And, on top of that, it rhymed

She waded through the pool of mud, shit, and fresh blood that surrounded him, hoping she wasn't too late, muttering words of encouragement, as if addressing him would restrain her sudden urges to puke.

What was left of one of his eyeballs looked directly into hers, making her scream in horror. Then he fainted.

She had never seen someone so fucked up in her whole life. He had been tied in the most undignified of postures, then beaten, gutted and sexually assaulted, though not necessarily in that order. There was something that looked like a huge semi-erect vegetable protruding from his arse, but it was so soiled she couldn't tell whether it was a carrot or a cucumber. And no-one would really care to know, she thought, while she pulled it out hard with both hands, trying not to look. She was sure this instant would become a regular in all her nightmares.

He was vomiting profusely. And yet, an aura of honour surrounded him, as if he took pride in revealing his tortured internals, as if there was a purpose for everything that had happened tonight, even in such a cruel act of butchery. She reminded herself this was the same Bergman-hating, Bogart-loving man who had left the Old Casino an hour ago, lit a cigarette, adjusted his lapels, and marched up the street with no specific destination. The same man who had beaten the crap out of a harmless opponent who, in his own words, had constituted no threat, just because he had happened to outwit him at an endless game of particularly vicious Monopoly. His excuse being, quite simply, that he couldn't stand apophthegms. He, who saw no light at the end of the tunnel of life and love, because he thought of it as a closed, eternal, circle. He, who had worrying persecutory delusions.

''Caesar, do you recognise me? Who did this to you?'' she asked.

He opened his eye sockets when she kissed his forehead.

''I am not Caesar in this life. The emperor is naked. Don't call the police. Please, just finish me off and run.”

She was furious. She would find the sonovabitch who had done this to Her Man and arrest him with her own hands. Or worse.

For a moment she pondered whether she should try to carry him to safety on her back. But, sadly, he was too heavy and she was not yet strong enough, after her ordeal, to carry such a burden. If he did survive, he would remain blind and, most probably, crippled for life.

“Kill me,” he pleaded.

She inadvertently stepped on his other eyeball, which made a squishing sound.

“No!” she screamed to him. “Never.” She took off her shirt and used it to protect the eyeball from further harm. Then she used her skirt and bra to secure the rest of the first eyeball to his head.

He would rather die than accept his blindness. He was a proud man. And she would give anything to save his life. She was a proud woman. What they admired in each other was their total disrespect for defeat.

She shivered as he took her hand in his, a perfect mixture of lust and grief.

Only then did she realise no-one had attacked him. She hadn't been able to untie his hands yet. The sick bastard had planned every move on the chessboard himself, and now he lay in a pool of his own blood, smiling because he had won. Or so he thought.

“For Chrisakes, Caesar, what have you done to yourself?” she cried.
“Kill me,” he dared.

She didn't even bother to reply this time. She dialled 911 on her slippery, blood-stained cell phone, already wondering whether he would accept her flowers in hospital or let her nurse him to health at all. Whether a blind man would ever learn to appreciate the fragrance, taste and touch of a seasonal bouquet. Whether, indeed, he had always been blind and, above all, whether it was utterly pointless to try to save the selfish prick again and again.

But, right now, what she definitely needed to do was to take a shower. And, probably, eat and fuck a little more healthily, and sleep, too.

So she turned around and slid away, still nauseous yet unscathed, relieved and, of course, completely naked, both spiritually and physically, as she had always preferred to be.

She looked back only once. It could be that he was grinning, toothlessly, at the sound of distant sirens.

Easy silence

La gaviota al fin pudo descansar aquella húmeda y escocesa madrugada de agosto al oírle llegar.

Esta frase podría ser considerada redundante si no tuviésemos en cuenta que la gaviota había recorrido medio mundo y que hacía ocho lunas que no sentía un cálido aliento tranquilizador, el olor a potrillo, ése animalito tierno y poderoso, cuyas cinco extremidades inferiores se clavan al suelo como el más robusto de los árboles.

Y sería una frase olvidada si no precediese a una oración con las palabras búfalo, precipicio y hostión. Si en vez de ellas, hubiésemos dicho confianza, amistad y comunicación, la gaviota quizás no hubiese sentido el impulso de echar a volar, de migrar al Norte desde el reino de Parafernalia y la Ciudad de las Promesas Tácitas, y se hubiese apuntado a un curso de cocina para aprender a juntar ingredientes, aunque todo el mundo sepa que el papel de consorte de búfalo nunca hubiese podido hacer feliz, ni cómodo, ni especial, a un asustado pajarillo.

Pero hay quien cuenta polvos de estrella y se inventa agudas navajas sobre las que escribir y quien, simplemente, no siente esa necesidad.

Hay incluso algunos que defenderían el noble y dulce hecho de que la gaviota se posara sobre el potrillo de las Highlands con la única intención de descansar y ver alguna que otra stand-up comedy australiana, como si sus vuelos se inspirasen en una canción de las Dixie Chicks. Como si viviésemos en un mundo en el que los búfalos, en vez de embestir, se dejaran poner flores en las orejas por su amiga Ana, o cualquier otra que lograra hacerles felices.

Pero todo eso le da igual a un búfalo con susto y "carapazón" de piel curtida, al creerse atacado por las flechas al borde del precipicio.

Tanto si tiene alas imaginarias, como si lleva cuernos tácitos, una metáfora es una metáfora, hostias.

The way you keep the world at bay

when the calls and conversations
accidents and accusations
messages and misperceptions
paralyze my mind

buses, cars, and airplanes leaving
burning fumes of gasoline
and everyone is running
and i come to find a refuge in the

easy silence that you make for me
it's okay when there's nothing more to say to me
and the peaceful quiet you create for me
and the way you keep the world at bay for me
the way you keep the world at bay

monkeys on the barricades
are warning us to back away
they form commissions trying to find
the next one they can crucify

and anger plays on every station
answers only make more questions
i need something to believe in
breathe in sanctuary in the

easy silence that you make for me
it's okay when there's nothing more to say to me
and the peaceful quiet you create for me
and the way you keep the world at bay for me
the way you keep the world at bay

children lose their youth too soon
watching war made us immune
and i've got all the world to lose
but i just want to hold on to the

easy silence that you make for me
it's okay when there's nothing more to say to me
and the peaceful quiet you create for me
and the way you keep the world at bay for me

the easy silence that you make for me
it's okay when there's nothing more to say to me
and the peaceful quiet you create for me
and the way you keep the world at bay for me
the way you keep the world at bay for me
the way you keep the world at bay

Dixie Chicks