onjes-sur-joult

A drop falling into a bucket leaves a full roundish sound in the ear; on the tongue, a metallic taste, the color of silver, then copper, verdigris. That woke me up tonight. I’m dreaming that someone is following me, that someone is spying on me from behind a wall, their head hidden by a balaclava. The pillow is sopping and I turn it over. The back of my neck is hot, my body burning up. I throw off the covers, I tell myself that it feels better, but suddenly I’m cold, freezing to death, teeth chattering. Each hair follicle along my spine stands on end. I‘m arching my back, the hairs on my body bristle. The drop again. It’s like my lips are around the icy barrel of a gun for a few seconds. My eyes closed, my mouth forming an “O” with a perfect curve. A brick red aftertaste, of dried blood. I left my white top on the chair, it’s rock hard but dry. I cover myself up. I can’t sleep, I turn on my bedside lamp. I left a scratch card next to the ashtray. With a 1 € coin between my moist fingers, I scratch. The opaque covering comes off, an emerald green rectangle appears, a tiny monochrome. A personal intimate monochrome, like underwear you learn to unhook with a flick of the wrist. As easy as snapping your fingers. G... N... C... Ah! Phantom letters come into view transparently. A secret translucent message on paper, then a face. I don’t understand. Have I won or have I lost? A third drop. It’s probably the sleepy state I’m in but the sound seems closer to me, like it’s threatening to slip inside my auditory system. A snail stripping off its shell, leaving behind the viscous line its passage has drawn, in order to reach my hearing. My gums hurt. My teeth hurt. Night comes and while I sleep I ground my teeth. That sort of grinding sound that makes you plant your nails into the skin of your hand and contract the muscles of the phalanges of your fingers. Little half-moons that mark your palm. To smile is to flash your canines, incisors, and I’d rather a thick beard swallowed up my face. I’d like to cross-dress. The girl looks at me with her green eye. She stares at me with her violet eye, sporting her stupid getup, that bright red suit of hers. Who’d you put that on for? It puts me in a mood to lash out violently, an urge to kill. If I were a bull, I’d trample that rag you’re wearing. Is someone making fun of me? I get the impression somebody’s looking at me, laughing at me. In this empty room I hear laughter, I feel all alone and ridiculous. I hide, I get dressed again. I am the naked king that is laughed at, the flasher that gets pointed at. My cheeks are beet red, I stop. I’ve overdone it putting on the act. I shall leave behind me, right on the ground, the shadow of my passage. The outlines of my grandiose epic – you’ll be able to trace them out in felt-tip pen or brush. I pluck the prettiest feathers of my plumage. I leave you the blue, the green, and the gold of my peacock’s tail. Ana Mendoza Aldana