I pressed myself against the wall, sliding between the shadows.
The cold of dawn filtered through my clothes, and the humidity in the air covered me with a viscous layer that adhered to my skin. A metallic stench, as if something rusty was decomposing nearby, floated in the environment.
My heart beat violently, and I felt cold sweat running down my neck. Each step I took was contained, almost forced. If someone heard me, if someone saw me, everything would end.
Upon turning the corner, I froze.
There was movement.
My gaze stumbled upon a grotesque scene. Between the pale lights of dawn, a group of figures moved like rats over carrion.
Dirty handkerchiefs covered their faces, but failed to hide their eyes: so dark, so empty, that it seemed there was no one left inside.
One of them entered the store. He raised his bat in the air and smashed it against the cash register with a dry blow. The crash broke the silence like a curse. It sounded throughout the alley, dry and cruel.
I ducked suddenly, without thinking. Tense shoulders, clenched knuckles. The blood in my temples buzzed.
—Open it, old woman!
The elderly woman in front of the register stepped back. She doubled over herself, sunk into her shoulders, trembling. She pressed herself against the wall, as if hoping to disappear. Fragile. Undone.
I felt the blood flowing down to my fists. Warming my knuckles. It wasn't rage, it was something else. Instinct.
The poor old woman... for as long as I can remember, she was always there, keeping that store open. Not at a fixed time, but at an eventual one. "Very random and uncertain, but always when it should be."
Today was her only exception...
Before my eyes, vague memories slipped in without permission. I saw her wrinkled, trembling hands, holding a bag of artisanal bread with a gentleness that hurt.
She always told me "it's not a sin to eat," and gave me a smile that was an oasis in the midst of disaster.
I remember that month, five years ago. I was rude to Mr. Yerner, and as punishment he cut my money. Taking away a whole week of my share.
I was forbidden to eat, according to him, it was the way to learn a lesson at the hands of a cold demon.
But she was there. Always. First it was a bag of bread. Then a liter of milk.
I couldn't see her like this. Not her. Not after everything.
My stomach hurt like it did back then. But now my hands were warm.
—I have to help... —I said with a hint of heroism. But those words died at birth, petrified in impotent ice.
My whole body was shaking, I couldn't hide it. I was afraid. But that wasn't the worst... the worst came when I pressed my lips and made a decision.
—I-I'm sorry.
I took a step back, turned the corner and slipped into a dark alley. I left behind the memory of the bag of bread that I once ate from her hands.
Just one scream was enough, one that faded away... one that tore at my ears.
"I hated myself for not staying. But fear was stronger."
My eyes clouded, soaked with a tear that didn't belong to me, sliding hot down my cheek, leaving a wet trail that mixed with dust and ash.
Then another... and another... and one more.
From my chest a single feeling transformed into vocabulary:
—I'm sorry... Please... forgive me.