Mother

Once again, like an unwanted cold, like a thought just before falling asleep. It gnaws and gnaws. Guilt? A human reflex, conscience, the alternative voice of one's own, dulled sense of self-worth. As if a bell somewhere deep inside, striking once, reverberates a hundred times against all the walls of my being. In the next room, a reference point, I try to reduce all movement, both physical and completely intangible. I treat every rustle as an enemy; I know he hears. The sound of a cigarette being lit can drown out thoughts. Those that revolve around the axis of our interactions. Why did I do it? And are reasons important? What is stimulus versus reaction, what is guilt versus punishment? One is unnecessary to achieve the other.

Did I really do it? Stage two: doubts, acid pouring through my mouth into my stomach, burning. The unpleasant smell of the body's decomposition, its self-defense.

She sat there, doing her usual thing, swollen hands clutching the TV remote clumsily, small, sunken eyes melting beneath thick, drooping eyelids. Her bloated body sprawled across the dark green sofa, reeking of urine, sweat, tobacco smoked for the third time, and the remains of a meal consumed several days earlier. It was as if all the waste in the early stages of decomposition had been ground up and plastered on the walls. Every slight movement caused her immense distress; the effort disrupted her body's tenuous homeostasis; sweat seemed to pour even through her eyes. Every time I reached for the ashtray, it was like a foul symphony, accompanied by the stench of digestive processes. Around her lay piles of dirty dishes, garbage, and television programs from months, even years, gone by. There was even ash on her chin. Her hair was greasy and repulsive, appearing darker, sparse, and absent in this light. A few gigantic blackheads around her nostrils and mouth could be called self-sufficient organisms. God, how many times I wanted to sandpaper her face!

Every time I returned, she'd make me kiss her forehead, that sweaty, stinking breeding ground of bacteria. I did it...

I'd close my eyes and feel the stench hit my nostrils, like beads of sweat drilling into my lips. I tripped over more trash, trying not to show the convulsions my stomach was in. My only thought was to wash it off. Usually, halfway to the kitchen, a bout of retching would begin. It was unbearable.

She heard it, heard me expel undigested food, and the taste, as if I'd eaten moldy fruit. She heard it and cackled in that phlegmy voice of hers, culminating in a bout of shortness of breath.

"Eh, eh!"—like the roar of a slaughtered pig. No one visited us, no one could bear the sight, no one... We were all waiting for her to die, she knew it too, she only asked when. When she finally got up, which was extremely rare, it felt like the whole house was heaving, the prewar floor of the old tenement house seemed to groan with pain, the cupboards near the ceiling involuntarily opened as if to draw in fresh air that never existed.

I felt as if the damn ceiling would collapse on top of me. Seven slow, ponderous steps to the light switch, another five to the toilet. She didn't close the door, and as she sat down, she grabbed the sink, which slipped from under her fingers. She sat down, the door creaked, a swirl of stale air. Sometimes she relieved herself in the bathtub; I never used it. Everything in the apartment was just like her: old, smelly, and unbearable.

Passing through the kitchen, she'd ask,

"When will you finally get the courage to do this, you son of a bitch?"

As if she knew, snorting and farting loudly every time she bent down to the cupboard. We had several neighbors, all of whom lowered their heads whenever I passed, as if expressing understanding, sympathy, and ultimately embarrassment at the situation. As if trying to hide the look that said,

"None of us will hold this against you..."

It was even possible that the building administrator was collecting voluntary donations from the tenants to remove the huffing and puffing tenant, a bothersome blemish on the otherwise healthy body of the community.

I remained in suspense, as if waiting for a sufficient reason. The telephone was in her room. She was just waiting for that deafening signal, like a siren, a particularly unmusical horn calling for battle. I had to go in, and she was just waiting for it. Her behavior was saturated with disgusting perversion, a visual presence worthy of a central train station.

Last night, she chewed a tangerine, smacking her lips with an unimaginable loudness, wiping her drooling muzzle with a slightly bent paw. She couldn't raise her hand to her forehead; the fat in the crook of her arm prevented her from doing so, effectively inhibiting every movement. A dam in a sea of ​​fat. When she rolled over, it seemed as if someone were rolling a four-hundred-liter bag of olive oil. "Mistake!" I replied hastily into the phone. I returned to the room; she burst into a tubercular laugh.

She provoked with everything she was, unleashing the worst, most repressed instincts. The first, the earliest, the simplest, the most genuine.

She'd once had a cat; God only knows what had happened to it. Most likely, it had integrated (more or less arbitrarily) into her omnipresent frame. Perhaps it was rotting somewhere inside her, perhaps somewhere between her thighs, in the sheets, behind the wardrobe. Somewhere inside, inside her, there was something calling. Begging, pleading. Something, unable to escape, was slowly dying, listening for the physicality of her life or decay.

As I clutched her slippery neck, afraid I wouldn't be able to strangle them hard enough to stop her wheezing, one fist pounded terrifyingly against the wall. The echo of her growl echoed through the stairwell. I felt it, felt everything, more deeply, more clearly. The life flowing from her was light, airy, free. I was its master, its only one. My hands slipped as if I were embracing an eel or a snail without a shell; even soap underwater would have been less resistant to my grip. The situation was taking on the tone of a game of tag; she tried unsuccessfully to pull me away, but the barriers in the crooks of her arms seemed to aid me in this particularly important task. Alvaro was just ending his failed relationship with Alfonsina. I pulled the linen tablecloth from the table and, taking advantage of its relative absorbency, clenched my fists tighter. Her gaze froze, staring directly at me, her smile faded, and she wheezed for a moment longer. But to me, it felt like the preview of a favorite movie that I could finally watch in its entirety.

"So, you son of a bitch," she rasped.

Tremors ran through her body, her face turned blue, and her fingers, bent at an odd angle, danced silently. I gathered every element of the moment, drinking in every thought, every word, every scent. She was still there, I felt it. I kissed her forehead, as I always did when I returned, but today I was bidding her farewell in every possible way. The uncertainty vanished, slamming the heavy door shut. A slight gust of fresh air from nowhere, as if a harbinger of future change. She stopped moving, but I still clutched her throat, fearing her resurrection. I finally sobered up, only now realizing that her prolonged pounding against the partition wall could be a sufficient argument for depriving me of my freedom for eight years... The image of Christ fell. I understand, I'd rather not see it either. I unrolled the tablecloth and placed it in its permanent place. I went out to get a plastic bag, stuffed it with empty food packaging and some of the scattered items that might look suspicious. I placed a pack of cigarettes in a visible place. I lit one and placed it between her now significantly less malleable fingers. I grabbed the bag and headed for the exit door. I calmly locked the door and turned around, feeling the eyes on me; several neighbors were standing in the stairwell. Mr. Zenek, who was in his twenties, looked me in the eye for the first time, patted me on the shoulder, and said:

"She was an elderly woman, and let's be honest, she was obese. A heart attack was inevitable. It's not your fault." I didn't answer, smiled to myself, and slowly started moving toward the exit.

The other tenants nodded knowingly. I went out into the yard. I approached a metal container, opened one of the flaps, and threw out the trash. I looked at it for a moment. Inside, everything was in its place. I thought, maybe in this situation, they'd lower my rent. I went back upstairs. There was no one in the stairwell except me. I entered the apartment, called 911, and reported her death. The dispatcher told me to wait. I washed my hands and sat in my room, lighting a cigarette.

She was still there, still cackling, but this time I knew she wouldn't find me, even here.

Death and death...they differ only in their "era." Trash doesn't deserve such a means of transportation, while humans deserve to vanish silently.