Words with purpose, stories with meaning

Carolina Brown

House of the Red Deer

Published originally as “La casa del ciervo rojo” in Rudas (2019). Published in English in Short Fiction Theory & Practice Volume 12 Nº2. Bristol, Intellect Books, 2022

1

She finishes it off with her own hands, with the help of a knife. This isn't how she had pictured it. The fear, clearly visible in the animal's eyes. The way it had squealed and the warmth emanating from its body. Its hot, thick skin, covered in fur. Its stomach hastily going up and down among the grass. Her knees, now shivering, sink into the mud, dampening her skin through the fabric of her pants. She doesn't feel cold until it's finally over, but she's suddenly aware of the scent of grass and pine. Both bodies, the animal's and hers, release a cloud of milky steam that fades into the air.

She didn't feel capable of doing it, until it stopped, right in front of her. Until she heard the shot and bolted towards the animal. For a short moment, she had felt that the woods had gone silent. Now, kneeling in front of it, she pushes with her whole body to get the knife through, until the heel sinks into her breastbone. After some initial resistance, which makes her pause, the meat gives way, allowing the blade to move slowly through the rubbery membrane. Then, speed and hollowness takes charge, in an unrestricted race that makes her fall for an interminable second, descending with the blade, going further in, towards the blood which now flows thick and dark, dyeing hair, soil and stone. Her hands are restless. Romina stares at the deer lying down in a pool of its own blood. Her stomach stiffens until she cannot breathe.

2

She hadn't stopped traveling since receiving the diagnosis. A lonely piece of paper inside a thin folder, containing letters typed on a computer keyboard and with an endless closing signature that

resembled three unstoppable waves. She read the paper four times, while parked in the underground garage, right after the appointment. She screamed at the top of her lungs, with the car windows all rolled- up and the radio turned on, the music playing as loud as possible so no one could hear her. A pregnant woman went by the car, pushing a stroller. Romina covered her face. It was a reflexive reaction. She knew nobody was watching her. The young doctor's low-pitched voice –way too young, in her opinion– still resonated. She nodded as he talked along, fearfully avoiding what was coming next. It was as if following someone into a trap.

The doctor had patiently explained the contents of the folder. All the data collected from samples and tests she had gone through for months. She’d looked at the framed picture on his desk, two freckled kids smiling. The unexpected touch of his warm, clammy hand had thown her off guard. She’d turned her eyes away, fixing them on the diplomas mounted on the wall. Then, the tables and chairs felt like they were merging together. The whole room was spinning and the desk spun right at its core. As she looked at her brand new shoes, Romina felt the floor giving way beneath her feet. Her hand searched for the backrest of the plastic chair. All she was able to focus on was the clinic's blue, hexagonal logo printed on the cover of the folder.

Romina stared at the unlit dashboard while holding the key, still afraid to turn it. The white numbers spread in a circle and the adjacent, consecutive stripes went up to 300. Could this piece of crap even reach 300? she asked herself. She didn't feel like crying anymore. Ok, maybe it could. What was there left to do but drive onto the highway, step on the gas and fore the needle to go up to 300kph, while forgetting the typed letters, the doctor's agreeable voice and his framed diplomas, making it to the next gas station and filling up the tank, never taking her foot off the pedal.

Romina started the engine and got to the access barrier. She inserted the ticket in the slot, but the machine refused to accept it, giving it back while signaling its disapproval with a tone. A mechanic voice spoke three words as the car’s window rolled down: time limit exceeded. Romina felt her face flush. Amidst the silence of the parking garage, she could hear the humming of the halogen tubes suspended on the ceiling.

3

The first twelve summers of her life were spent in the countryside, on a five-hectare field that her grandfather owned. The old man lived in a yellow, wooden house with black grapes growing on a long terrace that covered the backyard. Romina and her mother spent long and sunny weeks on that land where nobody had ever worn a watch. In those days she could still drive. They shared a room at the back of the house and played cards for hours, after dinner, sitting cross-legged on the full-size bed where they slept. Around that time, Romina had trouble sleeping at night. She stayed awake; listening attentively to her mother's interrupted and almost frightened breathing.

During the day, she followed her grandfather around. He was a kind, but quiet man, whose shirts smelled of tobacco and wood. He was always worried about the poor crop yield that his land produced. She followed him as he traversed the property with a sprinkler, applying a mixture of water and sulfur. Song thrushes had a preference for grapes; they had to be scared away, somehow, right? It was during those years that she learned how to shoot using a BB gun.

They left together every afternoon, after her mother had lain down on the couch to nap and her grandfather had finished washing the dishes left over from lunch. The old man took a canvas bag with him, packed with bottles and cans that he found in the kitchen from the day before. A couple of times, he took a book with him. Perhaps, some pocket novel, unlucky enough to be found lying around in the dining room.

They walked together to the property's limits, along an irrigation ditch, and set up the targets in a row, on top of a low, stony wall. Romina refused from day one to shoot at the books, even though her grandfather insisted they weren't worth a dime. They soon reached an agreement and she made him promise he'd leave them at the house. When they didn't have enough bottles to shoot, they tried using old fruit. The same fruit they used to feed the pigs.

Every afternoon, her grandfather explained to her how the rifle worked. She had to stand still, with her feet spread the width of her hips. Take the gun, put the gunstock on your shoulder. Always press it against your body so it moves along with the rifle when the finger hits the trigger. He left her in position in front of the wall and watched her, without blinking even once. Just breathe, he said. Relax. Then, he asked her to pull her support hand towards her body and stick her elbow closer to her abdomen.

4

When she came back from the doctor's appointment, Romina felt tempted to turn off the lights, lie down on her bed and cry. The folder with the tests results still burned in her hands. The large balcony windows were open. She walked to its threshold and listened to the noises coming from the street. Dogs were barking. Buses could be heard driving below, on an avenue nearby. Somewhere, a neighbor was watching a football match on the TV at full volume. She took another step outside, curled up her fingers to hold onto the railings and let the wind play with her hair, flowing into her face as it moved.

Romina opened her closet and took out all of her clothes. It felt strange to look at them like that, just a mountain of colorful rags spread over her bed. She thought of the hours it would take to fold all of those layers and button all those buttons. She felt the urge to throw them into the trash. Instead, she sat on the corner of the bed and calmly began selecting and separating them into two piles, like she had seen that nice Asian lady do on TV. What an idiot, she thought, holding a silk, translucent blouse between her fingers, before throwing it to the biggest bundle. When she was done, she grabbed a bag and shoved everything from the smaller pile into it. The bag still had some space left. She moved on to the tower of books on her nightstand and also split them in two: those that she would read, and those that wouldn't get the chance to be read by her. Out of the fifteen titles on the nightstand, she finally picked four and put them inside her bag.

She turned off the power strips and disconnected every home appliance. Before leaving the house, she shut off the gas valve and also the power. Later, she could decide who could come get the pile of clothes left behind on her bed. She turned the key twice to lock the front door. Suddenly, the sound of the key felt fresh and original, even though she had heard it hundreds of times before. She walked to the elevator with her bag on her shoulder and pressed the button without a doubt in her mind. She thought about calling someone when she got to the car, let them know she'd be going far away, but truth be told, she didn't really feel like talking.

5

One of her first memories was her own hand touching her forehead and then feeling hot and feverish. The sun barely shone through the clouds and over the gravel in the schoolyard. She couldn’t really remember the girl. Freckles on her nose, a tight bun of hair, moccasin shoes worn down on the tips. If she tries to picture her too hard, her face fades away completely. Romina does remember what the girl said to her, though. One boiling word that burned in her hands and kept ringing in her ears. Two syllables that she'd hear again so many times in life and which she would try to avoid for years, as if it were a hidden mole at the back of her neck, stealthily growing; a mole of irregular borders and textures that any dermatologist would need to surgically remove.

That day on the graveled backyard, the girl's snicker echoed loud and melodically. Perhaps they were alone. She remembers a dislocated laughter and the thin lips from where it came from. In the other girl’s mouth, there was a hole with a missing molar. At that age, you could still get a visit from the Tooth Fairy.

The contact of the fist against her face also felt hot. Soft, tender skin and something hard below it. Bones. She remembers the girl's eyes. Her huge, dilated pupils, surrounded by curly eyelashes, just like a doll's. Her nails, Romina's nails, sinking into the flesh of her cheeks and then a moist paste of dead skin, mixed with tears and hair, gathering underneath them. A crowd had assembled around the girls. 'Fight! Fight! Fight!' they chanted. It seemed they were taking all the available oxygen in the yard. She wanted to shout at them, 'go away!'

A teacher had surfaced from the crowd and grabbed her by the arm. She recognized his square- patterned jacket and its shell buttons from having spent so many hours in detention staring at them. But it was already too late. Romina kept pushing, screeching and screaming until the end, with both of her arms still extended, trying to scratch something.

She was taken to his office right away, where she sat at the back, behind an empty desk. The teacher picked up the phone. He was obviously going to call her mother and she would arrive soon after; and when she did, Romina would follow her with her eyes, staring down from the window, without saying a word.

Her mother walked slowly and with difficulty down the tiled hallway. The annoying rattling of her cane followed along. While clenching her fists, Romina thought she was still beautiful. Tall, with a distinctive nose and abundant brown hair that she religiously rinsed with apple vinegar every two days.

Her long, trim arms and legs were a remainder from a different time, before she was born, when she practiced the long jump while at university. The illusion quickly fell apart. A rebellious tremor on her left leg made its way up from the thigh to the hip, shaking in small fits. Her torso moved like a scared pendulum swinging to the sides, her head being propelled backward and forward by her chin, just like a pigeon's.

Her mother came into the office and greeted the teacher with a smile, while slowly extending her trembling hand. She was wearing a blue, two-piece suit and a pair of thick-heeled shoes. It took had taken many years for Romina to figure it out. That churning feeling at the base of her stomach when she saw her trying so hard was nothing but rage.

They walked back down the hall in silence. Her mother insisted on holding her hand. It was exasperating because her hand would never stop shaking. Recess was just over, and all the other children started to form lines in front of the doors of their respective classrooms. Romina abruptly escaped her grip. As she ran away without looking back, she could still hear the clacking of her mother’s cane, trying to find new balance. Her eyes felt itchy, but that didn't stop her from running the eight blocks that separated her school from home.

6

That morning marked Romina’s five-month traveling anniversary. She drove to town and stopped by the ATM close to the town’s square, where she made one last withdrawal. It was all that was left of her savings. She counted the money twice before putting her wallet under the driver's seat. Eight shiny printed bills, with metallic security threads splitting them at the middle. She wasn't really sure what would happen when they ran out.

Last time she turned on her cell phone, only out of curiosity, she had over thirty missed calls. She had not felt the need to call anyone back.

She mainly drove through interior roads and planned her route with the help of an old guidebook she had found in the bathroom of a gas station. She slept on her sleeping bag, laying down on the back seat of her pickup, parked at random spots. She ate whenever she was hungry and slept whenever she felt sleepy. If the night was too cold and the sky was clear, she walked to stay warm; if that wasn't an option, she turned on the heater and put her parka on top of her pajamas.

Every two weeks she visited the Sunday market in a nearby town. Besides buying supplies, she bought used books at the town square. She enjoyed reading in the mornings, covered to the waist inside her sleeping bag, while she ate a cereal bar for breakfast. In the afternoons, after heating something up on the portable gas stove, she left her truck and went for a walk. She had a small, brown, leather notebook in the glove box. She used it to write down any ideas she got during the night, under the dim lights of the truck cabin. She wrote about the trips she would have loved to make and the things she wished she could have studied at the university. The unachievable bucket list took the form of unrelated, scribbled down phrases that kept coming as the weeks went by. When she wasn't able to write, when she woke up with stiff fingers, she talked to herself out loud. That helped her remember so she'd write everything down later. By that time, she was already pretty familiarized with the symptoms. First, a soft tingling sensation, like bubbles itching under her skin. Then, they grew in size and got harder until all of her arm felt loose and rebellious. These episodes could last for weeks.

She got hungry and closed her book five pages before reaching the end. The sun was up in the sky and it was time to eat. She closed the door of her pickup truck and set up the camping stove at the side of the road, using the car to cover herself from the wind. There was still some rice left in the pot and canned tuna from the night before. She put the appliance together, turned on the gas and lit a match close to it, then poured some water over the already cooked rice so it wouldn't stick. At that moment, she heard hooves coming down from the road. A man on horseback, followed by two friendly, black dogs hoping to eat something, approached her.

The rice began crisping up at the bottom of the pot. Romina turned off the stove and left the food on the hood of the truck so the dogs would not be able to reach it. The man got off his horse and greeted her, while sending the dogs away. He was young and had a scrawny moustache that barely covered his upper lip. He asked her if she was on a trip. What is there to see? she inquired, conceding. At that moment, he started chattering about some Croatians. About the hunting grounds that the wealthy tourists used to visit during the summer. There's a nice, big house made of stone and wood. If you have two good legs, then it's a delightful hike, he assured her. Just follow up that road and make a right when you reach the second gate. It's empty around this time of the year, he stressed. There's lots of deer there. If you're quiet and patient, they allow themselves to be seen.

7

Even though she had prepared for months, she began thinking about the finish line way before she should have. Three hours into the race, Romina could feel the burning of an incipient blister forming at the sole of her left foot, where her sock had a wrinkle. She looked at the time. It was a hot morning, but Romina was still comfortable. She touched her face with her hand and felt the rough texture of salt on her forehead and temple. She had stopped sweating a while ago. The pain on her foot made her change her posture, shifting her weight to the other leg. She stopped by a tree and took off her socks. A few metres later, she discarded them in a bin. She was making good time. Every year, she signed up for the race. It was a route she knew by heart.

She was able to see the finish line; just a little below the square, after the first roundabout exit to the right. The white and blue portal, and a sea of heads that stood between her and the structure. A band stationed in a stage to her right started to play and Romina, singing at the top of her lungs, hastened the pace as she left them behind. One last effort, she thought, while zigzagging between two runners, their heads lowered from exhaustion. She took a sip of water from the bottle in her hand and noticed her fingers were tingling. Her arm felt tired and stiff, which she attributed to her shoulders, tense from keeping a tight posture for too long. She shifted the bottle to her other hand and forgot about it.

For most of the race, she thanked the ladies who cheered for her and called out her name, which was printed on the race number clipped to her T-shirt. She high-fived the hands of the excited kids in the crowd, who tried to reach her from the sidewalk. It was nice looking at the smiling faces of families who gathered among banners with supportive words meant for people she didn't know. She tried to imagine the stories behind each message. In her mind, these words turned into sentences, which then turned into biographies.

As she made her way down the avenue, she felt the cheering, clapping and raised hands fading away, diluting with every step she took towards the finish line. The spectators on her side seemed to have gone mute. She tried to make eye contact with a group of four people holding a sign with a hand-painted green heart that had the name 'Ariel' written at the middle. The fourth sign-holder looked back. Their eyes met for a moment. He was an older man with a moustache and gray hair. He didn't smile back.

When she finally crossed the line, her legs were cramping up. A void in her chest was growing, something very different from tiredness. She missed the happiness she had always felt when finishing a race and, in turn, felt inexplicably nervous. Dragging her feet around the iron fences, Romina went to receive her medal. When the promoter put it on her neck, the woman’s cold hands touched her skin and made her shudder. The blister on her foot had grown bigger. She felt feverish. Romina approached one

of the booths and asked for some fruit and a cup of isotonic water but when she tried to grab them, she accidentally dropped them. Startled, she tried moving the fingers in her hand, to no avail; they were suddenly dull and numb. She excused herself and went to sit down on the portal of a closed store. The tiles felt cold on her back, but she stayed there for a while, sitting down clenching her teeth, waiting for something, unsure of what, before deciding to walk back to subway.

8

The day Romina went up to the hunting lodge, at first she thought the man had lied. It was a difficult structure to find, lost among the trees, built near a volcanic lagoon, where the trunks of three dead larches laid on their sides. It was a discreet construction. Two stories built on dark wood and mounted on a stone foundation. The front had an ample terrace that ended on a covered barbecue area and, on the other side, a tub that faced the volcano.

While looking inside through the terrace windows, she saw leather couches and a great chimney, also made of stone. There were pictures, trophies mounted on the wall, and a coffee table with books and magazines. She walked to the main door and grabbed the handle, but it was locked when she tried to turn it.

Romina took off her shoes and walked on the smooth soil that surrounded the lagoon, until she got to a flat stone on the opposite shore, where she laid on her back, feeling her cold feet warmed by the sunlight. Shortly after, she fell asleep. She woke up feeling cold and with a headache. The sun shone weaker and started to hide behind the top of the coihue trees. She put her shoes on and walked back to the lodge along the lakeside. She didn't feel like walking to the car now that it was dark.

Sitting on the terrace, she tried to gather her thoughts for a couple of minutes. The trail wasn't well marked. It would be easy to get lost in the woods. It was one thing to walk on a straight dirt road at night-time, but trying to follow an elusive trail through thick vegetation was a totally different thing. The thickness of the trees wouldn't allow her to see the volcano or guide herself using the shape of the nearby hills. She didn't have a clear reference point. Even though she wasn't wearing a watch, Romina estimated the day still had 40 more minutes of sunlight.

She began to walk slowly, turning her body from time to time towards the house. She wanted to make sure she went in the right direction. She made mental notes of every detail she saw on the road, in

case she needed to turn back. She was sure that the trail she had been following that afternoon, with the river very close to its right, went down the slope, right next to a quila bush that had been cut down with a machete. Vietnamese traps. That’s what they called them down there. The bamboo had been cut diagonally, leaving them exposed. They were sharp. If you fell on a trap, it was easy to cut yourself. She realized more and more birds could be heard now. Sunset was almost upon her.

9

When Romina came back home after class, her mother was already in bed but the lights were still on. They shared an apartment on the second floor, under a dense row of cypresses. During the winter, the curtains facing the balcony used to get wet. Romina preferred using the stairs. She entered the house slowly, carefully closing the door in order to avoid waking her. She left her bag and shoes in the hall and then walked through the carpeted floor to her mother's bedroom, where she sat on the corner of the king- size bed. Even in her dreams, her mother's muscles reacted and moved restlessly. Romina felt one of her mother’s legs trembling under the bedspread. She couldn't see her mother’s face. She was facing the wall.

Her mother had never been very religious. Not even when Romina had her First Communion. For this reason, finding a plastic figurine of the Virgin Mary standing on the nightstand shocked her. She felt watched by the statuette and remembered one time in religion class, when the school priest had solemnly warned them: all parents have to confess before they could receive the Holy Communion. Romina was still frightened when she got back from school; her mother didn't even go to church. At home, she ceremoniously repeated the priest's words: if she didn't confess, then maybe her Communion wouldn't work. You have to do it, Mother. For me. It's important, she insisted. Even though she got her to promise, her mother never actually confessed. She made up an excuse, pretended she didn't remember. It was so lame that, even as a 10-year-old, Romina could tell she was lying. Had her mother called the priest today? She pictured him coming into the apartment, grimacing in disgust. She picked up the figurine to take a better look at it. All that religious suffering seemed senseless. Did they always have to be in such pain? The Virgin's arms and hands were wide open. She stared at the sky like stones would rain from above. The paint-job was lazy. Light blue escaped the boundaries of the Virgin’s tunic.

Did-you-know tha-that-there-are more con-nec-tionss-be-tween-your neuu-rons and-d-your- brain than-there-are stars in the Mil-ky Wa-Way? Her mother's spasmodic voice took her out of her trance. Outside, it was raining a little bit. The drops made a metallic sound when they hit the balcony's

ceiling. Romina put the virgin statuette behind some medicine bottles. Her mother laid down on her back, looking at the ceiling. A thin thread of drool slipped through the corner of her mouth.

—Hello, mum.

—He-llo-o.

—Have you been watching the Discovery Channel again?

— I-left-you-some-thing-to-eat. Chic-ken-and-d-d-rice.

— Thanks. Do you want to watch a movie?

— Did-you-get-your-tests-done?

— I already told you. I have an exam coming this week. What's the rush anyway? It's not supposed to be hereditary.

They stared at each other for a moment until Romina felt the silence was taking enough space in the room. You told me it's not a genetic disease, she insisted. Her mother didn't say a word, but her shoulders moved due to an involuntary spasm. The raindrops on the ceiling fell further away from each other. Although she was still sitting down on the bed, Romina had to use both of her hands to support herself on the mattress and not lose balance.

10

She had been walking in circles without realizing it. Amidst the darkness, the sounds of the forest amplified. She knew from her grandfather's stories that animals were more active at night-time. The females gave birth when spring got closer. She also knew that. Animals are shy, except for when they happen to be around their offspring. She had to be very vigilant. Under the soles of her boots, Romina noticed the soil becoming unstable and soft. She thought she heard a weak thread of water running under her feet, even though she couldn't tell soil and trees apart.

She walked for a little longer. The foliage became narrower and tree branches scratched her bare arms. She slipped, lost her balance and fell flat on a puddle, wetting her chest and arms. She let out a cry of rage that swallowed every other sound coming from the woods. Breathing heavily from exasperation, Romina tried to hold back the tears, and swallowed a mosquito. She cleared her throat, pounding her chest with her fists. She was about to scream again when she heard ducks. Their wings flapping and

touching the water, along with their quacking, allowed her to locate the direction from where the sounds came. When she felt absolutely certain of it, Romina got up and went right through the dense vegetation, covering her face with her hands, until she finally emerged from out of the woods and reached the clearing of the lagoon. It was so dark, she could barely distinguish the building's silhouette and its opaque gray chimney, shining and sleeping under the waning moon.

She picked up a round stone, a little bigger than her hand, and threw it at a window. The noise of the glass shattering took her by surprise and made her feel ashamed. She waited a few minutes before going inside, as if she wasn't truly convinced that the house was empty. She had trouble reminding herself that she was the only human being in several kilometers.

The window led to a small kitchen. There was a stove and a wooden table, with a row of pots and pans hanging on top of it.

She opened the door and walked through the hallway, which ended in the same living room she'd seen earlier, when she peeked inside through the terrace. Facing the unlit fireplace, she took off all of her clothes, and hung them on some dining room chairs. She couldn't stop shaking and covered herself in a woven blanket that was laying on the backrest of a sofa.

If she got close enough to the window, she could make out a few stars. Romina thought about her mother and how she loved to watch the night skies. Whenever they stayed at their grandfather's farm and the nights were moonless, her mother would drag a plastic chair outside and sit in the terrace, covered in a woollen poncho. She would spend hours looking at the constellations in silence, with a steaming mug of herbal tea in her hand. Romina had always thought stars were like neural connections. From their apartment, they couldn't really see anything. The sky was like an undefined blotch that became even blurrier against the city lights. Still, she would sometimes find her mother sitting next to the window in the middle of the night, with the curtains wide open.

Close to the fireplace she found a wicker basket with a few dry logs that she used to light a fire. She went back to the kitchen looking for matches and decided to check the pantry for food. She found a few oatmeal cookies, a jar of ulmo honey and red wine, which she opened and drank straight from the bottle, sitting next to the fire, watching the flames consume the wood until it turned into ashes.

Romina woke up early. The sun reflected on a wardrobe mirror and glared into her face. She made herself comfortable on the couch, stretching her arms and legs. What to do? How could she make her money last? Maybe, she could get a job at a nearby town. Wait some tables at a local bar, like she used to do when she studied at university. She had an excellent memory and a great smile. People always

gave her good tips. Or, maybe, she could ask the man on the horse. She could go up the trail until she reached his house, which she pictured as a cabin with worn out paint on the walls and a chimney that never stopped smoking. He might need some help: someone to feed the animals or handle basic repair jobs. She would start by doing simple tasks and work very hard to earn his trust. She could begin by picking up chicken eggs. That was easy. Sticking her hands under their feathery, warm bodies. She had done it before with her grandfather, when she was little. Or, maybe she could harvest the apples in the field. She'd be all alone, holding a wooden crate, going through endless rows of fruit trees. She was patient enough and could still handle a pair of scissors. In time, she'd learn to milk the cows. Maybe, she could even drive a tractor.

The sun finally reached her eyes and dazzled her. The wardrobe was an old piece of furniture, made out of carved wood. It had curved legs and a beveled mirror on its door. She walked towards it, wrapped in the blanket. She was sure she would find wine glasses, a deck of cards or a set of cacho dice that the Europeans would certainly use at night, right after changing out of their camouflage outfits and eating grilled meat for dinner. She could picture them, having a good time, making bets. The ceramic knob had a blue painted rose on it. Inside the wardrobe she found nothing, except for a rifle and a box of ammo.

She picked up the gun and fondled the shiny, polished, reddish brown buttstock. She pressed the stock against her shoulder and pointed at the chimney. She placed her eye against the rifle sight. Breathe. Relax, she thought to herself.

If she didn't learn how to drive a tractor, or the farmer didn't have cows to feed or apples that needed picking, at least now she had a rifle.

11

The first time she bought adult diapers, she felt the urge to tell the cashier that they weren't for her. She said it out loud, while two other people waited for their turn. They exchanged uncomfortable looks that Romina noticed. The cadaveric hand of a woman crept over her forearm and leaned on her. Her thin face, so pale, surfaced from within a turban and a high neck sweater. It's not that bad, love, she assured her. Romina paid for the diapers. She took the bag home and left without saying a word.

The sheets from the double bed were tearing and thinning from washing them so often. Sometimes, she changed them two, three times a day. Her Thesis Defense was a few weeks away and she couldn't manage to focus. Romina heard her mother breathe with difficulty from the other side of the wall. By now, she could barely move or talk, and led a horizontal existence with jittery, frightened pupils, prisoner of a rebellious body that had given up.

When Romina showed her the diapers, she saw the fear, the shame and discomfort in her mother's eyes. Her head moved and Romina thought that she was trying to refuse. She took her hand and told her that this couldn't continue, washing bed sheets every day, making the bed over and over again. It was driving her crazy. Her mother let out a guttural groan. Listen to me, Mum. I need to study. You need to work with me, she begged, but her mother wasn't shutting up.

- For fuck's sake, don't be selfish. Even if it's only for 15 minutes. I need some time for myself.

Romina furiously uncovered her mother, pulling the bedspreads all the way to the back. She stopped for a moment to gaze at her scrawny legs, the pale pink panties she was wearing, faded and stretched-out from years of use. She pulled them down. She saw her white pubic hair and loose belly. She took a diaper out of the box and opened it. I hope this is the correct size. She put one arm under her mother’s knees to lift her legs and tried to position the diaper under her butt cheeks, but it wasn't really working, so she removed it and decided to start over. She looked at the box again and read the instructions, where they recommended turning the patient on their side, placing the diaper on the mattress and then moving them to their original position, in order to put the frontal section between the legs. After several minutes of trial and error, she was finally able to put the diapers on her mother. Once she had rolled the bedspreads back her mother's eyes were bright and fixated on the ceiling.

Two months later, they buried her.

12

Romina was going down the slope when she saw the deer. A female or a young male, perhaps, since it didn't have horns. She stayed quiet, waiting for it to see her and bolt away to get lost in the thickness of the woods. It didn't. It looked quite focused, ferociously eating some flowers that grew in a glade, between the trees.

The man on the horse had told her that they were exotic animals. The Croatians had brought them from Europe a few years ago, along with some boars that spread quickly throughout the forest upon arrival. They were an invasive species, he told her. But their meat is sweet and juicy, that's why they keep bringing them. There's just so many now that the forest won't grow anymore. They eat every sprout they can find. No trees can grow like that. The owners should have closed down the perimeter to prevent the animals from escaping, but they didn't really care. They were surrounded by uninhabited, state-owned properties that they used at their leisure. That's why none of the locals liked them. For the tourists, though, it was a gigantic amusement park.

Little by little, Romina tried to relax until she felt comfortable. She let out all the air inside her lungs. She spread her legs apart to the width of her hips, with both feet firmly on the ground. The air felt warm, like it was about to start raining. She could feel a slight tingle on her right hand, traveling from her forearm to the base of the neck. The sensation would surely intensify over the next few days. She placed the gunstock on her shoulder, making sure to press it against her body so it would move along with the rifle when her finger hit the trigger. Just breathe and relax. She heard the river streaming down the hill. So much water, moving with force, shaping the rocks as it went through. Day after day. Year after year. Polishing away every angle, point and tooth, until it was smooth and burnished. She placed her eye on the rifle sight. Just breathe and relax. Pull your support hand towards your body and stick your elbow close to your abdomen. Her trembling finger searched for the trigger.