The Cave. A Story of Madness (Part II. Final)

marlyncabrera (70)in #fiction • 5 years ago (edited)

We had to leave before noon, as there was no lunch service, and so we were spared our breadless education. But I managed to stay. The principal was puzzled and exhausted; it would get dark in less than an hour, so when I volunteered shovel in hand, he said yes without hesitating. I wanted to see what was it they were about to exhume; I wanted it badly because I had had a dream about that cave two days ago, only that I did not recognize the spot then.

It was like the twentieth time the principal was—unsuccessfully—calling the Police when Nazareth’s shovel hit the concrete. Immediately, a noise we could not identify came from below. Suddenly, the very earth cracked along with the ancient concrete plate. We jumped out of the wide whole we had made and watched.

The strange noise repeated once and over, and over again; it sounded closer every time. When a break in my own astonishment allowed me to look back, the principal was gone. Nazareth looked me in the eye: Aren’t ya gonna see? Mr. Carrillo had sat down, not a glimpse of fear or anything. I walked towards him; there was something in his mouth. I felt I had to get closer and find out what it was. It was a piece of paper with a message: find the cave for me. That was what I had written in my dream. Then I remembered.

A had dream two days ago. I had gone to bed in a nastier mood than usual. Your mother left you because she didn’t want more of your shit! Just grow up and forget it. I had been particularly prickly that day; it was Mother’s Day. They said all sorts of things about that woman I had never gotten to know, all bluntly, all offensive. When the night finally hit the house, the empty refrigerator and my thoughts, the Judah Loew in my book was not interesting enough to keep me awake, so I fell asleep with my shoes on and everything else and spent an awful night, filled with terrors and nightmares.

I had written the order and put it in Mr. Carrillo’s mouth. Now I had retrieved it and tried to make sense of all of that. The strange noise was a voice. I'm here, buried and cold. How come you have not come to see me? And she was there, a woman I had not ever seen before.

L’Hiver, de Gustave Courbet, 1868 – Attribution: Photo by gzorlub (2007) – Image under Creative Commons License 3.0
I went to her, my stomach crunched my nerves. When I was about to tap her on the shoulder, the voice turned masculine and severe: Hey kid! Enough! Enough! It was 7:30 p.m. on my watch. The police had come already, along with my father. He's been seeing them again, my father said. He has not had his treatment in months. Did he say anything about his mother?