Once Upon a Black Kraken

  A dead guy called me. That’s the only explanation. Okay, too abrupt, let me start at the beginning. Once you get out of prison, there is no reintegration, just a different cage. A lonely, abandoned island where I am supposed to take care of a ruined long-unused Asylum. One day I was expecting a resolution for my probation request, and suddenly I was heading in a mostly rotten boat to a piece of land not even the government gives a shit about. “What do you think of your new home?” Asked me Russel, the man in charge of my new task, as soon as we were able to see the rocks appearing over the ocean. “Wet,” I responded. Walked away to the other side of the boat, which was just three feet away from him. Not understanding the clue, he approached. “Come on, is better than San Quentin.” Failed to cheer me up. He didn’t give up. “I mean, you will be able to move freely. Yes, you’ll have responsibilities as in any job, but out of that your time is yours to spare as you please....

  Certain things do not change. As a child you endure recess alone with your thoughts, same when you become a teacher. Other educators glimpse at me with disgust. Elementary school children do not denominate as " cool " to dialogue with their history “ teach . ” Not even the Christmas spirit alters traditions. Solitary, I eat my reindeer cookie. Cannot recriminate them. The scar, dividing my right cheek like a hemorrhagic cauliflower not chosen from the store due to its aesthetic deficiencies, is tough to ignore. I hear what they are talking about at other tables. Football, the new superhero movie, VTS (what's that?). Despite the hustle and bustle of the place, irritating screams and embarrassing cries, to my left something hijacks my attention: Santa Claus. "I'm going to ask him for a Mimtendo Witch 2 ." A deceived child, Santa Claus is unable to give away something that is rented. "Do you really believe that? Santa does not exist.” Shit. An...

  Ciertas cosas no cambian. De niño toleras tus recreos con tus pensamientos, igualmente al transformarte en maestro. El profesorado me ve con repugnancia. Los niños de primaria no ven “ cool ” dialogar con su “profe” de historia. Ni el espíritu navideño altera las tradiciones, en soledad como mi galleta de reno. No puedo recriminarlos, la cicatriz, que divide mi mejilla derecha como una coliflor hemorrágica no elegida en la tienda por sus deficiencias estéticas, es trabajosa de ignorar. Oigo lo que platican en otras mesas. Futbol, la nueva película de superhéroes, VTS (¿qué es eso?). Pese al bullicio del lugar, gritos irritantes y llantos vergonzosos, a mi izquierda algo secuestra mi interés: Santa Claus. — Le voy a pedir un Mimtendo Witch 2 . Niño iluso, Santa Claus no puede regalar algo que se renta. — ¿En serio crees eso? Santa no existe. Puta madre. Otro niño castrosito y no deseado que sabotea la inocencia ajena. ¿Y yo soy el que come solo? — ¡No es cierto! Tie...

  "What happened to your sister?" Not interrogate me about that. Same thing every time someone accesses my home. The photo is meaningful to me, but I dislike others seeing it. "An accidental fire," I lie. *** Easter. 1989. A warm spring for the rainy season we are used to. Stereotypical: Sun, flowers, animals and children playing. Every year, Mom would hide in the park the Easter eggs that we decorated during the previous month and filled with confetti. My little sister and I tracked them down to use as projectiles. It was the version of violence and confrontation allowed in a single day of annual catharsis. At the bottom of my basket, I came across a peculiar egg. Extremely ornamented. Not the one embellished by elementary school kids with cheap watercolors. I felt the texture of the design in my fingertips. Vivid colors and intricate drawings mesmerized me. My older sister approached. I presented her my souvenir. Without noticing, she cracked it in m...

  — ¿Qué le pasó a tu hermana? No me cuestiones eso. Lo mismo cada que alguien ingresa a mi hogar. La fotito es significativa para mí, pero me disgusta que otros la vean. — Un incendio accidental—, miento. *** Pascua. 1989. Una primavera cálida para el clima lluvioso que acostumbramos. Estereotípico: Sol, florecitas, animalitos y niños jugando. Cada año, mamá ocultaba en el parque los huevitos de pascua que decorábamos durante el mes anterior y rellenábamos con confeti. Mi hermanita y yo los rastreábamos para usarlos como proyectiles. Era la versión de violencia y enfrentamiento permitido en un único día de catarsis anual. En el fondo de mi canasta me topé con un huevito peculiar. Extremadamente ornamentado. No aquel personalizado por críos de primaria con acuarelas baratas. Sentía la textura del diseño en mis yemas. Colores vivos y dibujos intricados me hipnotizaron. Mi hermana mayor se aproximó. Le presenté mi souvenir. Sin advertirlo, lo reventó en mi cabeza. No hu...