Here again. Yellow light. Aside from the fan’s faint rumbling, and an occasional motorcycle passing by outside, there’s nothing else to hear but dead silence. How I wish I was in dead silence.
In some noisy, crowded slum area somewhere in this city, I sit, eating. Menudo, they call it. For a person like me it’s pretty decent to at least have eaten Menudo for a day. Potatoes and Carrots. My body tells me it’s too humid, so I take unbutton my shirt. I don’t like our shack, but it will do. Iron sheets for roofing, a couple of wood for foundation and that’s it. Home.
Early in their life some people dream so big, so big you’d laugh at them. You’ve seen them through High School, kept working and working and staying late up all night while I was there smoking and laughing and shooting pool. You’ve seen them through college, the busy, stand-alone types who do nothing but grind, grind, grind, as I drink towards my untimely death in the far-flung future. Too far that it isn’t on my list. But here I am today, trying to swallow sharp, salty realities; that I am but a blue-collar, and I receive minimum wage, 10 hours a day, no 13th month pay or any salary bonus. Truth is I just stand around opening and closing doors for so many random people, every day. A pistol in my pocket, several rounds of steel, and yes, and infamous badge. Looking at it makes me cringe.
I was sure I was smarter then. I was so sure I was so smarter than them. That I’d get ahead in life, that I’d give myself a fucking big box of a house, a smokin-hot wife and handsome kids- but here I am, chewing menudo, spoon after spoon from a plastic bag I’ve rip apart. I can taste potatoes, carrots against my teeth, the thick sauce on my tongue as I hold in another spoonful of rice, probably the last I’d ever spoon in for the day.. Oh, God, fuck it. I am a failure.
He stands up and kicks the stool behind with his legs, as he picks up both of the plastic bags he’d eaten from. The spoon, he put it in some makeshift sink of wood and aluminum. Turns on the tap. He washes his hands with both plastic bags in hand, and throws them away by the side. Closes the tap, with a sharp smear from the wrist to the lip, before shaking his hands into the sink.
He fists his hands as he looks down on the banig, where his wife and five of his seven children lie. Glances at the little clock on the table, right at the same place he’d eaten. He looks at his fists as it glares from white to red, and the sensation goes away. It bleeds! Glass bleeds! Glass right through his skin piercing, slicing, growing; There’s no mistaking it. From the center of his palm his hand empties itself up as the glass from the hand starts consuming his flesh, as his skin drips from one, two, and finally five drops at a time, now at a faster rate than ever. He can only grip his left arm and try to stop the glass from eating the rest of his arm. He can only try. He can only try. Nobody dies in May, but he’ll have to see.