Hate

A Chopin nocturne played in the living room where Francisco José, still a teenager, and his mother shared their usual moment of family time. The music fell on deaf ears. But Francisco José heard clearly the fascinating anecdote about to an uncle he had never met, but who he knew was dirty and grotesque, with no manners and an insatiable appetite producing a huge bodily mass, which he adorned with a superfluity of jewelry to stave off any repugnance it might provoke.

Starting with this extravagance, Francisco Jose’s mother began her story. She said that her brother’s iniquitous showiness had already caused an endless number of accidents on the highway high in the mountains where their small hometown is situated. According to her, a tragedy occurred every time the driver of a vehicle, blinded by a strange golden glow, lost control of the steering wheel and inevitably fell into the depths of one of the ravines abounding in the area. She added that the monstrousness of the event lay in the fact that her brother never reported the accident to the police until several days later, and when the authorities arrived at the scene they always found a mutilated corpse with the legs and buttocks missing, whose whereabouts they never seemed worried about.

The story continued with many other suspicious incidents, creating a morbid atmosphere which generated empathy with the cannibalistic murderer. Perhaps he too was a victim, one of those beings condemned to solitude by the incomprehension of those different to them. At least Francisco José thought so. Disillusioned, he noticed the synchrony between the Chopin piece and his mother’s silence.

He understood the story had come to an end, but he wanted to know more about the unknown uncle and begged for the night to be longer. His mother’s reply was a resounding “No!” and as if to emphasize it, she got up and walked toward him and with a menacing air waved her twentieth glass of tequila in his face.

More than an hour had gone by since Chopin had first made his presence felt in the living room. This was enough time for her to go out of her mind and quarrel with nobody; ill-tempered shouts enunciated confused accusations in which “I hate you” were the only words heard distinctly. Francisco José already knew how the scene would end; a few broken objects and his mother drowning in a puddle of urine at the start of the new day. This was the moment when prudence whispered in his ear that he should retire so as not to alter the daily routine of the house.

Once Francisco José was in bed, a hellish migraine made him go out to the dark patio at the back of the house where he walked up and down with silent steps, which were interrupted by something like a song fervently expressing the wish to die. They were the impatient moans of a small animal demanding its absent mother’s warmth. But Francisco José, wrapped in his fantasy, pushed his index finger to the back of the cavity holding the eye of his victim, who, on feeling the wound, contorted its little body in time to its pained cries for help.

The guard dog prowling around the property was alerted by her maternal instinct and rushed in a frenzy to the crime scene, frightening away Francisco José, who during his disorderly flight ripped out the unfortunate puppy’s eyes to devour them voraciously, not stopping until he was at the door he had left by, which to his misfortune was locked. Terrified by the approaching threat, he kicked the door and shouted for it to be opened.

Seconds before he suffered a similar fate to the puppy, his mother pulled the door open violently to get him into the kitchen. And with a voice still babbling from the effects of the alcohol, she shouted at him that was he had just done was precisely why she hated his uncle. For her, eating was a ritual which should be respected, but Francisco José and his uncle had never understood, and this she couldn’t tolerate. Outraged at what had happened, she ordered Francisco José to take a shower to clean the blood which dribbled out of his mouth and had soaked his shirt, but before he could move, she snatched the puppy’s bloody corpse. It crossed her mind to put it in the refrigerator, but reflecting on its small mass, concluded it wasn’t worth it and proceeded to satiate herself with both of them.

 

This is quite a surrealistic story, as I find it hard to follow. It seems unbelievable. It is interesting, nevertheless, and quite morbid. ;-) Cannibalistic ritual born out of omni-present hate... ;-'

Congratulations, it is not bad at all. ;-) The writing, that is... ;-) ;-'

A.B.

 

Thanks forreading my text. I’m sorry your reading of “Hate” has hindered the pleasurethat reading a literary work should inspire. I hope your stay in dear oldEngland is happy. Cheers.

 

Thanks foryour generous words. A fraternal hug from Monterrey, Nuevo León.