Something wild happened to me today

Chapter 1

© 2010, Daniel Estorach Martín

Translation to english: Kastin Samuel Mattern

Cover Illustration: Jordi Armengol Carner

Cover Design: Joan Moreno

Web: http://hoymehapasadoalgomuybestia.com

Contact: arawna@hotmail.es

March 20th, 2007, 4:03 PM

Something wild happened to me today

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

This morning, I woke up with a terrible migraine, the kind that makes you retch if you try to move too much. I decided to stay home and not worry about going to work; it’s not like I have a lot of work today, and nobody will notice, not even my pocket at the end of the month. One—maybe the only—advantage of being freelance.

 I took an aspirin and went back to bed. You don’t know how much it sucks to be attacked by a killer migraine when there is a dog groomer two floors beneath you.

I finally managed to sleep after I covered my head with the pillow. It sounds weird, but feeling slight pressure on your temples alleviates the pain a little.

By the way, I didn’t introduce myself: my name is Daniel García. I’m 32 years old, and migraines have plagued me for as long as I can remember, so now I consider them a lesser evil. In spite of how terrible they are, you end up getting used to them. In fact, if there are people who keep pressing forward in spite of suffering from hunger or other woes, how can I not get used to a ridiculous migraine?

Unfortunately, things didn’t stop there. I wish it had have only been that.

When I woke up the second time, the alarm clock on my nightstand said 1:30 PM. I woke up hungry and half-dizzy, and went to the kitchen. I sniffed around the fridge and the pantry and finally decided on something easy: macaroni with tomato sauce.

While the water was heating, I laid down on the couch and turned the TV on. Nothing interesting, for a change. That’s when I saw the blood. First on the couch, then on my pants and on the floor. Droplets of blood marking my path through the apartment. Like, a lot of it. The couch and my pants were totally ruined. I ran to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. Blood was coming out of my nose. Out of both nostrils at once, and steadily. I was a little freaked out, but I’m not a guy who gets scared by the sight of blood, so I quickly cleaned myself up with really cold water. Grabbing a big wad of toilet paper, I put my head back and covered my nose with it. I walked like that, like a stiff butler, returning to the couch.

That’s when the neighbors from the apartment in front of mine started up. They argue almost every day. I guess they’ve got used to it, just like me with my migraines. But today was different. They started off like always: yelling, insulting, and telling each other to go to hell… Fucking great for my migraine, right? I tried to focus on what was on TV and ignore them. My eyes memorized the ceiling while one of those paparazzi guys insulted some semi-celebrity for breaking his mic or something, when the neighbor’s voice reached an intolerable decibel level. It felt like my right eye was going to pop out of its socket from the pain, getting sharper and sharper. The neighbor yelled at the top of his lungs,

“I’m gonna smack your face in half, bitch!”

The whole building must have heard him in the staircase, and almost for sure in the street.

These situations make me feel both uncomfortable and powerless at the same time. You think of what must be happening right next to you, just a few feet away. You imagine terrible things, but you always reach the conclusion that it must be the boyfriend of the moment’s attempt at being a tough guy. That he isn’t going to hurt her. Then a good screw, and the perfect make-up.

Until you hear a smack and her scream, then a second smack when her body crashes against the floor or some piece of furniture. Followed by more screams of terror.

I don’t know what happened to me, but something clicked inside my head. The migraine disappeared, giving way to a rage I’d never felt before. I got up and ran across my apartment to the door, which I opened without thinking about what I’d do next. The screams and smacks were still happening a few feet away from me. And I knew no one would do anything. People are used to not saying or doing anything if the bad stuff isn’t happening to them.

I yelled, standing in front of the neighbors’ door. I yelled for them to stop, that I was going to call the cops. The maniac beating up his wife on the other side yelled back that if I didn’t take off, I’d be next. And that was the last coherent thing I remember. After that moment, there was only a series of images.

A door flying through the air. Blood on the floor. Blood on the woman’s face, running down her neck. Her nightgown stained and ripped, one of her breasts, perfect, protruding. A fist smacking against my face. The abuser’s face, astonished. Then terrified. Finally, his face isn’t his face anymore: a mash of flesh and blood. The woman crying on the floor, next to three empty, crushed cans of beer. Neighbors at the door. Someone trying to help me to go into my apartment. Darkness.

I woke up in the middle of the afternoon, without a migraine, but my body—especially my face—hurt. Someone had cleaned my wounds and put bandages and Band-Aids on me. One of the neighbors, I supposed. Finally, someone does something.

When my mind cleared up completely, I was surprised not to be at the police station. As far as I know, I’m involved in one or several crimes. The peace in the whole building bewilders me. It’s like nothing happened. Although, of course, my wounds indicate the opposite.

I wonder if I’m going crazy.

I’ll ask the neighbors tomorrow; right now, I’m going back to bed. I feel horrible...