Leer El diario de Hebbler (Novela) Capítulo 4 online gratis en español

May 3rd, 2003 —————————— Mother’s untruth Father’s truth —————————— —You should knock the door. —Don’t leave food in your plate. —Be kind I have noticed that my father hates closed doors. We have argued several times about me locking the door because his suits are in my bedroom closet, but it feels immoral to me that, now that I have reached puberty, he keeps entering my room. Mom says I am very conservative, but I have seen how nephews who come to visit look at me. I know for a fact that not all men are like that because my classmates don't give me such nasty feeling; however, all men in my family are extremely disgusting. Mom says I am exaggerating. Just today we had a fight that left us on bad terms. I asked her to divorce my dad, and although I admit I don't really have any power in this matter, I expressed to her the anguish caused by my father's arbitrariness. I told her how he always sought physical contact and how he would aberrantly describe the texture of my skin. Mom still didn't believe me and alarmingly forgot all our conversations, mentioning that he was a good man and that if the family wasn't working out, it was because I wasn't doing my part. One night, stray bullets went through my window and I turned over on my bed, resigned to receiving the shot on my back if the occasion arose. That night, mom had a fit of hysteria. She had a tremendous argument with my father and they slammed my bedroom door shut. Mom was dragging a suitcase almost as big as her and finally said the words I had been waiting for so long: — Take your clothes. We're leaving. My father started crying and blocked the entrance of the house. He grabbed my arm, squeezing painfully, pulling me toward him, and instinctively mom blocked him with her body. He dragged us across the house floor, violently testing mom's limits to make her let go of me. He threw us onto the bed and hit her until she let go of me. She stayed in shock, crying on the bed. He dragged me to the living room and sat me down in front of him at the dining table, dropping a stupid question: — Who do you want to stay with, Hebbler? — With Mom. Ironically, he didn't expect that answer because a look of surprise came over his face. The first and only time I saw such a genuine look on his face. Before his psychosis could reach me, I went to mom's side to finish packing my clothes. We were almost crossing the threshold of the door when she looked back at him in the living room, alone, miserable. She regretted it at the last moment and we went back. My confused face desperately searched for any glimmer of dignity or pride that would force her to keep her word, but not a single spark of rebellion remained when she started taking the clothes out of the suitcase and, as if it were nothing, asked me to apologize to my father. Why? Was it bad to tell the truth, is it bad to choose her? I don't know but only if I were left to choose between him or death, I would rather choose death without hesitation. It would carry me away with a gentler embrace than my father's touch. The next morning, mom called me a liar. She said she didn't remember anything I said, that if it had been true, she would have left my father immediately. She made me doubt to the point of denying the facts, but the vehemence with which she denied my father's absence on our routine weekends forced me to hold on to the reality of the broken glass in my room from the bullet hole in my window, despite her lies. It was real. I am alive.