Odious flowers

What would happen if I had enough strength to get out from under this table? I would use my fear as a torch and go down into the basement. What would be the result? The potatoes might need all the light they could get. The other would continue to decay. Stinking in the dark. I would slice off some part of it. I started with the fingers. But some soft parts, they're too easy to slice off with my knife. Flies are all that assortment of wings; they are industrious. They deposit numerous larvae wherever they go. What a horrible picture? Come, kitty. Your black is perfect. Let's burn more incense. All incense available. Let's drink tea. The music may start at any moment. We're sure to feel footsteps again. Some freckles will come to disturb. We'll follow our plan of silence. We'll keep each other company. You can caress my skin. The puncture wounds. I remember the chains. The chances to be someone else. Would I be happy to have a home? What do you think, Diablillo? That stupid pig would be drooling on my neck by now. The lipstick stains on his shirt I still remember. I want to bury all the hate in these bottles. My skin remembers the whipping. Every night I wake up with the fury, haunting my eyes. I could sleep naked, but that cold feeling, transports me to the feet of another bastard. Could I defend myself now? Do you like steel, are you a very sinister cat? I bet, as soon as the rotten tomatoes are finished, you'll start meowing.

They've been knocking on the door. It's the fuckers from the gang. I'm sure they're suspicious of my poor husband's disappearance. Thanks to the winter and the noises, everything seems unchanging in every house. Until spring no one can really suspect. I'll say he went to visit his cronies in Ireland. While listening to loud music. They smoke in the driveway. I hear their cursing murmurs. I could open the door for them and use the knife. I'm sure they don't expect it. The cat seems to be wandering in another realm. His body is here, but his soul is that feline enigma that unfolds. I look into its yellow eyes, but they are empty. I touch her skin, it bristles. as if death is on the edge of the blade! I could press the knife a little. The skin would accept as always.

By this time they've set off some fireworks. They've drunk all the beer in the house. They fight, they hug, they're stupid. They walk back through the garden. They scream. They want me out. They sense I'm still in the house. But the response from inside is an overwhelming silence. I count the remaining bottles. I should write some notes. Someone may be reading. Find some of the bottles. Feel my pain.

Diablo has seen a mouse run and only stretched a little. Remarkably, he doesn't give himself over to his task of hunting them. Despite the hunger, despite our confinement. The table presses against my skull. At least that's what I perceive. Between dreams and that vigil of hatred and despair I remember that I dreamed or saw the figure of someone in the river. It was a shadow on the other bank. Did we find a shoe, Diablo? Do you remember anything like that? Tiredness makes the mind disrupt the lights, arrange the shadows in the mind's orchard, the flowers, some apples (in memory). Have you tasted apples?

I fell asleep imagining the beach. Mercajulia was wearing the hated flowers (on her blouse) from the last communion. Always so innocent. I could love her innocence. Make her a painting and protect her from dragons and wolves. He could use the knife if necessary. She was as clean as her eyes. They reflected the sea. But it was love gushing through the skin. Then came a storm. The sea turned black. A few seagulls predicted bad weather. A lighthouse in the distance as the only sign of life. A sinking ship. The night, the noises, the life and that horrible feeling of not being able to wake up.