DESDOBLAMIENTO

There are days when I can taste revenge as metallic as blood on the mouth. Where I knock on wood every minute that goes by. Or I say a prayer. Where the words only come out in English like some strange case, a strange case like Anna O. I lay awake at night and I look at the blankness of the ceiling. It stares right back at me. Does it mean to tell me something?

I don’t like to be cruel. My dad told me that the last words my grandma said to me were to not forget about God. I think about that a lot. I take it as a message never to stop loving people. But I like to shove down the bad bits and I use that as an excuse.

I don’t mean to overshare. I don’t mean to treat this as a diary. Or do I? The truth is I am a woman. I sit at my desk in the coldest room I’ve ever known and I work til it’s late. Til everyone is sleeping and the city goes quiet. I wrap myself in blankets like a malformed cocoon, with my hands poking the keyboard. Tiquitiquitiquitiqui. I keep my headphones on and my charger on and the cables get in the way as I try to move. The light is warm but the screen is cold. The coffee cup next to me has a red handle I never touch. My right arm escapes the cocoon and only extends itself enough so my hand can wrap around the cup like clinging to a fireplace after a snowstorm. I have never seen snow. I freeze at 65 degrees. And in that cold dorm room, I edit and cut and I paste and I listen. I listen carefully to a past version of myself I sometimes cringe at when she speaks. I grab a needle and the thread to weave a narrative together. I am Helene of Troy.

In this cocoon, I like to forget the bad bits. After I’m satisfied with my work and afraid enough of the sleep deprivation my future self will suffer, I turn off the orange light by my desk and head to bed. I pop a strawberry melatonin in my mouth and I pray again, to snooze away. I really hold onto the sheets for warmth and I curse whoever made me live through this Arctic cold. But I know I can survive another night. The melatonin will make sure I quickly get through that pesky state of hypnagogia we all try to avoid.

The next day, my alarm does its job. I emerge from the sheets and I open the blinds. I need to see the sunshine or else I never get up. The faucet water freezes my hands as I wash my face. I pray for the heater to work. Sometimes God listens and I stay there for at least three minutes, letting the water run through my fingers and letting its warmth bless my bloodstream. Then, the same routine: make breakfast, get dressed, do your makeup. Head out. Oh, head out. Walk through the glass door of the reception and let the sun pierce my skin.

Let myself walk and walk and walk. Let myself walk Río Piedras and notice the vampires lurking in the shadows, sucking the blood out of it. Walk to San Mateo de Cangrejos. Study the street. Record it. Kiss it, miss it. Grab a sample of its DNA to run back when I'm back at my dorm room. I’ll dissect it. Reconstruct it, set it free, while I wrap myself back in my cocoon.

Why say all of this when I could just say the melatonin didn’t work tonight? The red didn’t soothe me to sleep like a baby in its arms. And so I am left only to think, or to extend my hand and write on the phone. I like being myself and I like the work I do. I don’t mean to scare off the reader with my search for rapport. Sometimes, I just need to remind myself: I am mere hours away from the sweet embrace of the sun.