Confabulation

Time does not exist here. Silently I gaze into the distant horizon. A shabby wooden house bobs amongst the greenery, up and down like a ship in the sea as it sails further and further away. Like in the harsh seas, the sun beats down heavily on my face; beads of sweat glide down my arms and to my hands which grasp tightly a cool can of Budweiser. From somewhere in the distance, the sweeping rhythms of the merengue and the chattering of young women come floating to my ears, yet they flicker away in an instant. On my island in the sea, there is only me, the cold can of beer, and the sound of my own breathing. I grumble audibly as I shift my position against the shed.

The shed. An old, decrepit wooden shed -- I built it with my own hands, as I did the house which grows further and blurrier on the horizon. Today, we continue to build from nothing, slaving away in this sun like slaves for an unforgiving master. Yet, where does it get me? The women and children consume, and we continue to slave, bringing home less each day. The mosquitoes find their way through the broken screens to consume us. The floods destroy. The sun still beats down, as unmerciful as always. Yet here I am, still impoverished. Angry and already inebriated, I chug my beer and watch as the illusion grows.

Suddenly, footsteps disrupt my solitude. A strong hand shakes mine, yet I am too numb to feel. Before me, a man joined by a young girl stand as silhouettes in way of the sun. As the man greets me, the girl becomes occupied with observing what lay within the shed -- a recently born litter of puppies. I am not aware of what the man is saying, nor myself -- the slurred speech spews from my mouth of its own free will. Soon, we are engaged in a conversation with the girl, who has decided she wants to have a puppy. Her father explains why she cannot have one, as they are still newborns, and that maybe they will come back for one later. No, she insists with a pout. The arguement continues. As reality begins to pierce through, into my lonely little island, I start to feel agitated. The distant music and chattering reach me painfully like daggers. I grasp drunkenly at another beer and gulp some down in desperation.

Soon, peace returns. The noises cease. The man is no where to be found. How long has it been? It's difficult to tell. I relax against the shed once more and prepare to stare again into the distance, when I realize I am not alone. She's still there, sulking in front of the shed door.

Women, girls. What use are they? Inferior insects. They want all that they can't have; they suck us dry. We give and continue to give and it's never enough. The distant chattering returns and stabs at my head. Why else would we beat them? This girl is beaten -- the bruises are all too obvious. I'm sure her father beats her mother. I beat the woman in my house. So did our fathers.

Soon I hear an old, raspy and slurred voice and I realize I have spoken to her. She only briefly glances at me, her eyes unmoving from the inside of the shed.

"Yes," she says, "I would really like one. I've always wanted one."

"Don't you know they can't live without their mothers?"

"But..."

"It'll die," I pause. All is still with the exception of a single bead of moisture, as it slowly glides down the side of my beer can and onto my fingers. "You really want one."

"Of course."

"I can't just give one to you. I'll get in trouble too."

She stares silently into the shed.

"But I wonder. Maybe. There might be some way, but it has to be a secret. Can you keep a secret?"

At first hesitating, she soon nods eagerly.

"Come here, nena."

Hours pass in an instant. The sun sets. The dark shade of the shed settles upon us and the faraway hour and its present occupants become a memory long past. Lights flicker in the distance like a hologram. I sew this illusion through her mind like a thread -- inebriating her, my daggers piercing her own reality.