Swallow, Starving Faithful | ONC 2020

1. LA GENTE TRISTE NO TIENE PIEDAD.

It tastes soggy and alive. Gurgling away next to the ramshackle gymnasium where Father Pierre runs our morning service, this mud tastes soggy and cool and alive. It has grit. There are chunks. It's fine, it's relaxing, I'm used to breathing through my nostrils. The earth is in my mouth, sliding along with no hurry in the world. The sky is in my throat, fresh with raindrops dribbled from maudlin clouds. 

These clouds never stop, though they never really start either. Rain refuses to let loose, always just teetering on the edge of a real shower. That fine rain you can only see if you squint, running nonstop for five whole days. The recess area, stretching from the crumbling toiletries to the scrappy soccer field, is swathed in mud and water. It's so fresh that I don't mind it all crammed in my mouth. 

I just wish I wasn't freezing. I wish I could move an inch to the left or right. Squatting on my back is a stocky boy from Uruguay, one of the new kids from this August. I remember because his name is Augustin and he stinks as if he were the one with their face minced into a muddy puddle. Augustin waddled into Lová with Camilla and Flavia, his two sisters, who pepper me with curse words and keep their bloated brother in place. Camilla comments on how ugly and lonely I am. All Flavia squeals is puta de mierda, puta de mierda, so much puta de mierda that she hardly knows what to do with it all, choosing to sprinkle it all over me like the clouds do with their skinny grey raindrops. She's calling me a whore. 

Augustin forces more mud down my throat. I gag into his plump fingers, which they all find very amusing. He forces a hand inside; I choke on the thing because it smells of him. My face burns from being stretched. This has been going on for only five minutes and my face is already burning. I squeeze my eyes closed and scrunch my fists into tight balls, picturing the Kind Man like I always do. 

Sunburnt face lined with wrinkles and a smile that never falls off. The man is comfortable and quiet, living at ease inside my head with that warm smell of wood shavings that coat the ground here. I run my hands over the face, savouring each wrinkle in his flesh. I don't pray. I just want to forget everything. Sink my fingers into this face that feels like pudding, explore these lines and crevices, inhale the wood shavings mingled with his own musky scent. We never say a word. The Kind Man can make me forget my face, the insults, and the freezing mud without a word passing between us. He's my escape, and he's always with me. 

Eventually, I hear the clap of ugg boots stomping through puddles. They sound like Pedro's bright yellow ugg boots. He's one of the four volunteers here, and he'll get Augustin off me. I return to the real world where my skin burns and it's hard to breathe. 

"Excuse me, excuse me," Pedro says in uneven Spanish. "Get off the girl, get off her."

Just in case, Pedro makes amends for his wonky accent by saying everything twice. Augustin grumbles some slur and lumbers off me, allowing me to raise my head and splutter in earnest. Pieces of mud and dirt splatter into the puddle below, chunks of life flung out in noisy wretches. I'm returning them to the puddle he took them from. Distantly, I follow Pedro's watery scalding, knowing it will have no effect and Augustin will be at it again soon. 

I roll onto my back and lie there. I'm so cold that I can hardly get any colder, so I may as well relax. My hair is heavy and unravelled, waterlogged and devastated. My clothes are all ruined for the time being, as nothing will dry in this weather. My right cheek pulses hotly from where it has been sliced open by a submerged rock. I realise Pedro has been calling my name for a while now, too awkward to reach down and touch me.

I accept his hand and allow him to lift me up. He speaks down to me, that awkward voice flitting through his usual routine. 

"You okay? Hey? Okay? Did he hurt? Did he hurt you? You okay?"