Indignity of being a bitch
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- Parts 6
Apá says I only became interesting 'just' after I turned twelve. As if I were indistinguishable from a piece of furniture before that. My school's gossip rag swears it was at eleven, when I grew tits: that pair of disobedient apples stealing everyone's attention.
If you ask me, I have other dates. The first time I stepped into ice-cold water without jumping in fear; that moment when the cold stopped being torture and became a warm blanket. Or when I stopped being Alessandra to become what you see in high school: a flat-bellied bitchy witch.
The famous 'Cake Girl.' The one who sings Happy Birthday, Mr. President in the morning and, by the afternoon, is making out with her quarterback boyfriend in glorious 4K, while the world gives a standing ovation. The dream life of any little gringuita. At least any of them who can stand being called 'Sandy' in front of Ryan: a rag doll they rename at their whim.
A set piece. No one imagines that behind it all hides an Apá who charges me for the very air I breathe. Or the static of broken headphones-fucking Android ones-trying to drown out the crunch of a broken neck following me from Sinaloa. A 'hollow shell' whose only real conversations are with men dead for centuries, asking them how they managed to lose everything without losing their minds.
Welcome to the slaughterhouse. I hope you can keep up, ajá?, little piggy-pigs, because the show is starting and there are no refunds. Even if, in the end, you don't like what you find beneath my satin lace.
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