UNDER THE BRIDGE

I went into the back of a taxi, gave the address of my hotel to the driver and relaxed. It had been a long day, having travelled from Majorca to Madrid to go to a concert and meet some friends. It was late, as we had been partying in some pubs until 3 am. I was wearing a skirt and a black top under an open jacket.

I wasn't drunk, I was more tired than anything. I just wanted to get to my hotel and sleep. The driver started asking me questions to which I answered politely with a Yes, I don't know or a No, so that he could notice I wasn't in the mood to engage in conversation.

The questions went from weird to weirder. He went from asking if I had had a good time that night, to ask me if I had received many sexual propositions. He started to smoke, which is forbidden in Spain, and I started to feel nervous. I looked out of the window, hoping to recognise the streets we were driving through, hoping to reach my destination. I started to wonder if we were driving in the right direction. I started to hope we were.

At this point he was speaking on his own while I tried to ignore him. He went on and on saying that it was a pity I hadn't hooked up with anyone that night, that I was probably out there looking for sex and that he could have sex with me if that is what I wanted, that he knew of a quiet place we could go to, where nobody would disturb us.

I said: No thank you, I just want to get to my hotel.

Suddenly I saw my hotel and felt relieved.  But the driver didn't stop. He drove into a smaller and quieter street, stopped the taxi and locked the doors. He looked at me and I saw the look in his eyes. I knew that look. I had seen it before. The look of an animal with an urge.

He came onto me, half of his body on mine, one hand touching my breasts and the other one under my skirt. I didn't move. He mumbled that I wanted him and that I would receive the sex I deserved. I avoided his mouth and kept saying: No, I am not looking for sex, I just want to go.

He stopped and went back to his seat. He showed me his dick and started touching himself. He came onto me again, saying that I wanted his dick, that I was a whore who was asking for it. I could feel his cold filthy fingers on my skin. I didn't shout. I didn't cry. I kept saying: No, thanks. I just want to go.

And then something happened. He stopped. He went back to the driver's seat. He asked me if I was sure I didn't want to have sex with him. I said I was sure and gave him the money for the ride. He stared at the money in his hand for a minute or two, -God knows what he was thinking. And then he unlocked the doors and I went out. I started to walk fast to my hotel and didn't look back.

I felt disgusted about the incident, but I didn't feel bad about myself because I had done nothing wrong. If anything I felt lucky.  Had I been drunk, had I been a tourist or had I been a young girl I am sure I would have been raped, or worse.

Some people have asked me why I didn't note down the license plate number. Excuse me for just wanting to run away, go into the hotel and lock the door behind me.

Some people have asked me why I didn't go to the police to report the incident and give a full description of the assailant. Well, I was not in my city and I just wanted to put it all behind.

Everybody deals with these things in their own way. I simply found the way to live with what happened. But then again, I was lucky. Really lucky.

I just hope I never see that look in a man again.

NOVEMBER RAIN

It's November again. One year since we last kissed.

We used to be puppets whose strings got attached every time our eyes met. Puppets that came to life every time our lips kissed. The feeling of freedom would drive us to do crazy things, things that we would never do in our perfectly controlled daily lives. Things we did and then we would regret.

The things we didn't do are now the ones I regret the most.

As a puppet I didn't have a heart in me, but when you came my way I could feel it aching for you. Though it wasn't love, -puppets can't love. Your kisses awoke me, made me feel special, different, unique. To me, you were special, different, unique. Left to our own devices we would toy with each other as if there was no tomorrow, until someone pulled our strings back to place.

It's been a year since you left me in my bed. You left and never looked back. You decided to avoid my way so that our strings would not intertwine. Puppets can't feel, but it hurt every time you stepped back.

Emptiness filled the space where my heart had once grown.

It's been hard for me to follow your puppet show once a week. So close and so far away, jealous of all the Judys that surround you on the show, jealous of all those girls in the audience. The pain is so strong as to break me inside.

It's November again. One year since we last kissed. I see you in pictures and I don't know who you are anymore. I see myself in the mirror and I don't know who I am anymore.

Just a broken puppet.

BUTTERFLIES

There he is, in his checked shirt, smiling, as usual. He makes me smile. When I'm around him I feel like a girl;  I giggle a lot, touch my hair and say whatever comes to my mind. He's unattainable, of course, he made that clear some time ago, but still, it's nice to have a crush on someone. And to feel butterflies in my stomach. 

There she is, dressed in one of her girly dresses. This one is short. I think that if she bent a little I could actually see her underwear. God, now I have that image in my head. She's nice, but definitively not my type. And she's a co-worker. I never do co-workers. Co-workers are off-limits. But she does have nice legs, and she's funny, and clever. She's a good girl, that's what she is. And definitively not my type.

His hair is shorter than usual, I can't help but teasing him about it. We laugh. You know, some girls fall for the looks. I myself usually fall for the looks. But this time is different. He is fine looking, but there's something else. He's easy to be with and he gets me. He really does. Like no one else has done before. And he makes my eyes shine.

She's looking at me. I don't know what to say. She looks tired. I give her a smile and listen to what she says. She talks a lot. About anything. I can see she's shy. I sometimes think she might like me. At least that's what it looks like. But then again, I might be wrong. Maybe she just wants us to be friends. I mean, she actually talks about other guys sometimes. She wouldn't do that if she liked me, would she?

He types something on the computer, answers the phone. I watch him in silence. I don't need to fill up this silence. It feels good. He asks me about my weekend. I tell him I met a guy. He makes a funny face. I ask him about his weekend. I feel a slight pang in my stomach fearing he's gonna say he has met someone special. But he never does. 

I wonder what she is like in bed. She's one of these girls who looks like a lady to everyone but to her lover. Anyway, I told her once I don't date co-workers. There are plenty of nice girls out there to have sex with. But this girl is different. She intrigues me. I feel easy and uneasy when she's around. I don't have feelings for her, that's for sure, but I miss her when a few days go by without her presence. Maybe what I miss is the attention she pays to what I say or do. She makes me feel good.

Just thinking of him lights up my eyes. I know it's never gonna happen, but he would make a good boyfriend. We would be good together, in and outside our bubble, though I can see he has a temper. I'm not that naive. But I could deal with it... 

Well, I need to stop dreaming, but in the meantime I'll enjoy the "what it could be if..." stage. Until someone wakes me up. Meanwhile, I'll enjoy my butterflies.

ESPERANDO NADA

Esta es sólo una pequeña pincelada de mi mundo, el mundo de los seres alados.

Los seres alados pasamos mucho tiempo esperando. Esperando algo y esperando nada. Vivimos camuflados entre la gente gris, entre aquellos que una vez fueron también seres alados pero que en algún momento dejaron de serlo. Curiosamente la gente gris perdió las alas, y con ellas, sus sueños e ilusiones, aunque no sus recuerdos.

Los seres alados vivimos con miedo a que pase algo y a que pase nada. Algunos seres alados no volarán jamás... nadie dijo que volar fuera fácil. Mucha de la energía necesaria para tal propósito se pierde al más mínimo contacto con la gente gris. Pasado un tiempo, las alas se tornan rígidas y se contracturan, y entonces sólo les queda ir a morir allá donde se muere con las alas puestas, al cementerio de los sueños rotos.

El camino al cementerio es lento y doloroso, y está bordeado de espejos de diferentes tamaños. Cada vez que se encuentran con su reflejo, un pedazo de sueño truncado se clava en sus almas cual puñal afilado. Es por ello que muchos optan por dejarse atrapar por el mundo gris y renunciar a sus sueños antes que morir a manos de lo que pudo haber sido.

Los que seguimos aferrados a nuestras alas caminamos evitando el contacto con la gente gris e intentamos conservar intacta nuestra energía. La mayoría tendemos a evitar los espejos y a movernos en pequeñas bandadas, intentando pasar desapercibidos.

Y así es como pasamos la vida: esperando a que pase algo y temiendo que pase nada.

TIE YOUR MOTHER DOWN

- Show me your knickers.- she said- No....- I said, avoiding her gaze.
- SHOW ME YOUR KNICKERS! You've wet yourself again, haven't you?

 My face went all red.

- No...- I said in a shaky voice.

She pulled my knickers off and sniffed them. My eyes started to water as my whole body trembled. I knelt on the floor, still not looking at her face.

- I'm sorry Mum, I let go a few drops. I promise it won't happen again...

- I knew it! You filthy girl...

She pulled me onto her laps and smacked me on the bottom, first with her hand, and when her hand was burning red she used her belt on me. I cried in silence, as usual. I was just six years old, and this was not the first time this had happened.

Little did I know then that she had problems of her own. I tried to tell my Dad about it, but he wouldn't believe me. Every night, after dinner, I would lock myself in my bedroom and use my pillow as a punching bag. I remember hitting the pillow until my hands hurt. If I was really angry I would hit the wall until I got myself bruised. I knew they could hear me from the living room shouting at my pillow. I wanted to get their attention. I wanted to get anyone's attention. I just needed somebody to care.

I learnt not to get on my Mum's way. I learnt to carry an extra pair of clean knickers in my schoolbag and get changed on the bus. That worked for a while, until one day she noticed the other pair in the laundry basket. I hid under my bed and tried not to breath, childishly thinking she wouldn't find me there.

That night I showed my Dad the marks on my bottom. He didn't say anything, but I saw from the look on his face that my Mum wouldn't harm me again.

And she didn't. At least not in that way.

AFTER THE STORM

There's a place in my thoughts where I hide whenever I feel sad. It's my Satis House.

Windows are closed, doors are locked, and there is nobody to see me wandering around memories and boxes of emotional baggage, while I walk over different pieces of broken dreams.

Mirrors are covered because I despise looking at myself in them. Clocks don't work as Time is not an issue there. Day or night, the house is dark. And I feel safe enough to let my sadness engulf me, making no effort to stop my floodwaters.

And when the storm has passed and there's no more tears, it's time to face the sun again. I get out of the house, lock it up and follow my path. Sometimes I'm afraid I'll stay hidden for too long. Sometimes I'm afraid I'll die inside the house and nobody will ever know I was even there.

There's a place in my thoughts where you won't find me. Nobody will. It's my Satis House.

BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S

No good can come from someone or something that shines as much as anything you can see in Tiffany's. If you actually look right at it, it paralyses you 'till you're doomed.  And then it's the end. Even if your brain ordered your legs to move and safe your life, your legs would stay still gazing at the spectacular light that makes all that's grey or dark disappear. Your eyes follow the sparks and dance at their rhythm. You relax. And then "BAM!". You're dead. You've been run over like a stray cat in a dark road.

It doesn't matter if you're an Audrey or a Marilyn.

No good can come from someone that shines so much.