Many months later, as she faced the supermarket line, Francisca Fernández was to remember that distant afternoon when her major announced the quarantine. At the time Bocondá was a massive city, chaotic, hectic, polluted, an inhabited monster. The world had moved on from the days of worrying about helping the so-called third world countries, to ignoring them completely. Every year during the month of March a family of clean businessmen would set up their pop-ups in the centre of the city, and with a great uproar of iPads and drones, they would display new inventions. First, they brought the facial recognition. A smart looking businessman, with a clean suit, introduced himself as Conroy, put on a loud demonstration of what he called the promise of a secure, crimeless future. He went from house to house demonstrating how face recognition never failed, no matter how prominent or not the features of each person were. From the poorest to the richest, the whole population could be identified. ‘Nothing can go wrong, we have it all under control,’ the businessman proclaimed with a kind accent. ‘It’s simply a matter of trusting technology.’ Francisca Fernández, whose unbridled imagination always went beyond the genius of nature and even beyond miracles and magic, thought it would be possible to make use of that powerful invention to control whole populations through their lack of peace of mind. Conroy, who was a positive man, reassured her: ‘It won’t get out of control.’ But Francisca at that time did not believe in the honesty of governments, so she got back in her car and drove away. Aiza, her dog, always faithful at her side, was happy to see her return home. ‘Don’t worry, next week I’ll take you to the park every day, I promise,’ Francisca reassured her. For several months she wasn’t able to take Aiza further away than her block, no parks and no random walks around the city, and each time they stepped outside, people looked at them as criminals, or even worse, disease-carrying entities. They explored every inch of their small apartment, daily, unamazed, dragging their hopes for health and a miracle vaccine that was promised by every government on the daily. It took 17 months, 6 days and 17 hours for the vaccine to finally become a reality. This became a true calamity when the face recognition machines were merged with guns. All sick citizens must die, for healthy ones to be free.

At the end of March, the businessmen had left. Not as the usually did, with multiple business opportunities and bags full of money, no. They ran fearing to have to face an apocalypse in a country that didn’t have the necessary elements to. But, where do you hide when the world is ending? Let’s not kid each other, no amount of iPads or drones can save you when the end is near. The citizens of Bocondá remained hopeful still, the foreign seller said face recognition meant a peaceful future and they had spent almost all of their minimum wage to ensure no wrong could come. ‘Science has eliminated distance,’ Conroy proclaimed. ‘In a short time, man will be able to see what is happening in any place in the world without leaving his own house.’ That was already the case, for those with access to the internet and a computer or smartphone, the most vulnerable and uneducated ones did not need to know that though. No matter what, there was a smell of optimism and hope surrounding the city, after everything the country had faced, it was impossible to not make it through this as well.

A rumour started spreading: those who cover their skins with a mix of honey, lemon and toilet paper won’t get sick. ‘The important part is making sure you cover all your body in the toilet paper,’ they said, ‘the slightest bit of visible skin and it’s no longer effective.’ In an attempt to ensure health, the habitants of Bocondá ran to the supermarkets to buy the needed materials for this infallible grandma’s cure, not without first buying them in bulks just in case they needed to do it more than once. Over the protests of scientists, who were worried about superstition being trusted over science, pamphlets were given out to all citizens citing scientific studies proving the grandma’s potion to be pointless and unnecessary. Meanwhile, the face-recognition machinery started presenting issues, healthy citizens would be categorized as ill and dying patients were listed as healthy or cured.

Francisca would spend hours in her room, calculating the strategic possibilities of erasing the never-ending information by the media announcing the impending doom. She knew the cure to the disastrous results of the pandemic were hidden somewhere in a mixture of a secret ingredient and kindness. She sent her theories to the government, accompanied by numerous descriptions of her hypothesis and several pages of explanatory sketches. ‘We either survive together or die together,’ she’d warned them, but somehow all her emails were identified as spam. Even though standing outside the house for over a minute was little less than impossible at the time, Francisca Fernández promised to undertake it as soon as the government ordered to study the pandemic in a humanistic way. For several months she waited for an answer. Finally, tired of waiting, she bemoaned to Aiza the failure of her project and rejoined the rest of humanity in the oppressive feeling of damnation.

Francisca Fernández spent the long months of the peak of the curve season shut up in a small room where no one would interrupt her, soaring through the social feed of people explaining the painful deaths and dying hope. Having completely abandoned her domestic obligations, she spent entire nights in the bed watching the interminable shows offered on Netflix and had almost lost the ability to differentiate reality from fiction. That was the period in which she acquired the habit of talking to herself, of walking through the apartment without noticing no one else was there, as Aiza had learned to survive by feeding on the packages she would steal from the deliveries the neighbours ordered. Suddenly, without warning, her feverish activity was interrupted and was replaced by a shy expectation. The announcement of a new type of medicine flooded the news, loudly being repeated on all possible platforms, it was unavoidable. Finally, one Tuesday in December, at lunchtime, all at once the medicine was released and the whole population of the world held their breath in the anticipation of what was to come. The people would remember for the rest of their lives the amazement with which everyone, devastated by the crushing weight of the untruthful hope came by, as they discovered this new medicine didn’t cure anyone but gave all the recipients a couple of feathers in their backs which, after three months, would become fully developed wings.

Leaders of the world streamed in syntony as they announced to the world: ‘Humans may not survive the plague, but the winged humanoids definitely will.’

Those who used to be ill and pitied were now glorified, their wings allowed them freedom, as no frontiers could stop all the human-birds from flying to their families and loved ones, or even to their dreamed vacation destinations that were now empty of all the annoying tourists. Life got colourful and cheerful again, for just a little while. It hadn’t even been a week before the news of the human-birds getting their feather plucked began. Some justified grilling the human-birds: ‘They aren’t real humans, not anymore. Their meat, however, has already digested the cure.’

And so the winged and non-winged humans began a war. It was a rudimentary one, as governments still hadn’t recovered from that abysmal economical fall. Activists gathered from both species and as soon as it started, it stopped. No one had enough will to keep the conflict going on. But, as it always happens, collaboration became the true clear north.

The winged-people destroyed the face identifying machines, which allowed the unwinged-humans to walk again alone. New jobs started: winged delivery servers, winged nursing homes, flying vacations planners, flying yoga instructors, and much more. And so, little by little, the new normal started settling in. Which meant, winged-robbers, winged-rapes, winged-singers and also, winged-heartbreaks.

Francisca Fernández was a silent observer. Alone at her apartment, she had allowed for time to pass. With no one to infect her, she had survived. That’s when the vaccine finally came to fruition when nobody needed it anymore. Winged-people refuse vaccination, fearing it might mean losing their wings. And non-winged people had already cured on their own.

And so life continued, as it always does, with corrupt winged-politicians, and the humble winged-poor.

She almost could not sleep. Those terrifying thoughts kept coming back in intervals of maximmum ten minutes apart and then the waters would come closer and the dreams further apart. When she was finally able to, she had uneasy scenes that wouldn't classify as nightmares, but wouldn't allow her to rest either. She loved sleeping, and she loved even more dreaming, she felt proud of remembering them. They were fascinating, like a sort of creative warm-up she could do without trying.

But not this night, this night dreams wouldn't be a refuge to flee.

She used her phone as an alarm clock everymorning for the past three years, but for the last two weeks, she wanted to try a different method. It wasn't because her phone wasn't efficient, nor because there was a technical difficulty, rather she was trying to avoid unwanted news. Some of those texts sneaked into her sleep and woke her up a few times, and so the waters would once again come close and then she'd need to take three deep breaths to keep them apart and stop her lower quavering lip.

Then finally the alarm rang and so she stopped it with an urgency that sloth hadn't allowed many times before.

She went to the gym and ran like never before. She knew why, she was running away from something. She knew, rationally, the tredmill wouldn't let her move, but she also knew her legs were trying to run away. She ran for two hours, something she had never done before and didn't even know was capable of doing.

She got home dripping sweat. She imported her running results to her phone and threw it away as far as she could, as if throwing bad news too, and got in the shower. She loved taking showers, specially now with her new speaker that allowed her to listen to music while she was washing her hair. It was her fifteen minutes to escape and pretend nothing outside of that shower existed.

She got lost for half an hour between the steam, the music and the running water. She escaped momentarily because her mind would take her to that horrifying place and so the waters would take control, she didn't mind, with the water running over her face, she could let them loose here. It wouldn't change anything.

She got out of the shower and put music as loud as she could, she wanted to see if the noise would drown her thoughts. She got dressed as slowly as she could, with parsimonous gestures. If a neighbor had been spying her on that day, they would've assumed that to her, dressing up was almost a tea ceremony.

She had agreed to help out a friend that day. Her friend had asked her for six hours and she had denied arguing that she was too busy for that, that she could work for two. Her friend agreed stating that something was better than nothing.

But that day, she stayed for the whole six hours even though they had finished by the third. Yet she insisted, maybe with one more coat, maybe a different colour, maybe different screws, maybe they should start over. It was all an excuse to stay a little bit more, avoiding the unavoidable.

Her phone rang and she froze, but then she saw it wasn't destiny calling, it was her ex that wanted to talk. Had it been another day, she wouldn't have picked up her phone, but that day her ex's face looked like an excuse and so she said hello, that she also had things to say, that they should catch up, no I'm not busy, yes, let's meet right away.

Saved by an ex. Who would've known.

She decided then to turn off her phone's notifications.

They had one, two, three coffees, they talked, they laughed. She knew what she needed to do to survive, and today survival meant flirting. So they went to his place and in his bed, she escaped a little longer.

While she was dressing up again, her phone alerted her that it was time. It was five o'clock and she couldn't hide anymore. It was okay, she didn't know which one was worse, facing it, or not being able to. The idea of going there terrified her, but not going scared her even more. Besides, the waters were getting harder to control.

She got in a cab and started talking with the driver. She lied about everything: she gave a different name and a different career too. She said she was a lawyer coming out of a meeting and her boyfriend was waiting for her at home. She said she had been working in a bank for five years, she said she was happy, that she would do it all again. She invented a different family and a different group of friends. For the lenght of her ride, she genuinly smiled while she escaped to a reality in which escaping wasn't necessary.

She got home and decided to take another bath. She thought it would be rude to face reality smelling like sex. So she once again escaped between the steam, jazz and water and this time it was easier, because between the water she thought about banks and laws and a life in which she didn't take longer than ten minutes in the shower because she didn't want to escape.

She had one more hour to go, so she went to the park. Having her feet against the grass always made her feel better, besides, heaven must be full of dogs, she thought.

The breeze helped her (just for a little bit) and since her feet felt so good, she decided to lay on the grass and look for shaped in the clouds, but the plan backfired when the clouds started to look like what she was avoiding and so the waters came back. She closed her eyes, to escape into the darkness and to held the waters hostage.

Resigned, she got up. It would take her 25 minutes to get there walking, and so she did to avoid the speed of the cars.

She put on her earphones and got the volume up as loud as she could. But no noise was louder than her thoughts. She walked slowly, as if she didn't wanted to. And she indeed didn't wanted to. She wanted the opposite. She wanted to run in time to run a few years behind and hold it all still a little longer.

Each of her zombie steps got her closer to that place, so when there was only one block left, she got into a café, the only open place.

No coffee will ever taste as that refuge-flavoured coffee. She ordered the biggest one she could get, extra hot, so she was obliged to drink it extra slow, sip by sip. But as always, suddenly the coffee was all gone and the stain at the end of the glass looked like what she was trying to ignore.

She walked again, moving her feet the least she could, but she got there anyway. She looked up and saw that disgusting entrance of that horrible building. No more escaping.

She got into the elevator and felt her lips tremble. Sometimes waiting is the worst part.

When the doors opened, her family was there. Her real family, not the cab family that was happy and healthy, no. It was her real family looking at her with a look of sadness? no, depression? no, wait, it's a look of hopelesness. That look made it hard for her to swallow.

And so she got into the room and there it was. As much as she tried to avoid it and escaped it, there it was. No matter how many showers, cabs, works, closed eyes, nothing would change the fact that there it was.

Her old man. Letargic and in a clinic bed. In the biggest expression of weakness. What a horrible, unavoidable, cruel thing reality can be.

She finally cried. A lot. She laid besides him, touched him and cried some more.

She no longer wanted to run away, she wanted the opposite. She wished she could stop time and cage him here.

Unfortunately, he was more on the other side than here. Cadaverous and weighing only 36kilos, yellowish and almost not breathing.

He would wake up every once in a while and asked the questions a castaway would ask: where am I? Why am I here? Who brought me here? Who else is here? Why did they come to see me? And the worst one: What did you say to them that they thought they needed to come all the way here to see me?

Everybody would enter the room with the same wish as her, to see something better than what they were expecting. And all of them, without exception, left disappointed by reality. That cruel bitch that never lets us win.

Some argued it was better to have the chance to say goodbye than not having the chance to. But she insisted it was better to escape, there must be something we can do. Let's start over, I'll hug him harder this time, I'll laugh harder at his jokes this time, I'll go with him to every tedious thing. Just give me some more time...

Until she finally understood. Lying next to him, and in one of his short moments of clarity he confessed: I want to rest, my soul is too heavy. Sometimes dying is escaping.

If you give one more step, your feet will burst. At least that’s how you feel. You have walked for days in this desert, not knowing where it will take you. You haven’t seen as much as an inch of a shadow in hours. You walk because there’s nothing else to do. It’s either walking or waiting for death and you won’t do that. You’re too stubborn for that, you won’t quit without giving a fight.

Memories of your son overwhelm you. When did your whole life become him? When were you left out of the equation? How is it that now that he’s gone, you’re still not present? You feel empty.

Stop Lucia, don’t think about it or you’ll fall apart. You’re not that woman who weeps on the sand. No. You didn’t disintegrate when he left you and your son behind and you won’t crumble now either. You didn’t collapse when you left your dream to become a doctor behind. Now is not the time for falling apart. (Not yet.)

No, Lucia, if you did it all for your son, now you’ll do it all for yourself. You keep walking, I know you’re thirsty, I know your skin is resembling the sand around you, I know the sun won’t stop and the heat drowns. I know you’re burned, bruised, blistered. But you will keep walking. You always do.

You see a building, far away. It looks like an ant from here. You’re pretty sure you’re hallucinating, so you walk towards it with no rush. There’s nothing else for you to do anyway.

Your busted blisters have been bleeding for days. They don’t hurt anymore, they’ve mixed with the sand to form some sort of shoe. You’re a nurse, you know you need to wash them, need to clean them. You know you need hydration, you need shade, you need rest, you need to take care of yourself for once, you need to love yourself, you need love, you need, you need, you need…

Who cares? By now your past life is what seems to be a hallucination.

You have nothing, you carry nothing. Only this wrecked clothes, stained and sweaty. Not even an ID. I don’t believe you, Lucia. You are not real.

Finally, you get there. You touch the wall of the building. One hell of a hallucination. You discover it’s a bar. A new bar. A bar that seems to have been inaugurated just yesterday. Great Lucia, now you can die in the shade.

You walk in, there’s nothing except for that ghastly silence. Four white walls. You’ve finally gone mad, Lucia. But wait, could that be? Seems to be your lucky day, there are hundreds of bottles waiting for you to quench your thirst and some alcohol to heal your wounds – emotional and physical.

You open the first bottle and spill it on your feet only to find out the bottle is full of sand. Shit! It can’t be! You open the next one: sand, the next one: sand, the next one: sand. No, no, no, no. This, right here, is the epitome of your life. You and your pointless attempts, congratulations Lucia.

The only thing you have ever loved is your son, Lucia, yet right now you would give his life for a sip of water. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.

You keep walking between the bottles, still not giving up. When you feel the floor is suddenly sticky. You look down, you’ve been walking in a puddle of blood. You feel nothing seeing you’re surrounded by blood and then you see it. A photo. A photo between all the blood. Not just any photo, a photo of your son and you embracing.

Ok, Lucia. This is a good time to fall apart.

Beware of me, my love.

Beware of my eyes

those that shine with false promises.

Beware of my whims

and the way I tangle you with my smile.

Beware of my mouth

I'll say I don't, but I bite.

Beware of my touch

specially when my body makes you feel like exploding.

Beware not to love me

because loving me will only make you suffer.

Beware of me, my love

because I'll make you believe the love is mutual.

But above anything else, my love

protect me from myself and my inability to love.

Protect me from myself

because I can't distinguish between abyss and love.

Protect me from myself

because I'll want to love you and I won't know how to.

[In honour of Alejandra Pizarnik and to all those whom I wanted to love but couldn't.]

-Prey-

I felt your eyes on me across the room

Like your breath against my neck.

I like feeling that I am your prey

Perceiving you'll catch me if I ran

Knowing there's no escaping you

That my body belongs to you

And that you'll do with it

whatever it is that pleases you.

I like being your prey

Feeling my legs tremble in expectation of you

I like being your prey

Even if it hurts

Even if it scars

Even if you eat me

Even if you kill me

I like being your prey.

-Predator-

Static

maybe if I play dead

he'll let me go.

I felt his hand going down my back

"Stay still. Hold your breath.

Don't allow a single hair to move."

It is difficult pretending

my body isn't contorting of pleasure

with your mouth moving up my open legs.

The game is over.

Time to kill or be killed.

I turned around

hand around his neck.

It is impossible not to salivate at your sight

something inside me starts savouring you.

It will drive me insane once you start gasping.

How exquisite the sound of my name between your moans.

Fuck good manners

I want to mince you with my bare hands

I want your juices dripping out of my mouth.

Let me tear the pieces with my teeth

You, my favourite dish.

Oh love,

don't play victim here

you thought I was the prey

but I've always been the predator.