Traducido al inglés por Alejandra D'Atri de Into Words
She took her shoes off and put them in her bag.
She walked to the kitchen
barefooted, she did not want the old man to hear her; and as she passed
by she peeped at him: sprawled on the sofa in front of the TV, his eyes
closed, the pipe was clinging from his stinking yellow moustache.
He’s going to take care of you as if you were his own daughter, her mother had told her. And she was right.
But he will never take me into that filthy bedroom, she told to herself. Never.
Already in the kitchen, she
turned on the gas of the gas cooker. And towards the entrance door, she
stared at him for the last time: he had not even realized.
Once at the sidewalk, she put her shoes on.
Her heart was beating so hard that she could hardly hold the key. She grabbed it with both hands and her bag fell down.
And before she was able to
put the key into the keyhole, the old man had already tightened his grip
on her hair and was dragging her inside.
Publicado en Heliconia Flash Fiction
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