Read Online Happy That It's Not True by Carlos Alemán - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carlos Alemán
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full of hair he dragged her through the living room. He lifted her by her throat and pinned her against the wall. Luciano looked deep into her eyes, searching for hidden secrets, unable to decipher an expression preoccupied with fear. Adriana saw rage consume his face, first with the flaring of his nostrils, then the widening of his eyes. She even had time to see his enormous closed fist reeling and in a blur she felt her face shatter.
Adriana’s body dropped to the floor like a crumpled letter containing a death announcement. And it did seem as if her spirit were abandoning her, lifting, departing. She felt herself falling asleep, unable to feel or see, but still hearing something. Luciano had picked up his bat and was smashing. The blasts seemed like they were miles away. As an almost insignificant realization, she could tell that it wasn’t her body that he was beating. Luciano was demolishing the apartment. The sounds faded into silence. There was a pinpoint of light and a ringing in her ears and finally rest for her mind.
...
Later, Adriana drifted back into a fragile consciousness. For a moment, she thought that she was in bed. She felt wetness around her, pieces of ice melting into the carpet. What seemed like a cold vapor hung in the air, a ghost of inattention, an absence of love, an absence of empathy. The pinpoint of light was back and her mind dissolved into a flight over a river in Hades where she could drink from the waters of forgetfulness.
...
Cara’s eyes were filled with tears, her soul absorbing the poison of despair, her heart torn from top to bottom, her mind attempting to understand the lighting, environment, texture and mood of the day. “Hey Fathead, I tried to get here as fast as I could.”
Cara looked down at the carpet to see dry brown blood stains and pieces of white plastic—what was once the ice-maker tray—spread out like shrapnel from an explosion. The mangled freezer door hung open in the kitchen. Broken chairs and broken bats left splintered throughout the apartment.
“Tell me everything,” Cara’s voice cracked.
Alex moved away and paced. “Like I said, she’s alive—in the hospital. I got home—and John and some of the other neighbors told me that Mom was taken away by fire-rescue—and the police took away Luciano in handcuffs. When I came inside, I saw the mess and that thing.”
Cara noticed the pamphlet on the table, three white pages that had been folded in half and stapled. On the back were the case number, incident information and officer name, the blanks filled in by Officer Irving Velasco. She turned it over and saw the words, Hallandale Police Department, Victim Services. She began to read the words: No one, not even someone you live with or are married to, has the right to beat...
She flipped to the last page and noticed about twenty phone numbers, some toll free, most with local area codes—numbers of courthouses, abuse centers and legal services.
“Did you call the police officer yet?” Cara said.
“I was afraid of Luciano! I should’ve killed him for what he said to Mom.” Alex looked at Cara as though her opinion was the only thing that mattered. “Then he never would’ve hurt her.”
“Did you call the number?”
“I can’t deal with this—this isn’t happening! It’s all my fault. I thought they would just get a divorce and everything would work out.”
Cara held Alex’s face with both her hands, “And I was a bitch to Mom—I didn’t even return her calls—I probably sent her
Adriana’s body dropped to the floor like a crumpled letter containing a death announcement. And it did seem as if her spirit were abandoning her, lifting, departing. She felt herself falling asleep, unable to feel or see, but still hearing something. Luciano had picked up his bat and was smashing. The blasts seemed like they were miles away. As an almost insignificant realization, she could tell that it wasn’t her body that he was beating. Luciano was demolishing the apartment. The sounds faded into silence. There was a pinpoint of light and a ringing in her ears and finally rest for her mind.
...
Later, Adriana drifted back into a fragile consciousness. For a moment, she thought that she was in bed. She felt wetness around her, pieces of ice melting into the carpet. What seemed like a cold vapor hung in the air, a ghost of inattention, an absence of love, an absence of empathy. The pinpoint of light was back and her mind dissolved into a flight over a river in Hades where she could drink from the waters of forgetfulness.
...
Cara’s eyes were filled with tears, her soul absorbing the poison of despair, her heart torn from top to bottom, her mind attempting to understand the lighting, environment, texture and mood of the day. “Hey Fathead, I tried to get here as fast as I could.”
Cara looked down at the carpet to see dry brown blood stains and pieces of white plastic—what was once the ice-maker tray—spread out like shrapnel from an explosion. The mangled freezer door hung open in the kitchen. Broken chairs and broken bats left splintered throughout the apartment.
“Tell me everything,” Cara’s voice cracked.
Alex moved away and paced. “Like I said, she’s alive—in the hospital. I got home—and John and some of the other neighbors told me that Mom was taken away by fire-rescue—and the police took away Luciano in handcuffs. When I came inside, I saw the mess and that thing.”
Cara noticed the pamphlet on the table, three white pages that had been folded in half and stapled. On the back were the case number, incident information and officer name, the blanks filled in by Officer Irving Velasco. She turned it over and saw the words, Hallandale Police Department, Victim Services. She began to read the words: No one, not even someone you live with or are married to, has the right to beat...
She flipped to the last page and noticed about twenty phone numbers, some toll free, most with local area codes—numbers of courthouses, abuse centers and legal services.
“Did you call the police officer yet?” Cara said.
“I was afraid of Luciano! I should’ve killed him for what he said to Mom.” Alex looked at Cara as though her opinion was the only thing that mattered. “Then he never would’ve hurt her.”
“Did you call the number?”
“I can’t deal with this—this isn’t happening! It’s all my fault. I thought they would just get a divorce and everything would work out.”
Cara held Alex’s face with both her hands, “And I was a bitch to Mom—I didn’t even return her calls—I probably sent her
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