miércoles, 4 de marzo de 2009

Juego # 9 Bestiary

Cyclop Jerk

She didn't always want to kill him; Nah, her hubbykins, her sweetums, God knows what else she called him. I don't know - I say she had every reason to do what she did. I'd had smothered him while he slept. I wouldn't had needed to hire any body, like those rich women do - can't bother to get their hands dirty. Not my girl - nah - she could pretty much do it herself. Do what, you ask? Or maybe you didn't ask. Anyway, he had this thing - this weird eye thing. Like the old man in Tell-Tale Heart? No, not really. Her husband - -- her husband had one roving eye. I'm not talking about a medical condition; I'm talking about the kind that can get your bed set on fire, like that Patsy Kline song, you know the one, about how a wife leaves her husband and before she does it she reminds him to not smoke in bed, like that's the first and last thing he's gonna do. Whatz it called? Smoking in Bed? Whatever. Point is, his eye creeped me out; nine out ten times, I couldn't look at the man. It was like it was, well, how do I put this? It was like it was doing me. Made me real uncomfortable. She's sitting right there! And he's looking at me like I'm the last Hershey kiss in the bag. I don't know how he did it. One eye could look you straight in the face; the other had a life all its own, moving down my neck, to my breasts, then all the sudden, that one eye is staring at you, there. Down there. And then he, it, his eye starts to roll and blink fast, like a tv that's gone berserk. And all you can do is sit still. I mean, I didn't know if she knew, if she could tell, him having that one straight-arrow, good-guy eye. Howd he do that, calm and all, like she wasn't there? Men. So, one day, I'm reading the paper, and there he is, on the front page, holding a bloody hand over the bastard, I mean the right one, the jerk eye. Turns out she had a horrible lawyer. She didn't have a chance. The guy kept looking at her husband the whole time, probably thinking about his own wife, his own pair of eyes, you know?



No era una bestia cualquiera. Era un híbrido. Un poco hombre, con algo de chivo y mucho de cerdo. Fue esa cualidad de hombre la que me agarraba por el cabello y me hacía vibrar. Hebras revueltas, cuerdas de violín en sus manos que amaestraban y acariciaban.

Y era chivo, juguetón y persistente. Sus barbas ásperas y punzantes. Su empeño en masticar y descartar, de desdeñar lo ya conocido. Afanoso por conocer hierba ajena.

Dicen que los cerdos son los más inteligentes del reino animal. De surgir una bestia que pueda evolucionar, no ha de ser el hermano simio, sino el cachito fornido y macizo.

Y era un marrano astuto y cruel. Usaba su elocuencia y perfidia para prenderme de su cuerpo, para subyugar mi voluntad, para demolerme el ego, para reducirme a cenizas.

Y así hombre, chivo, cerdo me enloquece y enternece, me masca y me tira, me destruye y me humilla.

Y aquí en esta sala de hospital en la que lamo y relamo mis heridas, me pregunto si llegará el que desprendiéndose de sus múltiples pieles pueda ver las multitudes en mí.