Hay una espera convertida en pesadilla, un viejo dolor atravesando luces en medio de la noche. Una sombra largamente detenida en el lugar de la tristeza. Una figura en el espejo escuchando una risa que no es suya. Hay una vida que rebasa el azul…un viejo odios construyendo tanatorios en el borde de la razón, la vieja herida de life tearing the clothes of his time. It's stormy path taken, the same feet filled with all the miseries of the world, the famous organ composing songs to death. There is a mother, which suffers. A brother who has fought against all, even against their own happiness and well but as he himself has no return. What could be a family, scattered in the midst of a superb matriarchal nest ... where did the trap of man-this time in uniform and authority, and ended with freedom, with hope, with what could be and only ended in nothing. That final, irreversible, turned in surprise. The last step, detached from everything. Raped by their uncles. Punished by his mother. Regular passenger boarding schools and prisons. Transient guest juvenile seals could not stop the vertigo. Or social rejection. Or fear. She lives alone with his torment. Nobody knows your full history. He has had run into the worst of human beings, very closely. Have you seen the hatred in the eyes of others like her, a resident of the sites with bars. Lesbianism. Abuse. Poverty. The lack of motherly love. The hatred surrounding it customarily. Today, amid the pain stops. Has brought strength to overcome difficulties and is a practitioner of the Republic. In their eyes it is easy to decipher the rain due to the difficulty forgetting. Their rage is solitary protagonist talks the old rocker that serves as a confidant. It has a large pool of stubborn haze at the site of his love. Loneliness has begun to decipher. After rummaging around in his hatred, to win you have to tip of manliness, no husband present, oblivious of love because it fits into his life when he dares to tell his secret ... he writes in his sunsets, even when starting the prime of his life, a ode taciturn, vaguely, about the color and odor of known violence. Prisoner of karma that basically does not belong, defends to the hilt his duty to bundle up your child on their own, and not be thanked. Know of any violence, since you have had them all. And each of them bears a scar that still hurts and bleeds. Despite its hardness enacted, no longer moved when he recalls. When back. When revived. Though battered, his heart is hungry for new and friendly feelings. So, after many years of silence that thrills, look carefully inside and find there old passengers eager to sow fear to leave port ... definitely the winter.
- I wrote again. He had done in the past, but had not specified the interview. This time, even with some difficulty, is me. Easy verb, has been featured in the most violent situations. Meet the corner of human misery ... I've visited too many times!
- Do not know where to start, he says. I have spent so much when I read his interviews, I am drawn in most of them. I was born in a house with a very bad mother. Punitive. Of which received more peel than understanding. Where a young age I was raped by my uncles, brothers of mother, whom she trusted to sleep sent to our rooms. Would at most 7 years old. I do not remember if they came to the penetration ... but touched my private parts. They did wrong things. Strange. So did my sister, a little younger than me. Who, by the way, Mom threw away from home because she became pregnant by her boyfriend. At that time she told me ... punish you for being with my family, but my uncle raped me and we've done nothing ... and yet, like the house threw away, leaving aside the case against his brothers.
- Did you tell him, in time, your mother your situation?
- At first I did not realize it was a violation. For me, the guys were stroking. I once wanted to complain to my mother, and she told me to respect my uncles, on pain of violent punishment beatings ... and were very strong. As at twelve, I understood what was happening. The abuse they committed to me and my sister. Barley aberration in our children's bodies. To complete, a brother, in the midst of our shortcomings, began working in the shop of a friend of Mom, who was always more important that we work, in that we study. There was something stupid that interested him and denounced him. Went to jail for the first time. We got out under a precautionary measure. But in a raid when he showed his ticket, a police officer threatened to break, if not "down from the mule." Him away, and then one went to the home uniform demanding an amount of money that was not in our power to "not sow." Five million Bolivars. As we could not afford it, "it sowed" and sentenced to 5 years in prison. Where not only learned what he knew not on drugs and crime ... but a lot of hatred built up against it. Left worse off than they entered, and thereafter did not return. Wants to charge the world what the world has done. Need to get revenge on a society that condemned him without more blame to be very poor. Required to tell everyone that they made him disbelieve in justice, goodness, equity. That freedom is worth a few Bs. Also someone's life, his reputation, his future and even his family. Says he has no future. That is marked. Can not leave the dead to which pushed him. That is their only refuge. Its natural habitat. The space to which he was sentenced. Has today, a hefty criminal record ... which, ironically against the company, points out to everyone in the family. And to blame us for carambola. And somehow we pay, because no one condones or accepts without fear to those who have a family member inside, or brought to justice. I myself have been in a foster home, that costume where the drug checkpoint, lesbianism, poverty realenga go through all the spaces. I felt myself in my weakness primed secluded misery of my jailers, the aberrations of my colleagues, hatred of those who are forced to atone for their sins in these dens of detention.
- Have you been arrested?
- No. Confined. It turns out that I fought with my brothers and mom called the police. When it was asked to take me. In fact, my sister told her that if I had had to bring it to me ... her too. But mom said that girl no ... only the biggest, pointing. They took me to the checkpoint, and met the worst of the worst. Even had bathrooms. We did our needs in a kind of bat. I had to invent a "handbook" for other prisoners respected me. There is no prejudice. No limits. Nor moral. Or decency. There is a single goal: to survive. Overcome the miseries. Contamination to a minimum. Not be outdone by hate. Be strong in fear.
- Do you resent your mother?
- Very. I think is to blame for many of the things that happened and that she led, or could prevent and not wanted. Note that the months of internal gave me freedom, and she refused to get me out of there. I never understood. Never helped us. We never showed affection. He was always very tough.
- What about your life?
- I tried to go beating. I took a professional degree. I married, but not is easy for those who have been sexually abused, bring a life partner. I had two children, and even there it was my marriage. I forgot the love. The sex I do not need. I try to forget and yet I can not. I try to turn the page and find it very difficult. I can not be drained because it is a stain that people know what happens to me. To whom I tell, I refused. Note that my sister got married without telling her husband, and the day I told him we had a brother imprisoned in Uribana, left her. Imagine if you tell she was raped by her uncles!. There are situations, Bachelor, that society makes it harder to carry. Insurmountable. How to relieve this anxiety, if I drown in it for me no more harm!. How screaming injustice, whether it is a sin to live them?
- prison visits?
- Claro. I have been visiting all the prisons where my brother has been. I have suffered this humiliating, inhuman and cruel requisition just so you know, I am with him over any difficulty. I feel sorry for him. I pity the treatment in these schools are husbands, wives, sisters, daughters and mothers of prisoners. Of anyone who is not concerned. There to him in a mutiny, he was stabbed. The life of a prisoner in our country is a raffle. There is no security at all. How recompose someone in the middle of the utmost cruelty and filth?. One day I took my young children to see what was happening to those taking the wrong road. To learn family solidarity, but also what awaits those who take the wrong way ... or make them take those required, for not having money to pay blackmail uniform.
- Did you tell your children?
- Everything. I have told all and verse. They are the single most beautiful thing I have. To them I owe all the confidence. They complete my life today. They are the oasis in the midst of so much desert. They deserve the life I never had. The love you gave me. The understanding that I was denied. The love that someone stole.
- How did they react?
- have a grudge with her grandmother. The blame for what happened to me. Make it responsible for not taking care of me. To send to the cage of wolves only for a tantrum. To mistreat my life unjustly. Ignore me cry, despite being his daughter. To believe his brothers more than us. To provide as much tears, so much pain, so much unnecessary frustration in life.
- Do you have contact with your mom?
- Yes, but very little. Between us there is frequent contact ... still very distant. I have yet forget many things ... many things she has to explain. There are a lot of anger. Too much pain to restore the bridges of affection like that requires a normal mother-daughter.
- After adult, have you talked to her about what happened to you?
- The lashed at my uncles. As the catch. As for my brothers. As the family .... I asked for forgiveness. But you can not rebuild all damaged, missing everything, all the damage done only with an apology. It would be magic that could do damage, and only to apologize, fix it. We can destroy someone's life, and think that that word can be justified in any way serious consequences.
- In these tough times, in those moments alone, nobody ever gave you love?
- My godmother. Who want above all things. The only person in the world who can give me a slap, and will not be back. She was in what could crutch, cane, blanket, heat ...
- For those guys that you were raped "you've never seen?
- Yeah, I saw them again several times
- What did you feel when you've seen?
- Fear .... Long fear. I keep remembering. To experience. Rolling back. For me to invade the shadows, ghosts, nightmares.
- With so much anguish, you have not forgotten to live?
- It's always my turn. Always I who must face. Who should bear the solution of problems. Who ends up carrying the blame ... paying some dishes that did not break. I always wonder why me? ... But never, I have come across the answer.
- When are you going to start living for you?
- I am happy to see my children grow up healthy and free from evil ... I think that's living for me.
- Why do you want to tell what has long been a terrible secret?
- Why not take it anymore so quiet. Because I need to cry, even through you, that space that so many people read and taught, my nightmare ... to stop hurting me.
He peers through the window of his empty life and there are only written on the faces of its people. A kind of terrifying noise, polishing walking between prisons, sidewalks, sewers and hospitals. The shadow of what can be a smile, usurping the place of colors could have been-without fear-lights to their books and notebooks. The kind of cold, recalling the dark and gloomy terrain. Look inside and see the same dirty boots of his walk through the calendar. In his room, a piece of furniture creak at night is usually the ride of nightmares. A strange light curtain away. A mirror that refuses to reflect violets and lost in the search for lilies. The house clam limit freedom. Just the tapping of wind, drawing on the night the ghosts forever. Remember
, and then unleashes the daily drizzle that spaces stealing the blanket away, can not substitute its warmth ... that it requires as a blanket on the site that recreates the sweat moisture to be old and tattered and fragrance garden withered insomnia . Notes falling water in stormy nights and feels like she has been featured in every storm. There every time he remembers, every time you flip whenever you stop at the coral red scars that recreates the meekness of blues set in times of foam. As such their intimate tour starts, every week, every month ... every year.
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