The following tribute is the first piece this editor read from the lastest batch of writings from our young writers in El Salvador, which will be featured in our next issue. We truly appreciate Proyecto Cuéntame for all the great work they do with their young writers in detention. Pastel* “Why did you tattoo a cake on yourself?” “Wait a sec, I’ll tell you…” He used to take my bottle away when we were babies. Twin neighbors, we were born the same day. His mom raised us both. When we were little, he used to rub my head and tell me not to cry. He had golden curls. He loved cake since he was small and that’s what they called him: “Cake.” He never let anything bad happen to me. He always defended me. We went to school together since first grade. We did our homework together and he taught me how to play soccer. He said I was his little sister. Everyone thought we were a couple, but we weren’t. We were brother and sister, best friends. He told me about his girlfriends and I vented to him. He told me it wasn’t worth crying over a guy, because then they think they are the shhh. He was my private detective and he would investigate the guys I wanted to go out with. The week we were going to turn fourteen, he got drunk and crossed over into contrary gang territory. They kidnapped him and we looked for him for four days. Finally, he showed up on his mom’s doorstep wrapped in a white sheet, all cut up into pieces. I went to see if it was him and only his head was whole. I didn’t believe it was him. I went into shock. I felt destroyed and inconsolable because I had lost someone I loved. I complained to God, asking Him why He had let something like this happen. I am still waiting for the answer. At his wake I thought it was a nightmare, but it was a reality. He was no longer with us. On our birthday, we buried him, I don’t like my birthday anymore because the date has been marked by tragedy forever. I dreamed about him all cut up in pieces. I was traumatized and all I could do was cry. I didn’t even want to leave the house because of the sadness in my heart. When I finally did go out, I heard people talking about him: “It’s for the best that they killed him, he was a gang member”, “He got into a lot of trouble, not even his mom could tolerate him”. All these people made me mad and hate began to well up inside of me. I though, “If they had known him the way I knew him…” When they told me his death had been avenged, I felt a little peace in my heart. I got a cake tattoo to always remember, always have him present with me. *pastel: cake -Dolphin SPANISH TRANSLATION... Pastel “¿Por qué te tatuaste un pastelito?” “Esperáte, ya te cuento…” Él me quitaba la pacha cuando estábamos tiernitos. Vecinos gemelos, nacimos el mismo día. Su mamá nos criaba a los dos. Cuando éramos pequeños, me sobaba la cabeza diciéndome que no llorara. Era rubio, colochito, con ricitos de oro. Le encantaban los pastelitos desde chiquito y por eso le decían pastel. Nunca permitía que me hicieran nada a mí. Me defendía siempre. Estudiábamos juntos desde el primer grado. Hacíamos deberes juntos y me enseñaba a jugar pelota. Decía que yo era su hermanita. Todos pensaban que andábamos de novios, pero no. Éramos hermanos y mejores amigos. Me contaba de las novias que él tenía y yo me desahogaba con él. Me decía que no valía la pena llorar por un hombre, porque al llorar por ellos se creen la gran cosa. Era mi detective privado e investigaba a los bichos* con quienes quería andar. La semana que íbamos a cumplir los catorce años, andaba bolo y se metió en una zona de los contrarios*. Lo secuestraron y lo buscamos por cuatro días. Al fin apareció envuelto en una sábana blanca en la puerta de la casa todo despedazado. Salí a reconocerlo y solo la cabeza estaba entera. No creía que era él. Me quedé en shock*. Me sentía destrozada y desconsolada porque había perdido a una persona que amaba. Le reclamé a Dios, preguntándole por qué había permitido que eso pasara. Aún sigo esperando la respuesta. Cuando lo velamos pensé que era una pesadilla, pero era una realidad. Ya no estaba con nosotros. El día de nuestro cumpleaños lo enterramos. Ya no me gusta cumplir años porque la fecha quedó marcada por la tragedia para siempre. Soñaba con él hecho pedacitos. Me quedé traumada y solo llorando pasaba. No quería ni salir de la casa por la tristeza que sentí en mi corazón. Cuando salía, escuchaba a la gente hablar de él: “Está bueno que lo hayan matado por pandillero”. “Mucho jodía*, ni la mamá lo aguantaba”. Toda la gente me caía mal y empezó a crecer en mí un gran odio. Pensaba, “Si lo hubieran conocido como yo lo conocí…” Cuando me contaron que habían vengado su muerte, sentí un poquito de paz en mi corazón. Me tatué un pastelito para andarlo siempre y recordarme de él. *bichos: caliche, jóvenes *shock: anglicismo, conmoción *contrarios: miembros de la pandilla contraria de la que controla su colonia. *joder: en este caso, molestar -Dolphin
Posted on: Fri, 19 Jul 2013 21:07:49 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015