The Face of Evil

Two posts in one day. Guess I write when I’m miserable. This is the next chapter of The Fruit Incident, just posted, in which I sliced mold off my papaya and disposed of it.

Well, I thought I’d heard the end of it, but no. I was working all day upstairs until the witch screeched up to tell me to come downstairs for comida. I wasn’t sure of her Spanish so I asked, Ahorra? Now? Her response translated approximately into “What do you think, you idiot.” She is mean as a viper, but only when Magdalena isn’t there to witness.

During the meal I poured myself some juice.

—”You can’t drink that,” Magdalena said.

—”Excuse me?”

—”From now on, only Reyna and I will eat the fruit, because you’re allergic to it.”

Oh, so they’d continued to discuss my crime. Magdalena seemed upset, while Reyna looked pleased. In fact, they both know perfectly well I can eat fruit, because I’ve been doing it with gusto every day for the past three weeks. They were punishing me, but I’m not sure for what.

—”Of course I can eat fruit,” I replied. “You know that.”

—”No, you can’t. You’re allergic to it.”

So I was forced into telling the mold story, which I didn’t want to do.

—”I’m allergic to mold, not to fruit,” I said, “and I was only scraping off the parts that I couldn’t eat.”

What came next was predictable.

—”Do you think we would feed you dangerous food? Everything you eat here was made by me. Why would I give you something that would make you sick? There was no mold. We know how to store our food.”

But I know mold when I see it.

—“I guess it was my imagination,” I said.

—”It was,“ she confirmed.

Reyna is an evil fecking bitch. My sympathy for her has evaporated. After a prolonged meltdown rooted in the knowledge that I’ll be stuck in this hell a month more, I lost my spirit to prepare for classes. I escaped from the house, evading Reyna on the way out. I always feel like I’m sneaking here.

When I returned three hours later, she charged from her room and asked why I didn’t tell her where I was going. I considered unleashing a barrage of English in reply, but I refrained. Gloating, she informed me that I’d missed a visit from a friend, but she wouldn’t say who.

She and I exchanged glances: enemies face-to-face. In her eyes was sadistic contempt. Mine were like ice, and if you knew me you’d have seen the pulsing of murderous thought.

And the only thing I’ve done wrong is to be here and to try to leave as small a footprint as possible.

Here’s a chat Molly and I just had about it. The connection froze just as she was making a face at me. I haven’t heard from her since.

The day after tomorrow is Yo-Nenny’s birthday. She’ll be thirty-two. I just can’t believe it, as I’ve said to her every birthday for the last 31 years. If you want, call her to wish her a happy day, or leave her a message here. I’ve never been unable to talk to my wee ones on important days, so I’m distraught. Maybe she’ll get her google chat going in time.