Ayarella: forum

An endless blue sky stretched overhead. The sun hung high like Apollo on his throne, while a gentle spring breeze carried promises of hope, carefree days on sandy beaches, and long walks through golden fields.

 

A rusted old bus reeking of diesel.

 

My life in a nutshell.

 

With my meager savings stuffed into a pocket and my face swollen from a beating, the only trace of that azure sky left was the reflection staring back at me from the window. A silent witness to my bruises and my one-way trip to the asshole of the world.

The stale scent of sex still clung to my hair. It mixed with tobacco smoke and the sweat of the guy sitting next to me, who smelled like he'd spent a week fermenting inside a roadside restroom somewhere in the middle of the desert.

The bus screeched to a halt.

 

My head slammed into the seat in front of me with a dull thud.

 

"Fuck..."

 

I rubbed my forehead and sat up as the sweating blob beside me finally decided to move his ass.

A crumpled piece of paper rested in my hand.

An address.

An apartment belonging to a friend currently deployed somewhere overseas. A rundown place, according to her, but dry, furnished, and mostly safe.

Mostly.

 

Try not to get shot.

 

Those were her exact words.

I stepped off the bus and made my way through filthy alleys and cracked streets before reaching a working-class neighborhood that wasn't completely falling apart.

I paused for a moment, taking in the urban landscape straight out of a dystopian nightmare.

Then I smiled.

We looked alike.

 

"You're gonna have to figure it out, Aya."

 

Obviously the elevator was broken.

I dragged myself up the stairs one floor at a time. Every step reminded me of the beating I'd taken. Every breath suggested at least a couple of cracked ribs.

By the time I reached the apartment door, I was ready to collapse.

The lock clicked.

The hinges groaned.

The place smelled stale and abandoned, but at least there weren't any cockroaches crawling across the floor.

Small victories.

There was an old beer in the fridge.

A half-empty bag of chips.

A Beretta.

Some rope.

And an ancient computer.

 

"Now that's a friend."

 

I picked up the pistol and stared at it for a long moment.

Thoughtful.

Did I have the guts for it?

For what exactly, I wasn't even sure.

This life.

Starting over.

Surviving.

Crawling back into the gutter and doing whatever it took to stay alive like some stubborn weed desperately reaching for a ray of sunlight.

 

"Fuck..."

I lean toward his shoulder, ready to whisper the truth about my fears and what I need from him, when his damned phone begins to vibrate, then ring.

I swallow the bitterness of regret behind a seductive smile. After all, I’m still young enough to hide behind my curves, and he didn’t lie...

His faction matters. I suppose that is the part I fail to understand. Maybe I’m simply stupid, but I refuse to become a burden to his ambitions, even if I end up drowning alone among all this cold gold.

 

“All right, Bobito.”

I force a little enthusiasm into my voice.

 

“Just to make sure you don’t get yourself killed...”

 

And to make sure you keep your promise.

I leave him feeling torn and lost, retreating once again behind coldness and violence. I go to change and collect my favourite weapons before returning to follow him into the hell of urban warfare.

Born from the violence of worlds, sex, and drugs, I suppose this is the best I will ever have.

 

“Ready, mi valientico.”

The moment he came after me, I was terrified he'd hit me. For a split second, I thought he was going to take off his belt... but he didn't. Nothing cruel. I can't help but smile at his explanations. He doesn't owe me any.

 

"Bobito..."

 

We're only married because of an arrangement. It was just a way to keep each other company and slip under the taxman's radar, but... now that he's gently trapped me between the wall and his chest, my body goes rigid. My heart pounds—not from fear, not from lust, but from something far more fragile that I don't want anyone to see.

 

"Bobito..."

 

I slowly bring my lips toward his, ready to kiss him, but at the very last moment I rise onto my tiptoes and whisper warmly into his ear that I can't reach the champagne glasses. Then I smile as innocently as I can, my free hand lazily brushing the back of his neck before wandering down across his chest with the tips of my fingers.

 

"I..."

 

The fragility behind all my emotional highs and lows creeps back in.

 

"I... I didn't want to bother you while you were doing your important things... the things I don't really understand..."

 

My eyes drop, then my head follows, as though I'd done something wrong. Because somewhere deep inside me, I always end up believing that I'm the guilty one... or simply one person too many.

Maybe it's Thursday. Or maybe it's Monday. I don't know anymore. I don't know where I am in my life, or even who I'm supposed to be.

A palm tree casts just enough shade over me on an island I couldn't point out on a map if my life depended on it. If only I'd gone to school... if only there had been a school.

 

Stretched out on a sun lounger in a bikini designed to turn heads, I let the island sun slowly toast the strange mix of East and Colombia that makes up my skin. I raise my hand toward the sky, fingers spread apart, watching the wedding ring on my finger sparkle.

How? Why?

 

I was completely wasted when he showed up in yet another one of those suits that are always too clean. As usual, the only hard things about me were my tattoos and my Beretta. The tiny pieces of my heart, though... they believed those starry eyes of his. So we got married on one simple promise: not to kill each other in the enormous kitchen of the ridiculous Italian palace we now call home. The owner did warn us that blood stains white marble forever.

 

He's not a bad man. Quite the opposite. He's never hit me, insulted me, or humiliated me. Now, let's not start talking about Disney romance. I think we're just two idiots looking for a beautiful escape from the lives we'd built, who somehow ended up trying to tame each other. Well... mostly he's trying to tame me. I've got a personality that deserves its own warning label—distant one minute, hopelessly dependent the next. Him? He's always buried in business, always chasing another deal, always wearing those damn spotless suits. It's all he knows, so I try not to hold it against him.

 

Still... maybe I'm not doing enough either. I've got my little hustles, sure, but even the crew I used to help with burglaries and small jobs kicked me out for being useless because I wasn't bringing in enough money.

 

Jesus... if I wanted to spend my life chasing KPIs, I'd get a job at some insurance company and kiss my boss's ass for a raise.

I grab a bottle of champagne and make my way toward his office, swaying my hips like a cat in heat.

 

And there he is.

Six screens.

Porn on every single one of them.

 

"It's for a new business."

 

That excuse instantly pisses me off.

 

« Qué boleta, hijueputa… vos ahí, todo cerdo, todo metido en tus vainas, y yo atrás como una migaja miserable. Qué asco de mí, parce… siempre detrás del marrano. »

 

Of course he doesn't deserve that. And I don't even mean it. It's just... sometimes I need someone to take care of me too.

Without another word, I turn around and slam the door behind me.

No jokes to keep the conversation alive. No grand declaration, not even a small one. None of that.

 

Just calm.

 

A soothing kind of calm that, to me, feels almost like a perfect date after so much uncertainty, so many violent words, razor-sharp smiles, and humiliating blows.

 

Once the meal is over, we don't exchange numbers. That would feel outdated somehow, and it would probably ruin the ending with promises that, in a city like this, are rarely kept anyway.

 

I get to my feet the way a broken doll would—awkwardly, without even trying to look dignified, or like much of anything at all.

 

"Later, Romeo…"

 

At the counter, I leave a bill behind and give the young waiter a long look, silently hoping for his own sake that he'll get out of this place and find something better.

 

Then I leave, clutching the meager spoils of this very beginning of the day—or afternoon, I already can't tell anymore—a little too tightly against my chest.

 

What does it matter.

 

A wallet far too full catches my eye in the pocket of some asshole wearing a Rolex worth more than my life and the lives of all my ancestors combined. I lift it off him and find fifteen hundred bucks inside, along with a few questionable pills in a tiny plastic bag.

 

I'm going to laugh tonight.

 

Finally.

I set his questions aside for a moment and focus on the food.

 

Nobody can fool me anymore. I know moments like these are fragile. Barely touch them and they burst like the soap bubbles from my childhood.

 

I'm a glutton and I own it.

I haven't eaten in days, and even though I doubt this burger is made from anything that ever lived on a farm, I don't care. It could be a rat burger and it would still be the best burger I've ever had.

 

No yelling. No violence. No mockery.

Just eating.

Quietly.

 

A sigh of relief escapes my swollen lips as I steal one of his fries.

As the song goes: "Ce que j'fais là moi, je sais pas, Je voulais juste marcher tout droit" ("What am I doing here? I don't know. I just wanted to keep walking straight.")

 

"I ran from things. Migrated to this country. Only to end up living through the same shit."

"A series of bad decisions and a kind of stupidity I can't seem to get rid of. It just hangs on like some idiot leech."

"Why do I look like a punching bag? A lucky charm? A potato?"

 

I shrug.

 

"My ex was an idiot, and I followed him into his bullshit. One bad idea after another."

 

I take a long sip of my milkshake.

 

"Let's just say it didn't end well."

 

For a second, I wonder why the hell I'm telling all this to some limping guy I met less than an hour ago.

The burger was probably drugged.

That was the only explanation that made any sense.

I wave at the waiter and point at my empty glass.

 

"Another milkshake. And bring my friend a beer that doesn't taste like industrial waste."

 

I glance back at him.

 

"As for the clothes? I got here yesterday. I don't own much, but I still had enough money for a burger."

 

I place a fifty-dollar bill on the tray. Between that and the tip, it should cover everything.

Then my eyes drift toward his leg.

 

"You hurt?"

 

I tilt my head slightly.

 

"You know, I used to be a nurse before I started making terrible life decisions."

 

From my battered handbag, I pull out a blister pack containing a fairly serious opioid painkiller.

 

"Need something for it?"

I try to eat with some semblance of dignity, but there's no hiding the fact that I haven't eaten in two days...

 

"Damn, that feels good..."

 

My eyes eventually catch his.

 

"Sorry about the revolver... Couldn't be sure you weren't a psycho, a pervert, or worse..."

 

I give a faint crooked smile.

 

"Please don't look at me with pity..."

 

I pause for a moment to think and take another sip of my milkshake.

 

"But seriously... thanks for the help. I got here yesterday, and it's already a complete mess."

 

An awkward silence settles between us, full of unspoken confessions yet perfectly clear. Then my appetite shatters it as easily as my ex shattered my ribs.

 

"You planning to finish those fries?"

 

I take another sip of my milkshake and wait for his answer.

The smell of food at last.

 

Something round and edible.

 

All round food is good. Sushi. Pizza. Beer. And the undisputed king of round food: burgers.

I let out a sigh of relief when the burger joint comes into view and finally put my pistol away after engaging the safety.

 

Internally, I'm grinning.

 

The big bad guy hasn't dared say a word. He even opens the car door for me, then the restaurant door.

 

I'm practically a princess.

The Princess of Potatoes.

The place is exactly my kind of dump. It smells like grease, the staff doesn't even pretend to be happy to be here, but it's honest. The food smells exactly the way food should smell: greasy and comforting.

 

Naturally, I order the combo with a milkshake.

That has to be good for bruises, right?

 

While waiting for my grease delivery, I answer his desperate attempts to break the ice and figure out who the crazy woman carrying a Beretta after stealing a dress, a pair of jeans, a top, a pleated skirt, a bra, and a thong actually is.

 

"Thanks for the ride... and for the burger."

 

A crooked smile tugs at my lips.

 

"Careful. You might end up becoming my official grease dealer."

 

I hold out a hand, smiling a little more warmly than before, as much as my swollen lips allow.

 

"Ayarella... but you can call me Aya. Everybody does."

 

Then the food arrives.

My eyes widen.

For a second, I look like I'm about to unhinge my jaw and drool like a slug at an all-you-can-eat salad bar.

Fucking ribs.

 

Though, to be fair, it's probably not just the ribs. My lower back feels like someone used it as a baseball bat, and my knee isn't exactly writing love letters either.

 

No time for that.

 

It doesn't help my situation that Bubundom is still chasing me, and I'm not exactly going to shoot some poor store employee over a few stolen clothes.

 

I keep my lead, barely.

 

Then some idiot apparently decides this is the perfect moment to either hit on me or ask if I'm a prostitute looking for clients.

A few moments later, he pulls over at an intersection and waits for me, asking if I'm in trouble.

 

He doesn't exactly have the face of an angel, but looking at my own potato-shaped face, I'm not really in a position to be picky.

I climb into the car and immediately pull out my loaded pistol, just to establish a healthy foundation for our relationship.

 

"I'm hungry."

 

I gesture vaguely with the gun.

 

"Find us burgers."

After venturing into the bathroom and discovering that the shower actually had running water, I stepped under it fully clothed first, rinsing my clothes before stripping beneath the torrent of icy water.

 

I won't draw you a picture, but my body, covered in bruises, didn't appreciate the treatment. A vicious spasm twisted through me as the cold settled into my battered ribs.

 

"Fuck."

 

Finally rid of the smell of sweat, sex, and stale air, I dragged myself out of the shower and wrapped up in an old towel before wringing out my clothes.

 

"Today's objective: find food, dollars, and some clothes without getting shot."

 

Still dripping wet, I glanced at the broken water heater and opened it up to figure out what was wrong. Just a goddamn fuse that looked about as healthy as my ex. Thanks to my time in the army, where I learned a little bit of everything and a whole lot of things that are somehow both useless and useful, it didn't take me long to spot the problem.

 

Naked, beer in hand, I dried myself in the sun alongside my clothes. By evening, I was finally ready to head out.

Let's try to steal a fuse, some clothes, and find myself a burger.

 

I really wanted a burger.

 

With the pistol tucked into my jeans, I wandered through the city, scouting places that looked interesting and figuring out where I might find what I needed. A clothing store caught my eye. Cheap stuff, barely any security, except for a guard who had clearly eaten way too many donuts.

I walked in, did a bit of shopping, and slipped some of my picks beneath my clothes and jacket. I made a show of paying for nothing more than a few pieces of underwear and a tank top.

 

But just as I was about to leave, the cashier yelled after me.

 

Bloated and red-faced, the security guard lumbered forward, nearly crushing me under his own weight. Luckily, I was quicker than he was, and even though my ribs screamed in protest, I took off running down the street.

An endless blue sky stretched overhead. The sun hung high like Apollo on his throne, while a gentle spring breeze carried promises of hope, carefree days on sandy beaches, and long walks through golden fields.

 

A rusted old bus reeking of diesel.

 

My life in a nutshell.

 

With my meager savings stuffed into a pocket and my face swollen from a beating, the only trace of that azure sky left was the reflection staring back at me from the window. A silent witness to my bruises and my one-way trip to the asshole of the world.

The stale scent of sex still clung to my hair. It mixed with tobacco smoke and the sweat of the guy sitting next to me, who smelled like he'd spent a week fermenting inside a roadside restroom somewhere in the middle of the desert.

The bus screeched to a halt.

 

My head slammed into the seat in front of me with a dull thud.

 

"Fuck..."

 

I rubbed my forehead and sat up as the sweating blob beside me finally decided to move his ass.

A crumpled piece of paper rested in my hand.

An address.

An apartment belonging to a friend currently deployed somewhere overseas. A rundown place, according to her, but dry, furnished, and mostly safe.

Mostly.

 

Try not to get shot.

 

Those were her exact words.

I stepped off the bus and made my way through filthy alleys and cracked streets before reaching a working-class neighborhood that wasn't completely falling apart.

I paused for a moment, taking in the urban landscape straight out of a dystopian nightmare.

Then I smiled.

We looked alike.

 

"You're gonna have to figure it out, Aya."

 

Obviously the elevator was broken.

I dragged myself up the stairs one floor at a time. Every step reminded me of the beating I'd taken. Every breath suggested at least a couple of cracked ribs.

By the time I reached the apartment door, I was ready to collapse.

The lock clicked.

The hinges groaned.

The place smelled stale and abandoned, but at least there weren't any cockroaches crawling across the floor.

Small victories.

There was an old beer in the fridge.

A half-empty bag of chips.

A Beretta.

Some rope.

And an ancient computer.

 

"Now that's a friend."

 

I picked up the pistol and stared at it for a long moment.

Thoughtful.

Did I have the guts for it?

For what exactly, I wasn't even sure.

This life.

Starting over.

Surviving.

Crawling back into the gutter and doing whatever it took to stay alive like some stubborn weed desperately reaching for a ray of sunlight.

 

"Fuck..."