe?”

“We never knew exactly, honey, but rumor was, and still is, that they are some kind of gun dealers or something…  ‘Cause they are always here, we’ve often seen guns, people coming and going all the time; they never work, but always had food, gas, beer…

Perhaps they were  not felons before, but they definitely are now…”

“But are they on probation or really free?”

“As far as I know, they’re  free for good baby.  ‘Cause it was considered almost self-defense, something like this, I don’t recall now…  All I know is they were convicted for 6 years, no more than this…”

“And why didn’t you move?  I mean… you knew these men are coming back someday…  This is their house; where else could they go after spent this long in jail?”

“’Cause I can’t.  That one, over there” she pointed to a pale dirt-pink bungalow across the street  “is my house too, after all.  I’ve tried to sell it – my Mom tried, but look around, hon…  This is not exactly Beverly Hills…  We’re in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of fuckin’ desert, baby.  No one had even came to see the house, ever.

“We can’t afford another place with my Mom’s pension.  I started working just two years ago, and I’m a fuckin’ waitress, half shift.  Even with the tips, all we can do was stay and hope.

And, to make things even ‘better’” she drew imaginary quotation marks in the air “Mom decided to die last year…  Cancer.  I’m still figuring out how to pay hospital bills.  It’s over 20 grands.

So, darling…  That’s why I stayed.”

There were no tears in her eyes, but her voice was strangled, as if she’d cried.  It wasn’t easy to her to talk like this, he figures.  She was trying her best, till now, to appear fearless, a little crazy, not-giving-a-damn the whole time.

But, truth is, and now he knew, she was just a girl, with a horrible life story, trying to stay alive.

Holding her by the arms, he couldn’t think anything smart to say.  In fact, he couldn’t think anything at all to say.

Her life has been so absolutely different from his, that everything would seem stupid.

He decided to just kiss her forehead, gently, holding her head by the chin.

She smelled like flowers, even after all this, and he wonders how could that be possible.  He felt like stinking himself, but didn’t care.  She needs a soft touch right now.

But exactly while his lips were pressed against her skin, a horrible noise could be heard, and the window exploded.

Broken glass jumped everywhere, and a smoke smell invaded the kitchen.

It was all so quickly that WG was still trying to understand what was that, when she felt on her chest.

Then he saw blood. Blood was staining the floor now, so fast he could not help himself of thinking how might that be possible.

He was wondering whose blood was that, when the cat produced an awful sound, and then rolled from her lap into the floor, lifeless, he was sure.

Everything seems to be in slow motion, and happening real fast at the same time. Darla wasn’t moving anymore, a huge pain came on his waist and he saw blood there too.  He was shot. Darla was shot.  The cat was shot.

The cat was dead. He was alive. Darla…  he had no idea.

The silence began again, and now he could think a little better.

He tried to wake up Darla, but she didn’t respond.

He looked through the window, and saw the man, not so far from the house, still holding a big smoking shot-gun. He thought the man was smiling.

It was the last thing WG was able to see.

Then, everything became black, as he passed out.

Round 9 – Fourth Fiction

Round Nine challenge for Outside Participants was to incorporate the following:

1)  a hoax
2)  a revelation
3) the number four

Word count: 444 words (but we are free to trespass this – there are no limits on outside participants!)

In fact, there was a man across the street.

Fear.  It was a new sentiment for WG.

He came from a public school, but not the kind you see in movies, with big tough boys spanking nerds all around, and mean girls despising not-so-cute-ones.

His school was a regular type, with bad and good, strong and weak, beautiful and ugly, geeks and average people.

So, he had never been “atomic wedged”, locked in his locker or any other “violent-funny” stuffs like these.

In fact, the worst he ever gets were humiliating jokes, as WG.  And even those were not so hard at all. He was an expert on it; people making fun of him was so common that he stopped caring somewhere around 12 years old.

Of course it wasn’t pleasant. He would prefer to be the basketball team leader or the quarterback, for sure.  But he was okay with the way things were.

Him, the geek, them, the athletes.

Back home, his mother is a pediatrician, and his father, a lawyer.  They were both nice and polite people – never hit him.  Not that he’d deserved it anyway…

So, fear wasn’t a normal sensation for him.

But now, he felt goosebumps and started to tremble.

He looked trough the dusted window and saw the man right under the number four painted on the opposite wall.

He couldn’t tell from this distance if he was the same guy who was on the floor a little time ago.

But one thing he could tell – the man was alive.  It wasn’t a dead body or a ghost. And was staring at them.  At least at the house.

“Hon, for how long are you seeing this man over there?”

“I’ve just seen him, love.”

She seems, as usual, relaxed.  Even her tone hadn’t changed.

“Is this the man you’ve shot?”

“I guess…” She squeezed her beautiful eyes and approached to the window to get a closer view. “I’m not really sure, baby, he’s so far…”

“You must tell me all the truth now, Darla!”

“I don’t like when you call me Darla…  I know it’s my name, but I prefer when you call me baby, honey, darling or… wherever like this…”

“Ok, pumpkin! But please, leave the cat just for a second, sit here with me, and explain all this mess to me.”

“I can do this without leaving the cat…”

“Perfect, you won. Just seat and start telling, with the cat.” He’d added the word “damned” before cat on his head, but didn’t say it. It was effortless.

“What do you want me to say?  I already told you everything.  Those bastards came to my home two months ago, picked my Painkiller with them, and…  Oh, please, don´t make me say it again.  It’s too painful.”

“No, darling, you don’t need to talk about painful stuffs, for sure.  But there must be something more there.  Why did they do this to you?”

“Because of the hoax, I believe…” She sounds like a little embarrassed child, talking in a low whispered voice.

“What hoax?”

“You see, I was so young back then…” She frowned  “I just want to have some fun with my classmates.  And it was Halloween…”

“And…?”

“And we made this up; a hoax.  We, I mean, I, came here, knocked on the door and started to yell that my friend was being raped by two men in the alley”

“WHAT??”

“See, you’re mad too. And you love me, I guess…  Nobody likes this story.  I should shut up now…”

“No, I’m sorry.  That’s ok, you talk, I’ll be quiet and understanding, ok?”

“Ok, I guess…  Anyway, they got out with guns, told me to stay inside, and do not let anybody gets in.  I was terrified about the guns, and I’d tried to tell it was just a prank, but they didn’t even listen to me.  They walked away.”

“When they came to the alley, my friend was there, pretending to be forced by a friend of ours, and another friend was hide, to scream “trick or treat” when someone appears.  It was all a joke!  But those guys didn’t even look around – they came shooting!”

“Your friends, they…”

“Yeah…  they killed at first my male friend who was with Esther, acting out the “rape thing”. Then Joe appears yelling ‘nooooo’, and they shoot him too.  They were D.O.A.”

“Oh, my goodness, honey!  That must be devastating!”

“It was.  Esther and I never spoke again.  Her mother moved as far as she could from me.  And the men were in prison until two months ago. Six years”

“Then, when they got out…”

“First thing, they came to my house.  I was alone, but I saw them and run. They’ve picked Painkiller instead of me.”

“And you were hiding since then?”

“Yes!  I was at my nana’s. But I knew I´d to do something or…”

“… Or they would hurt you…”

“Kill, baby.  Kill is the correct word here…”

Round Eight – Fourth Fiction

Round 8 Challenge for Outside Participants: Incorporate a reflection in a mirror. 600 words.

Looking at her, spoiling the cat, he could just think about the day they finally met.
They´ve been chatting for weeks in a private chat.  She was the one who asked him for it.
He´s never felt so incredible blessed before.  It was a moment he´d remember for years, for sure.
If only he’ll have years, of course…
One day, when they were talking about Dexter, the TV Show, she said they should meet each other in person.
He thought she was joking.  He was used to it, people making fun of him. He would never believe that a pretty and older girl wishes to meet him…  Not him, too much tall, too much white, too much thin…  Not to mention his glasses, the braces, and, of course, the pimples; oh, gosh, so many pimples… Yes, he had mirrors back home, and he used to see his reflection on them…  It wasn´t a pretty sight…
He always thought about himself as a tough diamond, waiting to be polished…  At least this way he could have some hope.  The future must bring a new and improved WG!
His name, in fact, was William Robbey-Smithson, but he adopted the WG, despite the bad joke, because he assumes his geekness, if there is such word.
He knew he was a geek, a nerd. That´s why he loves The Big Bang Theory, and was able to understand all the jokes they told…
Therefore, for him, WG was William Geek.  It sounds like a royal name, on his head.
That was his nickname on the chat when he met her.
Really, really shy, he was there just to talk about TV shows. But she was there looking for an accomplice, even though she claims to be looking for a ‘soul mate’.
Anyway, they ended up together in this mess.
He wonders if he would did anything different back then, when she asked him out, if he knew all that was going to happen.
He looks at her again.  Her soft skin, the beautiful green eyes, so contrasting with the tanned skin. Her hair so full and curly, black with lighted shadows…
She had perfect teeth.  Yes, he knows it´s an odd thing to pay attention when it comes to chicks, but he did. He´d  planes to become a dentist…  Although the geeks usually wants to be engineers, physicists and mathematicians, he wishes to be a dentist.
Everything seems so perfect, such a huge amazingly luck, that he seriously doubt he would say ‘no’ to her, even knowing everything…
The minute she said, or better saying, typed, after he froze and didn´t answer for several minutes:

“hey… where are you? Don´t want to meet me? I´m cool, you´ll like me, I hope! ”

He knew they were made for each other. They´ve exchanged images so far, through the webcam, so she knew how he looks like. And that´s why he thought she was joking…
But now, three days, just three damn days later, here they are, after a mug and two murders, at minimum…  No, think again, WG; after a robber, a murder, and a murder attempt…
Where the fucking hell is the other guy??
He didn´t realize he´d said that out loud until she answer the initially rhetoric question, in the most terrifying way, never stoppingto caress the cat:.
“I think he´s right there, across the street, staring at us, baby…”

O Foco e a Faca

Hello, guys!

Vou colocar aqui o final do meu conto, com o qual concorri no concurso “O Novo Escritor”, uma espécie de Fourth Fiction brazuca…!   Como a vida é cruel, fui eliminada essa semana! Oh, dó!!! 

Aqui vou colocar o final mesmo, capítulos 8, 9 e 10.  Depois, com mais calma, coloco tudo, e com um post para cada. Quero passar para o inglês o conto e deixar aqui também, quando der…  Hoje não dá tempo… 

Aliás, nunca tenho tempo para nada…  Mas daí já é outra história!

CAPÍTULO 8 – Não foi fácil descobrir onde encontrar a Grávida.

Ela estava traumatizada, diziam os jornais, e não conseguia ainda se recordar do rosto da mulher que a atacou.

Nenhum retrato falado foi feito.

Assim, a polícia não tinha pista alguma da agressora, nem onde procurar.

Mas, detalhe importante, do qual ela só ficou sabendo após uma busca minuciosa na internet, a Grávida era filha de um ex-policial civil, há muito aposentado.

Assim, havia uma mobilização especial para se encontrar a mulher que havia quase matado a pobre gestante e seu filho.

“Pobre gestante”, ela leu com desprezo a matéria, cuspindo cada palavra.

Ela veria a pobreza.

Tudo teria de ser cautelosamente planejado, pois a Grávida, que não era mais grávida, estava praticamente sob proteção policial constante.

Segundo uma matéria que ela encontrou num jornal de bairro, o ex-investigador usou todos os seus contatos para forçar os policiais a passarem pelo menos uma vez por hora em frente da casa da filha, em todas as rondas. Além disso, ele mesmo afirmava estar o tempo todo lá, ou por perto, e que não descansaria enquanto a maldita estivesse livre.

Porcaria.

Isso podia realmente arruinar o humor de uma pessoa.

Ainda assim, ela pretendia chegar novamente à mulher.  Imaginou que a Grávida morasse perto do ponto onde a atacou.  Embora, naquele dia, lhe houvesse parecido óbvio que ela estivesse indo à casa da mãe dele, ela podia estar perto porque morava ali também.

Lógico, afinal, assim é que eles se haveriam conhecido, a Ex-Prenhe e Seu Homem…  Em algum momento, quando ele foi visitar a mãe, a infeliz havia de ter se insinuado, com toda a vulgaridade possível, praticamente o obrigando a traí-la.

Sim, porque ele era um homem fiel, ela cria.  Afinal, se tinha tudo nela, dinheiro, casa, comida, roupa lavada, amor, um lugar para descarregar a raiva…  Para que ele iria querer mais?

Ela tinha confiança de que ele nunca a havia traído.  Ela era a única mulher em sua vida, em seu coração.

Até que a Grávida fedorenta se meteu entre eles.

Ela podia imaginar plenamente a cena, ela procurando puxar papo enquanto Seu Homem inocentemente passava a caminho da casa da mãe…  Não se pode admitir mulheres como essa vivas, atormentando quem nada lhes fez.

Por isso, mais do que uma busca pessoal, encontrar a ex-Grávida e apagá-la da face da Terra era um compromisso ético e social, com todas as mulheres injustiçadas, que tiveram seus homens roubados por traidoras como essa…

Sim, imbuía-se de um espírito vingador que a animava a enfrentar as dificuldades e alcançar a Ex-Prenhe.

Teria, como foi dito, de ser extremamente cautelosa e planejar cada detalhe.

Nada de ataques impensados; desta vez a coisa exigiria requinte.

Já sabia o bairro certo, e talvez o quarteirão.  Era o caso de ir até lá e procurar pelas casas, até ver a ex-Grávida, ou, então, o pai, que aparecera no jornalzinho. Pobre tolo presunçoso, querendo se ver no jornal do bairro…

No entanto, havia o inconveniente de que a Grávida a visse antes do que ela a avistasse, e desse o alarme.

Uma coisa era o jornal dizer que a grávida não se lembrava de seu rosto; outra bem diferente era imaginar que ela não lembraria quando o visse outra vez.

Ela precisava chegar incógnita ao bairro, a fim de poder rodar por ali tranquila e anonimamente.

Ela então resolveu se travestir de evangélica.  Sua mãe fôra uma ferrenha Testemunha de Jeová, que sempre tentou convertê-la.  A mãe mesma só se convertera na meia-idade, com o pai dela, e, por isso, ela escapara de uma criação que envolvesse saias longas e caminhadas pela cidade, de pasta na mão, batendo às portas das pessoas, levando a boa-nova.

Quando eles se converteram, ela já era adolescente, quase adulta, e não se importava com religião.  Sempre temera Deus, mas a seu modo, numa combinação de tudo o que ouvia falar…

Mas, agora, dava graças pela conversão da mãe.  Assim, bastava buscar no quartinho dos fundos, uma das caixas onde guardara as roupas dos pais depois que eles morreram, num acidente aéreo, anos atrás.

Eles estavam indo visitar os parentes mineiros, depois de tanto tempo sem vê-los.  Os dois eram mineiros que se conheceram em São Paulo.  As famílias eram vizinhas em Minas Gerais.

Ela não quis ir com os pais naquela ocasião, pois tinha acabado de fechar o primeiro contrato de publicação.  Queria terminar o livro o mais rápido possível.  E só por isso não morreu também.

Ela encontrou na última caixa uma saia que lhe cabia, com o auxílio de um alfinete, já que estava mesmo muito magra.  Uma saia preta, reta, absolutamente comum e discreta.  Completou o figurino com uma camisa azul bebê de mangas bufantes e colarinho engomado, que pôs por dentro da saia, para disfarçar a sobra de tecido, e cobrir o alfinete da saia.

Os sapatos da mãe não lhe caberiam, já que a falecida senhora calçava 35, e ela 37.  Mas encontrou entre os seus, um antigo mocassim cor da pele, que lhe pareceu apropriado.

No espelho, puxou os cabelos para trás, alisando o mais que pode, buscando transmutar os cachos revoltos numa massa obediente, como era a de sua mãe.  Indisciplinados, os fios teimavam em se soltar ao longo da cabeça.  Derrotada, ela pegou um velho pote de pomada capilar dele, que encontrou na pia do banheiro, e, umedecendo as mãos, conseguiu controlar os cachos, juntando tudo num rabo de cavalo baixo, que, depois, se tornou uma trança, enrolada em si mesma para criar um coque.

Bem como ela se lembrava que sua mãe fazia.

À primeira lembrança da mãe, ela pensou sentir saudades, mas foi só quando usou a pomada que uma lágrima quase brotou em seu olho esquerdo.

A pomada era um item que ele não dispensava. Homem vaidoso, gostava de organizar os cachos também rebeldes em ondas suaves e delicadas.  Só que os cachos dele eram de um castanho claro, que brilhava ao sol.

Com a pomada na mão, ela suspira a ausência do Homem que tinha cara de anjo, tantos chamavam de demônio, e que era o seu Deus.

Isso lhe dá mais ânimo de fazer o que tem de ser feito.

Olhando-se no espelho, acredita que está com o aspecto exato de uma missionária.  Pega também a pasta da mãe, compondo-se exatamente como ela faria para sair batendo às portas.

Apenas para assegurar-se de que ninguém a reconheceria, coloca os óculos de grau que deveria usar para escrever mas raramente se lembra.  O grau é fraco, e não faz quase diferença.

São antigos, de acetato escuro. Perfeitos.

Agora sim ela estava pronta. Pronta para se reencontrar com aquela mulher que lhe tirou Seu Homem.

Dentro da pasta da mãe, além dos folhetos e da bíblia, seguia a faca, fiel companheira e testemunha sua.

CAPÍTULO 9 – Foram três horas, caminhando pelas ruas sob um sol infernal, derretendo lentamente nas roupas sufocantes da mãe morta, até que ela avistou a Ex-Prenhe.

Ela estava num carro, um carro novo e bonito, vermelho.  No banco de trás.  Quem dirigia não era o pai dela, pela foto que o jornal mostrava.  Devia ser o marido, o corno manso que não sabia de nada, que criava o filho do Seu Homem como se fosse seu…

Faria um favor a ele também, livrando-o da traição, de um modo que sua covardia jamais permitiria, ela tinha certeza.

Escondida atrás de um poste, no lado oposto da rua, ela pôde ver quando o Ex-Prenhe desceu do carro, com o bebê infame nos braços, amparada pelo marido.  Entraram na casa.

Uma casa pequena e suburbana, como tantas outras, como a sua própria.  Mas que abrigava o Mal.

Mais dez minutos se passaram até que o marido saiu, entrou no carro e se foi.

A vagabunda estava sozinha.

Desprotegida.

Era hora de agir.

***

Dando a volta pela rua de trás, ela encontrou os fundos da casa.  Não havia porta traseira, mas o muro era baixo o bastante para que ela conseguisse pular.  Não perdeu muito tempo olhando em volta, para não chamar mais atenção, mas tinha certeza o suficiente de que não havia ninguém olhando.

De toda forma, sairia pela porta da frente, e rapidamente.

***

Tudo foi mesmo muito rápido, mas não da forma como ela previu.

Logo que alcançou o lado interno da casa, passando pelo quintal traseiro de cacos de piso antigo, foi aturdida pelos latidos desesperados de um pastor alemão imenso, felizmente acorrentado.

O animal babava e latia como um celerado, em proteção à casa e à gente que o alimentava, sem perceber que protegia também os que o prendiam.  Escravo.

Ela correu e adentrou a cozinha, toda de azulejos e piso azul, em diversos tons.  Seguia com a faca na mão, preparada para ser interceptada logo, já que o maldito cachorro avisara sua chegada.

Mas logo entendeu que não seria surpreendida, pois escutou barulho de chuveiro. A Ex-Prenhe estava no banho, não ouviria, ou não se importaria com os latidos.

Ainda com a faca na mão, ela foi, pé ante pé, até a divisa da cozinha com a sala, buscando encontrar o banheiro pelo som do chuveiro.  Seria poético matar a ex-barriguda no chuveiro, e talvez cinematográfico, lembrando a cena de Psicose.

Estava diante da porta correta, tudo indicava pela fumaça que saía de debaixo da porta fechada, quando foi atingida.

O golpe veio tão de repente que ela não pôde nem mesmo ver de onde partiu. Em um primeiro momento, atordoada pelo soco levado no lado esquerdo da cabeça, por trás, ela caiu, mas não de todo.

Conseguiu segurar-se na maçaneta a caminho do chão, e, assim, foi capaz de levantar-se rápido o bastante para esquivar-se do segundo golpe.

Era um homem, alto, velho, mas forte. De bermuda e camiseta, cabelos grisalhos em desalinho, olhos escuros de onde pingava ódio.  Talvez mais do que dos dela.  Então ela soube; era o pai da Ex-Prenhe.  Esse homem iria matá-la para defender a filha.

Aproveitando o momento em que o ex-policial se recuperava do golpe que não alcançou o alvo e preparava o seguinte, ela se abaixou e cravou a faca com toda força no abdômen do homem.

Ele estacou, a surpresa antes da dor tornando seu rosto uma máscara disforme.

Olhava da faca para ela com um misto de medo, dor e ainda mais ódio. E tentou atacar novamente.

Antes que ele pudesse, ela girou o cabo da faca, o que levou o ex-policial a urrar de dor. Arrancou a faca do corpo do homem, que caiu, e correu como se o chão estivesse desmoronando a seus pés.

Talvez estivesse.

CAPÍTULO 10 – Uma vez que nada mais restava, que ela havia sido definitivamente identificada, que o ex-policial, se morresse seria o herói da corporação e causaria uma busca medonha a ela, e, se vivesse, seria o herói vingador e a caçaria sem trégua, e, ainda mais, uma vez que havia deixado muitas digitais na casa da prenhe, não via mais motivos para adiar a visita à mãe dele.

Podia ser a última chance, antes da cadeia.

Na verdade, mexer com a mãe dele poderia significar que não iria para a cadeia; ele a mataria antes.

Mas, pelo menos, o veria mais uma vez.

Estaria com ele no momento final.

E tudo valeria à pena.

***

Lembrou-se, no caminho, que a pasta de sua mãe também havia ficado na casa da Ex-Prenhe. Além de digitais, a pasta devia ainda conter, ela estava quase certa, os panfletos que a mãe distribuía com o convite à sua religião, carimbados com seu nome, telefone e endereço.

Tudo estava mesmo acabado.

***

Chegou à casa da mãe dele sem ainda ouvir sirenes. Estava a apenas um quarteirão e meio da casa da Ex-Prenhe.  Isso podia ser um bom sinal, não sabia exatamente como.

No entanto, assim que tocou a campainha da Velha Senhora, escutou ao longe o barulho inconfundível da polícia, ou talvez de uma ambulância.  Ou ambos.

A porta foi aberta logo.

A faca estava oculta na mão, atrás do corpo, ensangüentada.

A Velha Senhora não viu, mas ainda assim expressou verdadeiro pavor quando a viu; ou seria sua imaginação?

“O que você quer aqui?”, ela perguntou em voz trêmula.  A Velha Senhora tinha olhos repletos de bondade, e ela teve pena da mulher, por um momento.

Então se lembrou de que não tinha mais nada a perder, e, empurrando o portão, não esperou o convite para entrar.

“Preciso falar com a senhora, será rápido”.

Diante do olhar perplexo da mulher, entrou na casa, de costas, para não mostrar a faca.

A mãe dele entrou logo depois.

***

Dentro da casa, ela não perdeu tempo com rodeios.

Agarrou o pulso minúsculo da Velha Senhora, magro e enrugado, e fê-la sentar-se numa poltrona de encosto coberto por uma manta de crochê colorido.  Ela se lembra da poltrona; foi comprada com seu dinheiro, por ele, um mês após a chegada da mãe. Ele disse que a Velhinha precisava de um lugar mais cômodo para sentar e assistir suas novelas, fazendo crochê e tricô.

Tudo por ela, tudo pela mãe.  Um bom filho.

Lágrimas mistas de saudade, desespero e ansiedade brotaram em seus olhos e embaçaram sua visão.  Enxugando-as com as costas da mão repleta de sangue, que ainda carregava a faca, ela começou a perguntar.

“Preciso saber onde ele está!”

“Deus, Jesus, Nosso Senhor. Essa faca está cheia de sangue?? O que você fez?”

“Não mude de assunto, só me responda logo! Onde está ele??”

A Velhinha tremia assustadoramente, e chorava muito.  Começava a arfar de um jeito que a lembrou do Velho da Banca, e teve medo de que ela também a sabotasse morrendo antes da hora.

Segurando a mulher pelos ombros, debruçou-se sobre ela e a sacudiu.

“Eu juro pelo seu Deus que vou te machucar se não me disser onde ele está!”

Quase inaudível pelo choro da Velha, a resposta veio:

“Quem, de quem você está falando? Oh, Deus, oh Deus!”

“Do seu filho, caralho! Você sabe muito bem! Onde ele está??”

Gotículas de saliva voaram no rosto da Velha quando ela gritou a última frase.   A mulher rezava sem parar.

Seria necessário trazê-la de volta à realidade para que respondesse.

A faca deslizou pelo braço desencarnado da idosa, quase não encontrando material para cortar, tão magra era a Velha Senhora.  Mesmo assim, sangue rubro escorreu do corte.

Ela gritou.  Continuou rezando, mas gritou.

“Me diga, onde ele está?”

Respirando fundo, a Velha Senhora pareceu tentar juntar toda a coragem de que ainda dispunha para responder.

“Você é mesmo louca. Completamente louca. Não sei como deixaram você sair daquele hospício depois do que fez, sua maldita!”

A lembrança do sanatório a fez perder o foco por um instante.

Os dias horríveis vividos atrás das barras, o convívio com a louca que via o mundo de cabeça para baixo, e com a outra, que ouvia vozes que a mandavam comer insetos.

Os enfermeiros a levando para os lugares, a vigilância constante, as correias na cama ao dormir, a falta de identidade, todos com o mesmo uniforme creme, parecendo prisioneiros…

As paredes pareciam se fechar sobre ela naquele lugar. Ela chorava todos os dias, todas as noites, entupida de remédios coloridos, que a deixavam em letargia constante.

Não se lembra como saiu.  Não tem noção de porque entrou.

Mas não quer voltar para lá, isso ela sabe.

A cadeia devia ser melhor, qualquer lugar devia ser melhor.

A Velha parecia saber como ela foi parar naquele manicômio.  E a faria falar.

“Me diga onde está seu filho!”

Produziu novo corte na face da mulher, com o fio da lâmina.  Gostou de pensar que havia sangue de muitas pessoas diferentes naquela faca. Que muitas almas estavam unidas naquele fio, e que tudo era agora repassado à Velha Senhora.

Sorriu diante da imagem, e a Velha gritou.

“Está vendo, completamente louca! Eu disse para não te soltarem, falei com todo mundo, com o delegado, advogados, promotores, médicos, juízes… Deus, eu pedi, eu implorei. Eu disse que tinha medo de você!

E me falaram que eu estava exagerando, que você agiu em legítima defesa, que não representava um perigo à sociedade, que foi um caso isolado.

Falaram que não havia motivo para te manter internada, que você tinha sido absolvida…  Mas só eu sei a dor, o desespero de ter que saber que você estava livre, sua assassina!!”

As palavras jorraram de um modo desconexo, as lágrimas da Velha Senhora se mesclando ao sangue que escorria de sua bochecha.

Ela tentava entender o que a velha dizia, mas parecia de repente que estava num mundo distante, que os sons a alcançavam de longe, e perdiam o sentido no processo.  Por que a mulher a chamava de assassina?  Ninguém sabia ainda do Moleque, nem do Velho, nem do Menino…  E a Ex-Prenhe sequer morreu, além de ninguém saber que havia sido ela…

Quem, diabos, a Velha a acusava de ter matado?

Ela começou a sentir vertigem. Tudo parecia rodar, e ela se sentou no sofá puído.

A Velha percebeu a fraqueza da adversária e continuou.

“Como é para você viver na mesma casa depois de tudo? Como consegue se olhar no espelho depois de ter acabado não só com uma, mas com duas vidas? Se não fosse Deus no meu coração, se eu não tivesse o auxílio da minha Paróquia não sei como agüentaria a dor, dia após dia…”

Do que ela estava falando?  Imagens se formavam em sua cabeça, mas ela não queria ver, não queria ouvir, tampou as orelhas com as mãos umedecidas e rubras, sem largar a faca, os joelhos balançando como uma criança se embalando.  Não queria ouvir, não queria mais ouvir…

As sirenes ficavam mais próximas.

A Velha Senhora percebeu que tinha uma chance.

Levantou-se, chegou mais perto dela e gritou.

“Como pode andar por aí e viver normalmente, e ainda vir aqui me perguntar do meu filho?? O meu filho que você matou, sua demônia! O meu filho que você sangrou como um porco? O meu único filho, você por acaso esqueceu que ele está enterrado há quase um ano? Que você o arrancou de mim com essa mesma faca maldita???”

Ela lembra, mesmo sem querer lembrar, e tudo começa a fazer sentido.  Um sentido horrendo, dolorido, no qual ela não quer acreditar.

Mas que explicaria tudo… Porque o Velho da Banca a olhava com medo, porque ele se foi sem deixar nada escrito, porque encontrava tanta coisa sua pela casa, porque não havia uma única pista de seu paradeiro, porque foi parar no sanatório, porque o Menino pareceu tão espantado quando ela perguntou dele, porque a Grávida afirmava não saber do que ela falava…

Mas como, por que, por que ela mataria o Seu Homem, o seu Deus, o seu próprio oxigênio?  Como podia ser tão estúpida?

“Eu não fiz isso! Eu não matei o seu filho!”

“Claro que matou, sua maldita! Deus me perdoe, eu tentei perdoar…! Eu tentei, e ainda tento. Eles disseram que ele te batia, que ele era um traficante, que você só se defendeu…” A Velha enxuga uma lágrima maior, funga ruidosamente e continua “A polícia… A polícia me disse que você só o furou porque rolaram, quando ele estava te cortando. Que ele ia te matar, que ele te falou isso…” Ela busca novamente se recompor, a dor entrecortando sua fala “Eu protestei o quanto pude. Meu filho não era assim, eu o criei, eu o tive… Mas eles tinham provas. Testemunhas de que você vivia cheia de hematomas, vizinhos que ouviam os seus gritos durante as surras, que acompanhavam a movimentação dos viciados…”

A Velha senta, impossibilitada de continuar de pé com o peso do que, para ela, também é difícil carregar.

“Não bastasse a dor de enterrar meu filho, meu único filho, ainda tive que ouvir todo tipo de horror sobre quem ele era. Eu não conhecia meu próprio filho, eu gerei um monstro e não sabia… Eles me mostraram os mandados de prisão contra ele, mas… Eu não posso ainda acreditar. Um filho tão bom, tão dedicado…”

A Velha se levanta de novo, os olhos já mais secos, voltando ao ataque.

“De todo jeito, você matou o meu filho, ninguém mais. Ele morreu, e você não. Você foi solta logo em seguida. Ficou o quê, seis meses no sanatório, e todo mundo diz que você está bem, que não vai nem ter julgamento, porque foi legítima defesa… Pois bem, aqui está a ‘legítima defesa’ dessa gente.  Você aqui, louca, ensandecida, me perguntando onde está o homem que você mesma matou!!”

A Velha grita a última frase, o corpo colado ao dela, que mantém os ouvido tapados, mas ouve cada palavra.

A Dor a invade de tal forma, que o som das sirenes cada vez mais perto não lhe importa mais.  Nada faz qualquer sentido, nada interessa.  Ele não vai voltar, ele nunca vai voltar, ele está morto.

Ela também está morta, só não começou a se decompor ainda.  Mas é possível resolver isso também.  O consolo final, a faca lhe grita, está em meu fio.

Ela dirige o foco totalmente a si mesma, a faca parece mover-se sozinha e se crava em seu próprio peito.

Diante do olhar aterrorizado da Velha Senhora, ela cai, sangue vazando da boca, sem emitir um único som, no tapete impecavelmente limpo da sala, enquanto a polícia entra sem pedir licença.

Round Seven – Fourth Fiction

Round 7 Challenge - This time we, outsiders, had to choose among six options (my choice is in bold):

Options:

Tess: Incorporate a homicidal clown (taken from Omar´s story)

Rhae: Incorporate an Assassination Plot (taken from Tuck´s story)

Coco: Incorporate Dostoyevsky (taken from Igor´s story)

Utah: Incorporate a steak knife (taken from Fyor´s story)

Nora: incorporate the Whitehouse (taken from Fido´s story)

Olaf: Incorporate an Astral Projection (taken from Isis´s story)

At least they think it sounds like steps sound…
They remained silent without moving a finger for a while, expecting the worst.  But nothing happens.
Looking at each other, they booth nodded at the same time, and put themselves up.
WG walks first, grabbing a steak knife at  the sink.  The two men, when she came out shooting, were cutting meat; the disgusting meat was still laid down on the sink.
He had no idea about why he had picked up the knife, but it seems like a good move at the time.
Besides, she has no longer the gun.  Or, better saying, she has no longer an useful gun, since she had used all the bullets to kill the men.
To kill, or, at least, to hurt them.  Since one of them wasn´t on the floor anymore, it is no more than possible that just one was hurt to death…
She grabbed his arm, almost causing him pain. She should be afraid. It makes him relax a little, as crazy as it looks, because it shows him that she wasn´t that insane after all…
She was capable to fell fear, to be afraid, even thought she seems to be fearless few minutes ago…
They stepped so closely, as if they were both parts of one unique body.  The they never heard any noise during their way to the window.
At the window, they pull the drapes just an inch, to see the outside.  The porch was empty.
Except for a cat.
A huge yellow fat cat.
That´s why they could hear what appears to be steps. The cat´s weight.
“Darling, it´s adorable!”
“Yeah, it is…” He was still a little shaking, not prepared to pay any attention to the cat´s lovely powers.
“No, I really mean it.  He is adorable.  I want him.”
All of a sudden, the cat made its  way to ‘he’, from ‘it’, as it must be, according to his opinion.  But he´ll never say that to her.
Apparently, animals are a lot more important in her life than humans.  Except for him, he likes to believe.
“What, baby?”
“You heard me.  I wish the cat.  He is mine, he is my new Painkiller.  I´m going to call him PK2, as in Painkiller, the Second, you got it?”
“But hon, how could we pick the cat up?  We can´t open the door… We have kind of a situation to manage here, love…”
Seeming like a little spoiled child , she started to hold the breathing.
“Oh, c´mon, baby, you can´t be serious!”
His response was to see her face becoming red, and then purple after a couple minutes.
“Ok, ok, calm down, I´m opening the door, I´m catching the feline…”
He opens no more than an inch of the door, and the cat slides in. She immediately exhales, and hold the cat.
“Hello, PK2!  I´m your mommy!  Yes, I´m, yes, I´m!”  She keeps touching the animal´s nose with hers.
“Look, baby, he looks  just like the cat from “The Adventures of Milo and Otis”, that Japanese movie… Do you know it?”
“Yeah, I think so…”
While they were inside there, welcoming the new family member, someone was watching, outside.

Round Six – Fourth Fiction

Round 6 Challenge – Incorporate a White Russian and the words “over the line” into your next passage, which should be no more than 500 words.

OK, I know it has much more than 500 words, but  since I didn´t use up all the words on the last two challenges, I thought it could bring balance to the Universe.

“People always thought I was Russian.  In fact, it was my nickname for years, before Chuck Meadows´d decided it could be funnier call me WG, short for White Geek, and the whole school agreed with him.
I´m WG since then.
But truth is I´m pale as a ghost.  Don´t ask me why, ´coz I´ll have nothing to say…  My mom is pale but not that much, and my father is regular white.
Maybe it was library´s  fault, after all those hours there, studying, reading, hiding from people.
´Coz people used to be mean to me, you know…  ´Coz I´m smart, ´coz I enjoy reading, and always had perfect grades…  Also I´ve never tried to make friends…  I avoid people.  It’s better to be lonely for option than for lack of option, understand?
But, I mean…  I am pale. You can see it.  I´ve got a so white skin you could actually see through it, and I´m not exaggerating.
That´s, in fact,  why people used to say the royalty has blue blood; their veins were visible through the skin, as they didn´t take sunbathes, never ever.
But I´m saying all this to make a point here…  And my point is…  I´m white pale, my whole body is really, really white pale, but I´m much paler now!”

“Hon, calm down, please…  I can´t think if you keep on talking like this… I´m trying to understand what´ve happened here…  Where the hell is that creep bastard?
And…  just for you to know…  I don´t think you´re a ghost at all.  For me, you´re gorgeous.
I met a White Russian once.  He stayed here for a couple of months, doing some research about our mountains or something… Point is…  He didn´t look anything like you, baby.  He was a ghost, you gotta believe me!”

They were sat down , backs to the body.  After the missing guy discovery, WG had passed out for a few moments, and she´d put him on the floor, gently whispering comforting words till he woke up.
Now, they have to figure out what to do.  And more than this, they have to figure out where the other guy was.

“How could that be possible?  I mean…  I shot him.  Twice.  Right in the chest, you saw…”
“Yeah, I saw…  I wish I hadn´t, but yes, I saw it…”
“Darling, are you with me or not?  ´Cause I´m starting to get a little sad with all the recriminations…”
He loved her.  Since the chat, since the very beginning, when she´d  given him her private number, when they started talk every day after school, making plans to meet each other…
He was with her.  At this point, he had no choice  whatsoever…

“Course I´m with you, baby!  Sorry, you´re right.  I do need to calm down.  And I will, just give me a minute, OK?”
“OK. I´ve been over the line here, I know.  And I´m sorry to drag you to this.  I meant it.
But just with you I could find the courage to do what I´d to do, you know?  I guess…  I guess you´re my painkiller now…”
She sad that last sentence with shyness, closing her eyes almost completely, looking to the floor, squeezing her hands like an embarrassed  child.
He´d felt so much love at this moment that he forgot completely about the murders, the missing body, the possible hunt and prison time they´ll have to make.  For a moment, there are just the two of them in the world.
He was about to answer, to make a move, to hold and kiss her, when they heard a noise.
Steps.  On the porch.

Round five – Fourth Fiction

And here goes my round five, late as well…

Round five challenge – Incorporate this image… …into your next passage of no more than 500 words. You can interpret this challenge as you see fit...

She stopped crying, after a few minutes.
Then, all of a sudden, she said:
“Let´s burn the damn thing all over, hon.”
“What do you mean? To burn the…  bodies?” He almost spelled the word, as we do when talking dirty in front of a little child.  The simple idea of discuss this was surreal and disgusting for him.
“Yeah, of course! It will be awesome to see those bastards bursting in flames!’
“But darling, they´re already dead… Isn´t this enough?”
She gave him the worst glacial look he has ever seen.  It made him feel like nothing.
She walked away, to the room where the bodies were.  He followed her.
They entered there: the room was absolutely dark, and the smell of death was floating in the air…
He covered his mouth and nose with a hand, while turning on the lights with the other.
He regretted doing this at the very next second.  He knew that image will follow him for life.
The eyes, the dead man´s light green eyes, opened, completely, staring at him, at them.
Lifeless, but still looking.
But that wasn´t the most scaring thing.  Right there, were two bodies should be laid, there was just one.
The other corpse was gone.

Round four – Fourth Fiction

Round four challenge – Weave an element of Fyor´s story into your passage.  It should be no more than 450 words.

Oh, boy, I´m so late, I know it…  But I had some health problems, my asthma trying to kill me, that´s all…!  Fortunately, I won again!

Well , I believe it´s better late than never, right? So here it is, my round four challenge:

Since the first time he had heard this story, it was hard to believe on it.    Not that he thought it was untrue; it is more like a sense of an augmentation…
Ok, he knew people are stranger and there are some psychotics capable of almost everything…  But still, to believe that two old fellows had just picked up a dog, put it on a washing machine and turned on the damned thing, just because…  It is beyond anyone´s worst imagination…
But she told the story with tears on her eyes, every time.  She was hurt, that´s undeniable… Something have happened, that´s a certain fact.  Even if she was exaggerating, there´s something odd here.
“Right, dear… You´re right, it wasn´t my dog. I´m sorry.  I´m gonna untie you, if you promise me you´ll behave yourself, ok?
“Swear!  I can´t cross my heart, but I swear, darling!”
He knew it was a mistake, but her smile made him completely defenceless…   She stayed at the same spot after he untied her, just shaking her hands to make the blood circle again.
“Now, love, Painkiller is revenged!”
“It´s a funny name to a dog, isn´t that?”
“She took the pain of my life off… All the pain.  That´s why I´ve called her like this.  But then, those douche-bags made…  I…  Oh, boy it was devastating… I wish my Painkiller back…”
She started to cry.  Profusely.
He held her in his arms, and started to sing as if she was a little kid.
“I had to kill them. If you can´t understand that I…”
“Shhhhhhhh… That´s ok.  I understand.  I really do.  Just calm down now, ok?”
That was a lie, but a good lie, he thought.  He could never understand any reason to kill someone.  He wasn´t raised that way; but still, he could lullaby her for a while.
The deads are not going to anywhere, anyway…