I look ahead and see a huge white wall. On the wall to my right I imagine the photo of our wedding at the church, you looking like a complete gentleman: blue suit, tie blazing in front of a white shirt, your leather shoes.
Now I live imprisoned in the memory of the love you profess. Who could have said that these walls would drown my regret for not having known that you lived behind a mask. Today I know that words never spoken and actions not shown are what fill this lake of memories.
Today I know that our history was built through force. I came to believe that I had conquered you, that you were in love with me. But our love flowed in only one direction. I admit that I never recognized our paths were so different. I hate my grandmother, who I can still hear today: “If it’s good, it won’t last.”
And it was good. Good enough to honor everything that united us: the altar, the holy priesthood, eternity in those countless mirrors, the white clothing that covered our nakedness. These walls speak to me and make me remember when I prepared dinner for you and told myself: “It won’t be long now.” I had always dreamed our love would be beautiful, tranquil—and I was living my dream. But in reality, my judgment was clouded. All love for myself fed on garbage because I always waited for you, but you never arrived.
Still, you yourself dragged things out. You didn’t want to destroy the scenery of your play. That’s why you urgently needed a victim for that first act. But listen well: your cruel words grazed past me like arrows and stuck in these walls, while your fists became bloody.
I waited and waited for you. And since you never showed, and you became painful, I ran away.
I had to leave. I didn’t know how lost I would feel. Everything is strange to me, and people are oblivious to that. After my grandmother’s dire prophecy, I became deaf to her words and advice, but I did have to admit that “one sees faces and does not see hearts.” It hurts to think about not having my family around to wake me up with a kiss or a hug, to offer words of comfort: “Calm down, my daughter. Take your time. It’s okay to not be okay.”
Now, I stay within these white walls, prey to my anguish and regrets, and for company I have only this loneliness that burns inside of me. Our bed is cold and no matter how desperately I explain how much I need you, you just turn your back on me. I never imagined that the dream I so desired would be a simple masquerade.
Today I don’t want to stop and wait for your words that are like knives that cut my soul. I prefer the blows, because I know that over time they fade… However, the words stay to live on the skin, tattooed forever.
translated by Kevin Klein
Pierina Velásquez is originally from Venezuela and currently lives in Brazil. She can be found at @seriesbypieri, a profile where she recommends series or movies to watch. Her short story “Catarsis” was published in the collection Horror Vacui: cuentos para ayuentar el sueño [Horror Vacui: stories to steer off sleep].
Kevin Klein is an elementary teacher and writer from Orem, Utah. He has published a picture book about the First Vision as well as LDS-themed poetry in Irreantum, Dialogue, and BYU Studies. His wife and two kids (now teenagers) are, among other things, his favorite sources of inspiration and feedback.
