La rutina del miedo
Bajo la difusa luz del alumbrado público en la calle “Campos Nevados” ocurrió la tragedia más horrenda que pudiera existir.
Todo había ocurrido unas horas antes, quizás tres o cuatro, mismas donde todo encajaba en la más aburrida tranquilidad, sin embargo tras la fachada de la perfección, se hallaba un rostro que desconocía hasta esta noche.
Cabe mencionar, que conocía a mi agresor desde hacía más de quince años, amigos desde la infancia, novios en la adolescencia y pareja en la juventud. Llevábamos casi seis años viviendo juntos, años donde la rutina del trabajo, la televisión y la cocina eran lo mismo día a día.
Comenzábamos a las seis en punto, entre duchas y desayuno, luego tender la cama y salir juntos hasta la parada del metro. Allí cada quien tomaba su rumbo y se dirigía a su respectivo trabajo. Al regresar, cocinábamos entre ambos, luego ver televisión y una vez más a la cama a descansar. Parecía estar todo cronológicamente diseñado y nunca puse un impedimento, quizás para mi resultó ser cómodo o la misma insulsos rutina había hecho de mí una mujer sin ansias de aventura y monótona.
El amor entre nosotros poco a poco se desgasto, y terminamos viviendo de la “cotidianidad”, quizás nos necesitábamos para coexistir más que para vivir o simplemente era el hecho de la comodidad al momento de dividir los gastos de una casa vacía de emociones.
Varias noches, me hallé en vela, lo veía dormir a mi lado, y la verdad, mis sentidos de mujer se habían apagado ante el hombre que tenía enfrente. Muchas veces traté de reavivar la pasión, sin embargo, el hombre a mi lado era carente de emociones y reacciones.
Me sumergí en esta relación que al final era más conveniencia que amor y continúe con la rutina, días específicos de platillos, lunes de hipocalóricos, martes comida China, miércoles pastas, jueves carnes y viernes de chatarra. Dentro de todo, teníamos el sábado, día en que cada quien podía salir con sus amigos y disfrutar de sus gustos personales.
Por mi parte, salía con mis amigas, iba de compras y al salón, cosas normales de una chica de casi treinta años. Aunque en cada salida, mis amigas, insistían en que me estaba volviendo en una vieja junto a Marcos, mi novio. La verdad, tenían razón, ya que mi rutina era la de una mujer de casa con hijos y mascotas cuando en realidad no tenía ni lo uno ni lo otro.
Por su lado, Marcos hacía sus cosas, y nunca me dijo que, aunque ahora me doy cuenta de sus “salidas de sábado”. Siempre fue silencioso y meticuloso, pero no era el Marcos de mí infancia o adolescencia, algo le había ocurrido, pero su carácter reservado lo llevaban a callar inclusive un dolor de estómago.
Transcurrieron así varios meses y llegando un sábado de salidas individuales, Marcos me invitó a cenar, aquella acción salía de su margen cuadrado y a pesar de ser su novia, en estos años de convivencia, jamás me había invitado a una cita o cena. Me descoloco su invitación y tartamudeando le dije que si.
Llame entonces a mis amigas y les dije que saldría con Marcos y hasta ellas quedaron perplejas ante tal noticia, -¿Marcos el robot te invito a salir?, ¿Lo abdujeron los extraterrestres?
¿Marcos, tú Marcos?- Fueron las preguntas que me decían mis amigas en el chat grupal. La verdad, no las culpaba, porque cada una de esas preguntas me las estaba haciendo yo.
Mientras seguía pensando me arreglaba, use un vestido negro, algo osado, pero quería verme bien para él y para mí y siendo sincera, quizás hacer que sintiera celos y ver si este hombre tenía sangre o hielo en sus venas.
Al salir de la habitación, me esperaba en la entrada, sus ojos recorrieron cada parte de mi y solo dijo -luces bien Tamy- Sólo fue esa frase y para mi fue suficiente.
Aquella noche cenamos y bailamos. Llegando cerca de las doce y en su rigidez de costumbre noté su señal de “vámonos”, me levanté y fui al tocador, al salir estaba cerca del baño y me ofreció su brazo, un acto qué hacía años no realizaba.
Caminamos a casa, una noche de verano nos brindaba la calidez necesaria, la luna grande, más grande que otras noches, iluminaba nuestro andar. De reojo lo mire y no se si fueron las copas, pero lo vi tan sexy y varonil qué me sonroje.
Nos detuvimos en una esquina, solitaria y silenciosa, la luz del alumbrado público era difusa y pestañeante, alce mi mano queriendo sujetar su brazo, por algún motivo sentí un escalofrío qué recorrió mi cuerpo y me hizo temblar.
Marcos miraba la luna, atento, como si esta le estuviese relatando sus más oscuros secretos, y de pronto el ardor en mi vientre hacía temblar mis piernas, Marcos me sujetaba con una mano y sus ojos posados en mi rostro, su sonrisa extraña en sus labios, de pronto una mueca de insolencia y el ardor en mi vientre cambiaba de lugares.
Sentía como algo afilado y frío entró la primera vez, ahora ese ardor quemaba y era pegajoso. El sonido del metal llevó mis ojos al piso, brillante se veía el filo de un cuchillo, mientras Marcos con su mano ensangrentada la ponía sobre mi boca para evitar que mi grito estallara.
Empecé a resbalar de su brazo y caía al piso, a mi lado el cuchillo y Marcos desde arriba me miraba con sus ojos dilatados. De pronto se inclinó, tomó un frasquito de desinfectante y limpio el cuchillo, con él en sus manos me miró y sonriendo lo hundió en su pierna.
De su bolsillo tomó unos guantes de hule y mientras gritaba pidiendo ayuda me estrangulaba, la gente llegó pronto y no cumplio su cometido, ahora escucho a la distancia que me llevan en una ambulancia a algún hospital, sin embargo no se si aguantaré para revelar, que aquel hombre que parece perfecto, es un criminal oculto bajo la máscara de la rutina.
English
The routine of fear
Under the dim light of the streetlights on Campos Nevados Street, the most horrific tragedy imaginable took place.
It had all happened a few hours earlier, perhaps three or four, when everything seemed perfectly normal and peaceful. However, behind the facade of perfection, there was a face that I had never seen before that night.
It is worth mentioning that I had known my attacker for more than fifteen years. We had been friends since childhood, boyfriends in adolescence, and a couple in our youth. We had been living together for almost six years, years in which the routine of work, television, and cooking was the same day after day.
We started at six o'clock sharp, between showers and breakfast, then making the bed and leaving together for the subway stop. There, each of us went our separate ways and headed to our respective jobs. When we returned, we cooked together, then watched television, and once again went to bed to rest. It all seemed to be chronologically designed, and I never put up any resistance. Perhaps it was comfortable for me, or perhaps the same dull routine had turned me into a monotonous woman with no desire for adventure.
The love between us gradually wore away, and we ended up living a "daily routine." Perhaps we needed each other more to coexist than to live, or maybe it was simply the comfort of sharing the expenses of a house empty of emotions.
Several nights, I lay awake watching him sleep beside me, and honestly, my feminine senses had been dulled by the man in front of me. Many times I tried to rekindle the passion, but the man beside me was devoid of emotions and reactions.
I immersed myself in this relationship, which in the end was more convenience than love, and continued with the routine: specific days for specific meals, low-calorie Mondays, Chinese food on Tuesdays, pasta on Wednesdays, meat on Thursdays, and junk food on Fridays. On top of all that, we had Saturdays, a day when each of us could go out with our friends and enjoy our personal tastes.
For my part, I went out with my friends, went shopping and to the salon, normal things for a girl in her late twenties. Although every time we went out, my friends insisted that I was turning into an old woman with Marcos, my boyfriend. The truth is, they were right, since my routine was that of a housewife with children and pets when in reality I had neither.
For his part, Marcos did his own thing, and he never told me about his "Saturday outings," although I realize that now. He was always quiet and meticulous, but he wasn't the Marcos of my childhood or adolescence. Something had happened to him, but his reserved nature led him to keep quiet even about a stomachache.
Several months passed, and when Saturday rolled around, Marcos invited me to dinner. This was out of character for him, and despite being his girlfriend for several years, he had never invited me on a date or to dinner. His invitation threw me off, and I stammered and said yes.
I then called my friends and told them I was going out with Marcos, and even they were perplexed by the news. **"Marcos the robot asked you out?" **"Was he abducted by aliens?" **
"Marcos, your Marcos?" **These were the questions my friends asked me in the group chat. To be honest, I didn't blame them, because I was asking myself each of those questions.
While I was still thinking, I got ready. I wore a black dress, which was a bit daring, but I wanted to look good for him and for myself. To be honest, maybe I wanted to make him jealous and see if this man had blood or ice running through his veins.
When I left the room, he was waiting for me at the entrance. His eyes scanned every part of me, and he just said, "You look good, Tamy." That was all he said, and it was enough for me.
That night we had dinner and danced. Around midnight, with his usual stiffness, I noticed his signal to "let's go." I got up and went to the powder room. When I came out, he was near the bathroom and offered me his arm, something he hadn't done in years.
We walked home, a summer night providing the necessary warmth, the moon, bigger than on other nights, lighting our way. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, and I don't know if it was the drinks, but I found him so sexy and manly that I blushed.
We stopped at a lonely, quiet corner. The streetlight was dim and flickering. I raised my hand, wanting to hold his arm, but for some reason, I felt a chill run through my body and made me tremble.
Marcos was looking at the moon, intently, as if it were telling him his darkest secrets, and suddenly the burning in my belly made my legs tremble. Marcos held me with one hand, his eyes fixed on my face, a strange smile on his lips. Suddenly, a look of insolence appeared, and the burning in my belly changed places.
I felt something sharp and cold enter me the first time, now that burning sensation was sticky. The sound of metal drew my eyes to the floor, where I saw the shiny blade of a knife, while Marcos put his bloody hand over my mouth to prevent my scream from bursting out.
I began to slip from his arm and fell to the floor, the knife beside me and Marcos looking down at me with dilated eyes. Suddenly, he leaned over, took a small bottle of disinfectant, and cleaned the knife. With it in his hands, he looked at me and, smiling, plunged it into his leg.
He took some rubber gloves out of his pocket and strangled me while I screamed for help. People arrived quickly and he didn't accomplish his mission. Now I hear in the distance that they are taking me in an ambulance to a hospital, but I don't know if I will be able to reveal that this man who seems perfect is a criminal hiding behind the mask of routine.
