The Dead don't Forgive (short story, part of "The Lore Machaco..." in Villa Rica, Peru)

The Dead do not Forgive
(Life for Katita after the ordeal)



The following year, a year after the ordeal, she had visited her home city of Huancayo again, more afraid of taking the bus than ever, not because of the robbers per se, more so because of the vast bus accidents, between Lima and Huancayo, so many of the drivers unchecked by the owners of the different bus lines, falling to sleep while driving, and the bus falling into the river by La Oroya, and around the bends in the Andes, three in one week. They drove tired, with loud music on trying to keep them awake, only one driver, no shift changing, and some drunk.
In any case, she, Katita, made it the second year, back home, heavy rain all about, it was December, the rainy season, many of the buildings and adobe houses had tin roofs, you could hear the rain drops, She was happy, she noticed a police officer detaining a drunk in the plaza de arms area, then let him go. It made her think, She had forgiven her captors long ago, perhaps even being a little selfish in the process, or in the vain of self-interest, her father once told her—and now it came to mind, “If you can’t forgive the person for forgiveness sake, do it for yourself, so you can let go, and go forward in life,” and she did just that, and it made sense to her back then, and now she needed it, but there was an issue unsettled in her mine.

For a while now, she remembered Johnny’s eyes, those pitying eyes of irony, and now looking into the glass of a clothing shop near Puno and Real streets, she saw her reflection, her scrutinizing eyes, those eyes that, her prominent dissect eyes that, they were not the ones that killed him, she exclaimed to herself, “oh no,” she muttered, nor the ones that killed Juan Diego, or Carlos—thus showing little sign of emotion, she wondered why she wanted to laugh, but didn’t, insisted on showing no emotion, for they were all dead now, she knew even Angel was dead, she read about the police finding his corpse buried near where she was buried. Or that is what she remembered anyways.
Her soul told her she wanted to be in compliance with God’s rules, to forgive, so she could be forgiven. Perhaps she had emptied all that out in what was now an abandoned mine—; then came thunder and lightening overhead, and she woke up for her little trance, her daydreaming, and thoughts, she escaped the radiogram that was being sent to her by her subconscious, contorting her soft little body to keep those thoughts, unforgiving thoughts, away from her, adopting a passive attitude, she started walking, looking about, and stopped and talked to the father, a priest as he was checking the prayer books at the Cathedral in the pews, and she told him her thoughts, and asked what to do.
“Tell me father, “she pleaded, “Have I sinned because my heart is not as forgiving as my mind?”
The priest looked deep into her eyes, “Oh, the magic of the devil,” he said, with a convicting tone, “those evil spirits that haunt a man, and a woman, twist things, nothing young lady is black and white in the invisible world, not even witches in the seeable one, the laborer of forgiveness is not straight forward either, you forgave joylessly—so it appears, but you forgave nonetheless, and with a touch of contempt I gather, and now you feel the blood they shed, that has been shed is stained on you, like ink on sheepskin, there forever. We all fumble like blind men here on earth, fighting the unequivocally missing links. To tell the truth, as I think you have done, no hold no concrete accusations in your heart, you are doing right, and you have implied that the two of you, that is, God and you, are working this out. The devil puts ideas in everybody’s head, looking for weak points. It is true what they say about him, he surrounds you then vanishes, into a gray blur, leaves you lost in the labyrinth of the underground mines. Go child, shrug him off, and everything will work out, so don’t despair.”
And she did what he said to do, she left, serious, yet staring at him, somewhat fascinated he had the words—some words of comfort, why didn’t she? With her bulging eyes, listening to the music in the park, music that seemed to come out of the water, defused throughout the park, she knew she’d not miss anymore sleep, and even though still disoriented and confused on some matters, she had buried most of her discontent, inside the rags they took off her to rape her, and bury her alive, she buried those shapeless sins with those rags—once and for all, thinking, if God says he forgives, He must also forget—thus was her conclusion, and then she heard a voice whisper, it was her mother’s, “Funny bumping into you here,” she mentioned, “Lets get some Pantone?” And she loved that idea, they both loved Pantone, and there was a little café across the street, a Japanese gentlemen owned it, and thus, she went and they had coffee and Pantone until their hearts were content.


Written at 3:45 a.m., Friday, 12-19-2008