Mangroves

I ran toward the bathroom.

“Hey, did something happen?”
“No,” Henry said. “I didn’t do anything.”

I locked the door and looked at my face in the mirror; it was still normal, just like always.
I slapped my cheeks a few times.

…

When I tried to leave, a scaly skin slithered from the sleeve of my shirt down to my wrist.
Right there—the serpent from before—appeared again.

“Beloved wounded child,” it drew closer and closer to my face, “can you, a heretic, feel even a little sympathy?”

“Sympathy…”

“You’re already a bit too old for this. Embrace your instinct. Hasn’t your father told you?”

Scraping against my neck, it coiled itself around it.

“Hidden within your memories.”

…

When night gave light to the one accompanying me on my way home, I noticed something—part of my nails bore a faint mark at the center.

A very thin cross.

It was translucent, barely visible.

“I need to rest.”

…

At night, the rot in my brain—silenced by the accumulated distress of these past days, in which I’ve changed far more than years ever could—ran aground on the most recent thought someone in my position could have:

To keep living.

I haven’t had a single nauseating pleasure in this sad, fetid life, full of boredom.

Now that there’s something abnormal inside me, I’m seriously thinking about undoing all this progress. It’s truly stupid. But I’m not always like this—only when I feel some kind of unease in the fragile soul I still carry. I haven’t lived much… so why does it feel so heavy inside?

I carry some weight that prevents me from enjoying my own life.

Maybe this life isn’t mine.

…

By the time morning came, my mother called from outside my room.

“Can I come in?”
“Go ahead.”

She stood in front of me, and with that serious look—like always—she tried to talk.

“How are things going at school?”
“I failed.”

“Idiot.”

…

My father—I haven’t seen him these past few weeks. I hope I can hug him soon, at least when he’s sober.

…

“Did you do the homework?”
“Here,” I handed her my notebook. “I hope you understand it.”

“Uh, I think I’ll need you to read everything that’s written here…”

…

“Martyrdoms of the Roar and a Chimera Spread Inconsistently Across Ostentatious Portraits of Dying, Wealthy, Ungrateful, Resentful Souls”

“Next paragraph…”

…

My eyes hurt as they opened. I had slept through most of the class; I have no idea what part we’re on.

Why do my ears hurt?

“I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“Iris?”

“Seeing that you wouldn’t wake up, I pinched you a bit—but it was useless.”

“I need to see you again.” I truly missed her. “You’re the only thing I need right now—someone I can feel close to. All of this has been so confusing these past few days. I don’t even know if I’m still alive.”

“Oh, come on… can’t you hold out a little longer?”

“What are you saying…”

“Kill him—or anyone—and end this. That should speed up your process. Darling, I’ll see you as soon as this place is safe for you too.”

Mother of my laments, how I hope I have not disrespected you; never have I truly listened to you. Do you acknowledge my deliriums? My conscience, hidden in that abyss of inhumanity.

Insensitive and useless.

I need my own help… why can’t I continue my life?