Las pesadillas

November 17, 1979

Last night, around 3 in the morning, I thought I heard a knock on my door. Then a bang. I threw the sheets away. From outside the window, streetlights winked at me as if to say, “You didn’t hear anything.”

Then, a harsh command tore through the wall. Something like, “Get up!” I pressed my hands to my face. It was Juanita’s apartment, not mine. Why did I have to feel relieved? This is what it has come down to: feeling thankful at the disappearance of your neighbor, because it is not you.

When I woke up this morning, sunlight glared through my window. It must have been near lunch already. Was it a dream, the shouts through the wall? The silence neither confirmed nor denied it.

I’ve begun to take long walks on Saturday evenings, because I can’t bear to sit in my apartment alone. I walk on well-lit streets where there are witnesses, and I don’t stop anywhere. Still no word from Marisa. I try not to think about her; I let emptiness fill my mind. I walk loose circles around my neighborhood until I’m too tired to think of anything.

I’m about to go on one of these walks. Maybe I’ll knock on Juanita’s door on the way out. Maybe not. Don’t get involved; that’s what everyone says. My parents are doing just fine right now, not getting involved. Our family dinners are quieter than ever.


1 thought on “Las pesadillas

  1. ssvolk says:

    Read, thanks.

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