To Die on Monday

To Die On Monday

Once again, I can hear the grinding teeth of the skeletons peering through the window; light no longer casts away the specters and a skeletal hand pours down shadows and nightmares over his head, draining the color off his skin.

It’s almost time.

A funeral march rumbles on the walls of the room he has occupied for over a week. Just a week ago he stopped shouting my name, just a week ago the endless haze of his demands vanished –replaced by whimpers and whispers, as if hiding from someone, terrified of being found.

A shriek makes the fine hair on the back of his neck stand in attention, spreading a shiver across his body that is hard to miss. He pulls the zarape over his chest, over his chapped lips, just his eyes and head left unprotected by his nightmares. I hide a chuckle with the almost static music on the radio and procure a wet rag to place over his feverish head.

It’s been a week of listening to the same demands he’s always made, but now I can only hear fear, sometimes sweetness, but there’s no anger left in him.

“Please stay, viejita.” I can see the moths escaping the prison of his lips and cobwebs clinging to his mouth like saliva. “I’m afraid I will be set ablaze any time now.”

If that was the case, he could have saved me the week of drama and set fire to himself earlier. Sweeping the swirling whirlwind of his ashes from the floor would have been preferable over seeing him like this, useless. Or I could have kept him on the floor, perhaps for just one day, have him watch me throw everything he ever ruined with his memory away.

“Please stay, vieja. I’m almost gone.”

To be truthful, that “almost” continued feeling like an eternity, ever since the first day we found out about his passing. His eyes beg for me to stop it all and I can’t help but think of how wonderful it would be if I could speed up his decay, to make it end for him before Monday. If he died on Sunday, I could leave his ashes rest on the floor; there might be even time for his eyes to watch me as I clean his dirt from the floor, dust it all to the street and throw all remains to the waste bin. But knowing my luck, he will end up dying on Monday and Monday is dusting day, no time to let him settle.

“They are watching me, mujer, can’t you see them?” I nod as I walk towards the kitchen, just a few feet away from the makeshift bed that I had made for him, just in front of the door, close enough for Death to stop by and take him as soon as he was gone. Under my breath, I plead for them to stop simply watching and to drag him with them already. I’ve been by his side the last few hours, begging for him to be gone so I can throw away the cot and open up my windows. At times, I can see the ghosts of who he used to be; every now and then, he yells my name and demands my attention, to care for him, to change the TV channel or the radio, to adjust his pillow, to pop open yet another bottle, to warm up his food. The times I ignored him, his eyes watered up as he fixated them on the ceiling, trying to hold back the tears.

“Give me your hand, your hand viejita.” I can smell the pan dulce almost ready for the visit; two days of dedication almost completed and just in time for her to arrive. I pour myself some chocolate and stand from the kitchen, watching him sweat and shiver; I ponder whether I should ignore his final wishes or not. “I want to feel you close, mija, as if it would be the last time.”

I walk slowly towards him, wanting nothing but to recoil away and continue watching from afar as he dies, but I reach for his hand and sit by his side; I can feel his sweat seeping from his pores onto my skin. Under the rumble of tears and whimpers, I start feeling a burning sting as fire rushes through his body, little by little. I look at him with disgust, but remain by his side, only to watch as they take him away in bits and pieces. Last night, I heard him begging for forgiveness during his prayers. I am sure he will ask me now, directly.

“Muchacha, when I’m gone, when they take me,” his other hand reaches for a lock of my hair and he twirls it with fondness I never saw him show when he was alive. “Turn on some veladoras for me think of me, forgive me so I can rest.”

All I can think of is how I will cut my hair once he is gone, how I will set the furniture on fire, how I will tear each photograph with his face on it apart. If I could, I would throw myself to the fire too, but that would give him the satisfaction of thinking he destroyed me. I’m too proud.

“Tell me you forgive me, mujer.”

Skeletal hands lay over my shoulders. I look at him and smile, moving aside for her to do her job. I’ve been putting up with his slow decay for a week now, as if his crocodile tears would persuade me from throwing away all the hatred I have saved up from a lifetime with him. “Hija de puta,” he seethes, last breath wasted on me.

Holy Death. Better now than never.

The skeletons start to climb over his bed, stretching their limbs over his face, arms, and chest. Each of them ignites a green flame over him, a light that slowly burns away his skin, muscles, and bones. His eyes are now fixed on mine. “¡Haz algo que me lleva la chingada!” I can see him crying again, this time real tears flowing down his cheeks and evaporating as the green inferno reaches his face.

I ignore him once again, instead standing out of the way of her and her workers. I turn off the TV, grab his slippers and pocket watch to throw away onto the funeral pyre, and head towards the kitchen, where I sit watching as that green glow consumes what little is left of him.

It is 1:00 am of Monday when his whimpers finally recede. I stand up, pour a hot cup of chocolate and pack a napkin with a piece of bread. On the way, I catch a glimpse of the dustpan and broom and beg for them to break away from the routine at least for one day, but I’m too rooted in my habits to give myself some peace for just one day. When I return my gaze to him, all that is left is dust; the skeletons didn’t leave a trace of him behind, not even his eyes so he could watch me throw his body and his veladoras to the trash.

I stand aside while the skeletons disappear behind shadows and under the bed. We are left in silence as she stands looking at what’s left. A regretful silence as I can no longer hear him suffer. Despite an entire week of punishment, it all felt too short, my satisfaction did not last that long. She walks for the door and I reach for the handle, opening it and bowing my head as I offer her bread and chocolate, for the inconvenience.

I close the door and watch her shadow pass through my window and onto the alley as I ready the dustpan and broom. It’s Monday now and the dust and ashes await the routine of cleaning day.

Translations:

Zarape: Serape

Viejita/Vieja: Old woman

Mujer: Woman

Mija: Short for "mi hija". Literal meaning is "daughter", but in this context is used as a term of endearment akin to "dear".

Muchacha: Slang term for young woman.

Veladora(s): Prayer candle

Hija de puta: Similar to "son of a bitch".

Haz algo que me lleva la chingada: Do something, damn it.