MARIELA I. ARMANDO
Mariela I. Armando is from Rosario, Argentina. Her passion for languages led her to become a teacher of English and Spanish as a second language and has taught for over 17 years.
Complementing this, she holds a master’s degree in edition and editorial management from Nebrija University.
In 2019, fueled by her love for literature, she took a bold step into entrepreneurship, founding Connect Book Services, a company created to help authors worldwide with the process of publishing and promoting books.
At the age of 12, Mariela embarked on her writing journey and, after posting her stories on blogs and Wattpad for several years, she independently published her debut book “El Lado Oscuro” in February 2022. The book is currently stocked in libraries in Rosario and on Amazon.
In 2023 and 2024, Editorial Rubin published several of her tales in anthologies of psychological fiction.
Mariela is currently working on her second novel and other literary projects.
THE LAST CALL
The sound of the tires on the gravel was stunning me. The road was rough and made us shake in the car. Nicolás, the Uber driver, was driving slowly due to the state of the road. She could see his suffering face in the rearview mirror every time he grabbed a pit.
I rubbed my hands nervously. I didn’t like being so far from the city. To distract myself, I focused on what I could see out the window. We made our way through leafy trees and lots of vegetation. Very occasionally, I could see an old building, but it didn’t seem like a place where many people lived. It wasn’t a place I liked. The humidity, the suffocating heat, and the mosquitoes could already be felt from inside the car.
“We are almost there.”
Hearing that statement made me a little more nervous, but I was glad we didn’t have to go further into the forest.
We started to shake a little more when we reached a dirt road and some mud from the morning rain. I felt a louder noise and shake that threw me to the other side of the back seat. Nicolás began to brake and try to maintain control of the car that was moving from one side to the other.
“Careful!” I managed to say but it was too late.
We lurched forward as the Volkswagen’s hit one of the trees to the right. I remained half hugging the front seat with my heart beating at such a speed that I felt like it was going to come out of my body. Nicolás turned around to see how I was doing. At that moment, I saw that he had a cut on his forehead and blood was falling over his right eye.
“Are you OK?” I asked in a low voice. “You’re bleeding.”
“Yeah. It’s no big deal. You got hurt?”
I shook my head, and we got out to see how damaged the car was. The car, which was previously impeccable, had now been compacted like an accordion, a tire was completely burst, and a little smoke was coming out of the hood. I realized that I was not going to reach my destination as I had planned.
On foot and with my bags on my back, I continued walking until I reached a path that led to my great-aunt’s house.
When did I last see her? I don’t even remember it; perhaps years before her confinement in this place, so unsuitable for someone who is 83. Margarita, Marga, as she wanted to be called, has always been a good but lonely woman. She had no children or immediate family; She only had me left. Leaving everything and traveling almost five hundred miles to come help her was not the best plan I had, but I felt that I owed it to her for everything she had taught me as a child: to embroider, to sew, to be respectful and to behave.
I compared the image in front of me to the one on Google Maps on my phone. I had arrived at my destination, a house that was covered by vines; I imagined that it wouldn’t look better inside. I left everything on the porch, even my sneakers, which were covered in mud. My legs were splashed up to my knees.
I knocked on the door, but no one answered. I knocked again, and it opened on its own accompanied by a squeak.
“Hello Marga, I arrived.” I didn’t want to scare her.
I entered slowly, and the smell made me close my eyes and cover my mouth. The fog didn’t let me breathe. I went inside and opened every window in my path. The house was dark, with the walls covered in old, peeling wallpaper. The dusty picture frames did not allow their contents to be clearly seen. Suddenly, I felt trapped, I was out of breath. I ran back to the porch.
“It’s okay, breathe.” I repeated to myself, almost in a whisper.
I took a breath and went back inside. I called her again and louder. I entered through an almost endless hallway that led to the kitchen. I began to fear the worst. I retraced my steps and started searching the rooms. I opened a door but there were only boxes in the dark. The window was boarded up, I couldn’t imagine why. I opened another door, the tartar on the taps, on the bidet and the nauseating smell made me so sick that I closed it instantly. There were only two more doors. One of them opened onto a room with a small bed and a dresser. Marga was not there. I headed to the last door but couldn’t open it. I tried but it seemed stuck.
“Don’t open it!” I jumped when I heard her dry voice behind me.
Marga was no longer who I remembered. She had white, flowing hair and her face was drawn and very pale. The white and light blue nightgown was too old for someone who usually wore fine clothes. Her hard, wrinkled look filled me with different feelings. How could someone who had everything end up like this?
“What are you doing here?” I was surprised by her abruptness; didn’t she recognize me?
“Marga… I’m Sabrina.”
“I know.”
“I came because you called me the day before yesterday, on Saturday at noon, and you said you needed to see me. Don’t you remember? I heard you very badly, and that’s why I came as quickly as I could.”
She looked at me thoughtful and serious.
“Now is not a good time.”
She staggered and looked like she was going to fall, so I walked over and grabbed her arm. When I touched her, a chill ran through my body. She was freezing.
“Let’s go to the kitchen to sit down.”
She didn’t respond but allowed herself to be helped. I was very quiet, I looked around and everything looked dirty. There were unwashed dishes with old food.
I tried to distract her and told her how I had arrived and why I was barefoot and dirty, but she didn’t seem to pay attention to me. She stared down the hallway toward the entrance of the house.
What happened to the kind and loving woman I knew? How distressing it was to see her like that! What could I do to help her? The smell of the house, the way she looked and the way she treated me were unusual for her. I didn’t want to pressure her, but if she called me after so long it was because she really needed help. I looked at her trying to see if she was beaten or sick, but her face didn’t show any of that.
She got up and began to walk, shuffling her feet and clicking her slippers down the hallway. She was holding on to the walls, so I didn’t think too much about it and went to help her walk.
“Let me help you.”
She didn’t speak to me, but she allowed me to accompany her. Two steps later, she started coughing and gagging, so I carried her to the bathroom. I went in with her thinking about breathing as little as possible due to the smell. We stood in front of her sink, and I wet her face and her hair a little, combing her hair back. We looked at each other through the mirror and she smiled at me for the first time that day.
“Thank you,” I heard almost in a whisper.
I was overcome with grief, rubbed her arms affectionately, and told her she’d better go to bed.
We left the bathroom, and I took her to the bedroom, half hugging her to help her walk.
Every time I saw her more livid. Instead of entering the first door past the bathroom, she made me continue to the next one, the one I hadn’t been able to open before. She touched the handle and opened it easily. We entered, and I felt next to the threshold in search of the light key. I found it on the third try.
The room lit up and my heart instantly stopped. I looked at her in despair. Her body, which I had been holding, was becoming lighter and lighter. She looked into my eyes and a tear rolled down her cheek. I was perplexed. She gradually disappeared from my arms. She slowly faded away and the last thing I could see was a hint of a smile.
My legs went weak. I stumbled and held myself up by leaning my back against the wall. The anguish and shortness of breath that I had felt when entering the house were present at that moment and it was overwhelming. My brain couldn’t understand what my eyes were seeing.
Her glasses were on the nightstand and her body was lying on a small bed to the right of the room. Motionless. Half covered with the sheets and a blanket. Her hands were still holding the embroidery of the sheet.
I stumbled out of the house as best I could.
The police and ambulance arrived almost at the same time. I didn’t want to go back in. I was stunned. How could I explain what had happened?
Due to the condition of the body, she has been dead for three to four days,” they informed me. “She had this in her hands.”
Trembling, I grabbed the piece of paper and saw my phone number written with those crooked numbers that I remembered since I was a child.
Mariela Ivón Armando © 2024
THERAPY
It was a cool and windy afternoon. From time to time, I could hear the roar of the clouds that threatened rain. The black can can tights under the grey wool dress and the black jacket were not enough warmth. My teeth were chattering. I adjusted my red scarf and headphones while listening to the tune of Evanescence. I felt like I was in the My Immortal video; sad, grey, and anguished.
The bus was always late, and this was no exception. I rubbed my arms to give myself some warmth as the wait became unbearable. Anxiety was eating away at me.
When it finally arrived, I got in without even looking at the driver. I had so much on my mind… so much to say, but so little desire to talk. It wouldn’t have bothered me if the bus broke down halfway and didn’t take me to my destination. But today was not a day like any other, I was convinced that it was going to be the last of therapy.
Marcela always made me wait more than half an hour for my appointment, something I hated, but I knew that the day I was late, she would complain about waiting for me.
When she finally ushered me in, we again had the moment of awkward silence where she waits for me to talk and I wait for her to say something.
“How did you feel this week?”
“Good.”
“Not really”
“It was routine, the same as always.”
“Did you feel distressed again?”
“Yes, but I’m used to it.”
I didn’t want to talk; I didn’t want to tell her the same old things so that she would change the subject, as if what I felt didn’t matter.
The pen in her right hand moved quickly over his notebook. «How much does she write?
Someday, I’m going to lose my patience and I’m going to steal her notes. It would be better if she told me what she thinks, instead of writing it down so that I never know.
“Did you work with the wheel of emotions I gave you?”
“Of course, not…”
I knew well what was happening to me and that meaningless wheel confirmed it.
“I’m sad, angry, disappointed… distraught.”
I took a deep breath and pressed my forehead.
“I have been telling you what I feel for months. There is no more or less than that. I feel exactly the same as the first day I sat here.”
Again, her pen moved at full speed over the paper. The silences were unbearable. I never knew if she stayed silent and stared at me because she wanted to make me think or if she didn’t know what to say to me.
“What did you do this week?” Again, changing topics.
“I don’t want to talk about anything else, I only think about one.” I sighed loudly. “I want to talk about the emptiness in my chest that I feel from the moment I wake up until I fall asleep, if I do.”
“Does talking about Ulysses’ departure make you feel better?”
More meaningless questions.
“No. But how am I supposed to get over it if I don’t talk about it? He left me. He left without even saying goodbye.” She stopped writing and stared at me.
“When did he leave?”
“Are you seriously asking me?!”
Incredible.
Isn’t she supposed to take notes to learn more about me and… remember it?
My vision began to bother me and the screaming in my ears became louder and unbearable. I rubbed my eyes and sat back on the couch. I tried to keep my right leg still, which seemed to have a life of its own. I didn’t want to see her. I stared at the window. I could not believe it.
What disrespect!
“Why do you ask me the same things every time I come?”
“Your answer varies week to week. I want to know which one it is today.”
“No.”
I felt the anger growing inside me, like a flame that rose little by little.
“I always tell you the same thing. Ulysses left me. He’s gone. He disappeared without even leaving a note, an explanation. I don’t know why he did it. He left his life with me just as it was. He didn’t take his clothes or anything, not even his phone. I have no way to communicate with him or find him.”
“What was your relationship with him like?”
“I don’t understand why every time I come it’s always the same. I already answered that last week. What will the next question be? Do you know where he went?” My voice was gaining volume in a way that I didn’t even know myself.
She started telling me to calm down, to try to breathe deeply, but my anger grew more and more. It was a pressure cooker ready to explode.
“Are you listening to me, Marina?”
Her pen was no longer writing. Which caused me some amusement, but not that of a joke. I pounced on her without giving her time to do anything. I snatched the pen from her hand and stuck it in her neck. She didn’t even scream. She desperately grabbed her neck with both hands, but immediately became weak and could not even get up from her seat. Her blood was gushing out. She no longer moved or tried to speak. Her body remained motionless, staring at me.
I grabbed her pink notebook, now a little stained, and sat back down in my seat. I crossed my legs and started reading.
Lack of dissociation between reality and her imagination.
Moody.
Temporary memory loss.
Reluctance, anguish, anger.
“Memory loss? Lack of dissociation between the real and the imaginary?”
I read, bewildered. Those couldn’t be notes about me. I continued turning the pages and several papers fell to the floor. I looked at Marcela to check that she was still there, inert, and I bent down to grab them. I didn’t know what I was seeing or reading. I saw photos of my apartment with blood stains, photos of the kitchen and bedroom. The white feather bedspread was all soaked in blood. A thousand images and intermittent memories that I did not understand passed through my mind. The last photo completely disarmed me. Ulysses lay lifeless on the bathroom floor in a pool of blood, with a kitchen knife stuck in his chest.
No! How could it be him?!
Ulysses had left months ago without leaving a trace.
He had abandoned Me!
I unfolded some pages that looked like they were photocopies and had a passport photo of me stuck in the corner. What I read seemed crazy to me. Ulysses had died from thirty-five stab wounds, one straight to the heart. My hands were shaking, I wanted to see everything as quickly as possible. I grabbed a newspaper clipping.
“… Ulises Carrasco met death at the hand of his fiancée, Marina Montez, last Saturday. …the aggressor is admitted to a neuropsychiatric hospital… she does not seem to remember anything of what happened… »
Almost like a bucket of ice water, all the memories appeared together and crowded into my mind. I remembered the beatings, the humiliation, the heartbreaking crying. He had locked me in the bathroom after beating me almost all night. As soon as he opened the door, I pushed him and ran to the kitchen and grabbed the first thing I could to defend myself. The meat cutting knife. He hit me again in the face which knocked me to the ground and stunned me, but I didn’t let go of the knife. He was determined to continue his attack; I stretched out my arm with all the strength I could and stabbed the knife into his waist. I tightened the handle and turned the blade inside, as I learned from watching Face/Off.
He tried to escape by clutching his wound, but I followed him. I didn’t give him any chance. I remembered every one of his mistreatments, every one of his beatings and humiliations. I stabbed him with the knife again and again, and when he finally fell on the bathroom floor, where I had been locked up all night, I gave him the last stab. I sat next to him, took a deep, almost triumphant breath, and rested for the first time in years.
The ringing in my ears was getting louder. I stared at the window without thinking too much. Outside, it was starting to rain.
“Marina, are you listening to me?” Marcela was staring at me with a worried expression.
She had her notebook closed and held it tightly on her lap with the pen in her right hand. «It happened again. I no longer knew what to believe. I felt dizzy, overwhelmed, and confused.
“Y…yes.”
“We’ll stop it here for today.” She handed me what seemed to be an exit permit.
I left the office bewildered, dazed. On the other side of the door, a man dressed in white was waiting for me to escort me to the bus that would take me back to the hospital. I got on and waited, sitting in the last seat while I focused on the raindrops hitting the bus windows. Each drop that fell was like a little piece of memory that entered my mind and completed the puzzle. Little by little, other people dressed in grey and black like me got on the bus. Some with a lost look, others angry and some with a smile that did not reach their eyes.
It seems to me that, in the end, this is not going to be the last session of therapy.
Mariela Ivón Armando © 2024
