por Marcia Santos
Caminábamos por las playas de San Diego, y to be honest I hated him.
Me resultaba patético su existir.
Panza redonda de miedo, transparent yellow skin, arrugada, llena de lunares, estaba allí para llenarme de qué?
Pedí el breakfast más caro del restaurant -como venganza-.
Bacon Hamburger.
Comí pensando en cualquier cosa, ignoring the smiley shadow besides me, desdeñando lo que había acontecido esa mañana.
Yo era la nice hooker, morena, mexa, pobre, veinteañera, broken english.
Pasamos un monumento que para mi significaba la conquista del petróleo en el mundo: juegos de plástico y goma moldeable para los niños que visitaban la veteran beach. Beautifull place que les habían otorgado a cambio de muertes de guerras anteriores.
-This rubber used to make these games is super toxic but nobody says anything, children play anyways. Me dijo.
Tocando la arena con los pies me confesó:
– In war everybody get sick.
Some time ago I was on a mission in an African country. I was asked to hunt down a group of slavers who kidnapped civilians and sold to transnational corporations for forced labor.
We were on the trail through northern Africa, almost snapping at tracks, until one day we catch them near beach.
We torture them.
Then a machine used to dig in the sand made many holes, depth of a body to the neck.
We buried them.
And another machine step over them and cut off their head.
Several of my colleagues took decapitated heads from hair and took selfies.
War ill.
Sound of waves, gaviotas y la gente laughing a nuestro alrededor aderezaba la narración, suddenly i saw a child contemplating his own childhood. Por un instante sentí un amargor que emanaba de algún lugar que no era físico.
Emboscada, castigada, vigilada.
I was there, con la brisa salada pegada a la skin, judging me with the hardest weapon.
¿En qué momento decidí ser my propio victimario?
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Marcia Santos (Cd. Juárez, 1990) Bruja marginal fronteriza