THE TRIP OF THE CURVE

TRIP
TRIP

We have not done a third of the way yet. I continue treading the accelerator with enthusiasm, to win minutes at the time a silly attempt to shorten it. I still fell chills, alternating with eruptions of infernal heat. My liver is constantly boiling, spitting alcohol vapors into my stomach that rebelled and overcome defends them by expelling them up the throat. I have to make real efforts not to belch pure Scotch whiskey. It’s funny how you can get drunk, enemy and hungover at the same time. Also I can not even smoke. The Gallardo ladies, blondes, radiant skin, lipstick on their lips and smell of cinnamon, oak wood and lemon, both are sisters, that I take on this trip, in this, my situation neither of the two sisters would nor see it with good eyes. It’s not a bad trip but it’s a bad day. I barely managed to sleep two hours, clearly insufficient time to sleep the cute. It’s clear that I passed myself last night.

We are still on the highway.  It’s almost an hour for her, and then three-quarters of an hour long by mountain pass, with endless curves and climbs. Remembering it, my liver protests loudly. I can not give you water or tobacco. The Gallardo ladies continue to hammer at me the cerebrum with their banal conversation, and their phrases. I only manage to babble monosyllables as an answer, trying to prevent my rotten breath from escaping. In spite of the rancor that has given them the time they do not have an excessive malice, but their shrill voice and their closed French accent sting my head.  They have managed to transform my incomplete headache into a crushing headache that mercilessly massacres my skull. I tapped with my left foot so as not to burst like a watermelon and spill drunkenly all over the seat. My only goal is to reach the destination, unload the trunk that is overflowing with packages, get into the taxi again, and run away, speed up again and die to get out of this sorry state. If I get it, it will be a miracle.

They way back is somewhat better. Just because I can smoke. So I take advantage and start to put smoke in my lungs as if it were pure oxygen, with two continuous puffs that practically do not carry air. They accept it reluctantly and I only manage to increase the feeling of being dirty and stinky. I stop at a family butcher shop in town, and in an act of desperate madness I buy some Serrano ham. When I resume the march I devour two or three slices in seconds. Almost 20 hours ago that my body only receives alcohol, and I hope that something solid revives it, or make me recover some strength. Unfortunately my stomach does not seem so good idea, and reacts as if I had dropped nitroglycerin in sulfuric acid. The pain that causes me that I must drive bent over myself, grabbed the wheel with one hand and grabbing the outer area of my stomach with the opposite. After a while the pain subsides, but I know that they are short intermittences and will return with viciousness. Still enjoy this parenthesis and sit up feeling too tired.

The road continues to squirm to everywhere in rising, down, in oblique…                           With each swing of the car my dizziness grows with subtlety, as if he were a child who knows he is wrong, but can not stop howling his father. I think my sense of balance is seriously damaged.

My eyes hardly meet their fundamental commitment. The lack of sleep and the ethyl vapors have hurt them a lot, but fortunately they are kept ajar. The only barrier between them and the sun are some small dark glasses, simple. If did not have them, I’m sure my eyes would start to burn in the sunlight, incinerating themselves as if they were those of a vampire at dawn. I know it’s not the king’s fault. It’s a warm, spring light, but to me it seems like a sun just for balls. On my back I cross time and space, to the south. I drive under an authentic summer sun and I with a hangover, darkness in my mind and very bad fleas. The air becomes almost unbreathable, like yesterday, because of the dense environmental humidity, fucked to breathe. The road is so narrow that it looks like a black hole that will trap me. Tall and green are the mountains on the right and left, chocolate-brown squirrels, group gray boars like ashes and a fox running reddish like the Colorado canyon. If she were here, she would feel every color, aroma and empathy for nature however, I am not able to feel natural sensations nor can I avoid feeling in the tunnel of time.

I look to the right and I see you lying on the seat next to me. You wear a light and fresh dress, with blue colors. Your hair whips your face with passion, as if it  wanted to wrap you in countless lashes. It moves without order, disordered by the wind that sneaks through the two front windows, completely open. The light paints yours orange hair. You have rested, and you support your bare feet on the dashboard of the car. Your dress goes back and I can almost see the legs and even the thighs. The heat is suffocating, but you do not complain. You just soak up the landscape and suck each km while I drive for you. Every once in a while you turn your head and you look at me, with a look of those so yours. And I take you, and I know that everything is fine, that my person faces the world, you watch me. I win a battle. You light a cigarette with difficulty, and from your lips it passes to my mouth. You read me the thought.

Then the next, I light the cigarette that you can not give me. Another blow of the stomach bends me again with cold sweats on my forehead that soaks the punctures, and as they spill down my face my vision burst. I pick up my arm that holds the sweat of my eyes on it. I can not do anything with the sweat of my neck. When I get up, a car red, I think it appears behind me eating my ass. I have not seen it arrive. She is in a hurry and it is clear that she knows the road better than me, but she can not get ahead of me in such a curve. I look through the mirror in burst, to identify the driver. She is a young girl, she must be my age, more or less, long dark hair, I think. She is nervous, she makes gestures with her hands, she’s tired of being cut in her way. She is pretty. I see behind her some lumps, they look like boxes or packages. I make an apologetic gesture to the brunette, as if saying that I can not do more.

We continue like that for a few kilometers, reaching curves as if we were a convoy until, we reached another car. I stand behind a certain distance, and I see that it is too slow. Drives with a bestial fear that disguises prudence. It slows us down a lot, and I’m not for shit. He hit me on his white ass as much as I can and blocked the car in third waiting for an opportunity to overtake him. The small white Ibiza car brakes pathetically and gets into a tight left-hand turn. I continue to completely absorb his wake, a moment of being his own ass. The pretty girl has realized what I intend and has left a sensible distance between the two. Almost at the exit of the turn I charge the line to the right to gain an angle of vision until licking the shoulder. I stretch in the seat as much as I can and spotted about 30 meters before the next ripple. I do not know if I’ll have time.

I give a sudden swerve to invade the opposite lane as I sink the accelerator to the carpet. The car leans exaggeratedly to the right as it launches forward without the brutality that I demand. I let go of the pedal again and now the little son of a bitch reawakens and catapults violently while the revolutions are fired towards the red zone. The engine screams as if it were doing penance in purgatory without my having mercy on it. While passing the frightened Ibiza, the small line decreases alarmingly, and I think that if someone appears there will be trouble. But I’m lucky and with another swerve I sneak around the next bend just when my stomach decides to join the party. At the moment I endure the pain until it decreases, and I wipe the sweat again. I slow down and in the mirror I see that the girl has run aground after the white Ibiza. His is also an Ibiza, of the new ones. After her comes a biker that I had not seen before. In a couple of curves he leaves them behind, and when he defeats me I take the opportunity to study his horse. The engine noise presents the demons inside. It is powerful, a six hundred road black, imposing. Immediately loses sight of me.

I relax the driving and by the rear-view mirror I control how I am missing the two Ibiza, appearing and disappearing in the curves that I have already spent. The intermittences lengthen until finally we become strangers.

The road continues meandering through endless green fields. I think it’s like a giant confetti that someone stretches smelled in eternal ringlets or a meandering dinosaur, abusing his whim by nature, and I laugh laconically. All things have their similarity in others. We are stubbornly hiding something very ridiculous after the usual, and I find myself anchored and without distance. Sometimes I think started to know more or less when you went back to the sea, but it was probably much earlier, and I did not realize it. I hand the package of tobacco looking for the last cigarettes. In 4 or 5 km I will reach the highway, and I am considering taking another route in view of the time it is. I have 3 cigarettes left. That will suffice.

I recognize the last pastures that I crossed before civilization. Here everything is quiet. The tranquility of these places is in itself an accurate paralysis, immutable. I notice that I am just an intruder in this painting, a slight passenger no more. No brand of mine is recognizable. Nothing so barren and gentle as not to leave a trace of where you have gone. And I settle in my alcoholic seat with no other aspiration than to remain static, slight, slight, slight…

I increase the impatient rhythm to swindle a straighter road while I stir uncomfortably in my seat, tired of being boxed in this fucking can. I continue in a terrible state that I now cope better, just by habit.

I face a fast left curve, and then another one. They are the prologue of a blind turn to the right, which I remember perfectly. It’s fast. And although the sign announcing it prohibits 50km. from only an imbecile it would take less than 70km. I enter almost 90km. the car is ballasted like a ship because of the inertia on its left side. I fly towards the exit when I see it clearly, like a punch in the forehead. The truck occupies the road in width. It is being incorporated in my sense, but its length forces it to take also the other lane. It’s like a photograph. Quiet between her and my eyes there is a layer of fossilized sweat that distorts the image somewhat, and I think it is the reflection of the sun that makes me see those little lights that play to chase me. The truck offers me its iron side, exposing openly to me. Under it and between its wheels rest the imposing 600cc. black, who seems to pay homage to his extraordinary presence. The biker lies on the ground a couple of meters before the entrails of de beast. I detect another character, a man in a blue jumpsuit that reminds me of those who put the companies, to make clear who you belong. It is on highway, near the shoulder on my right. His eyes lift from the biker to me, and a disgusting grimace disengages his face. At the same time a punch tears my heart telling me what my experience has already lived. I am in the same hell.

I nail the brake pedal instinctively and late. My reaction time is still lethargic. The front wheels stop instantly while the nose drops on the asphalt touching the underside of the car. Suddenly a brutal screech that devours the air when the rubber wheels color the black asphalt bruno. The inertia pushes me forward, forcing me to use all the strength of my arms to avoid  crouching behind the wheel. I hear strong blows, and I perceive how the newspapers, magazines and books that I carry in the passenger seat rush to the ground. The tiny world of the passenger compartment collapses and drag me with it, but the car has just lost speed and continues vertiginous in the direction of the biker. I release the brake to at least try to dodge, and I am aware that I do not master the situation.

Bounce the vehicle’s damping, squeals, rattles and protests incessantly, and the car seems to buckle in an impossible trajectory as it drifts into the opposite lane. It crosses, I straighten it with a gas stroke to avoid it but it hits me against the door, and a flash blinds me. Quick blink, it disappears, and a presence touches me. I use time, your face looks at me again like that Holy Thursday.  I am terrified, but it is not and the truck that scares me. At the end of the of nose of there is a small free space that leads you to the thick forest. It is impossible, there is no chance, no trajectory, no moment. I make a swerve and  an imminent defeat grimace. I force the handbrake to search the impact side and I was forced to keep open my eyes. Always heroic and your jaguar. The car runs though and tilts excessively, and I hope overturning and roll, turn es the air in a hurricane. All tension disappears and let me go. I feel strokes in my  body against all, a battery, dashboard and GPS. No there belt I cling to nothing. There has never been.            I turn completely in a sinister tornado, released in the empty, embarrassed, buffeted and zurrado, but there is no shift. You I still a view, with a look of those yours as yours. And I try to laugh with a fear that I do not know where it comes from.

I think there is a jump, a tear, nothing could be seen when turning, only you turn with me and I do not laugh. A sharp blow catches me, I feel it underneath, and I go from one thousand to zero in one breath. The violence of the stop shook me like a piece of paper, ashes in the sea, that so yours that gives you freedom, and my head breaks against the window. I crush my arm against the door and a bump bites me knee braking I’m not sure what. I have stopped among the trees, contrary to my initial sense. There comes to my mind the image of a canoeist on the edge of the waterfall without being able to avoid falling over the precipice due to his imprudence. I am probably too stunned. I see the front of the truck and the driver who looks at me with a face of the same God. I would also like to see it like that, but since I am not a great believer I am content to look at a frightened man, who is now quite a lot. I do not let cross his eyes while trying but with difficulty enough to get out of the car and I realize that my knee hurts a lot. The head and arm does not seem serious, it is almost more annoying the purr of stomach. Maybe now I would come well a drink.

I rejoice in unfortunate luck while a motor noise grows bigger. The truck driver and I look instinctively towards the exit of the curve of rights, and I know that its disheveled face like mine.

I see it through the layer of dried sweat that covers my eyes, blurred. It circles the curve that I broke a moment ago with such courage. Repeat my plot as if chasing my ghost, in a cheap imitation of my imprudence. It’s a red Ibiza, of the new ones. Stick the brakes right out of the trap, and I think the pretty girl in the end has been able to prudent the unwise. arA monstrous noise devours the air and nails it to me in my eardrums, and the red Ibiza neighs, bounces and crushes against the asphalt. I see for a moment the brunette fight with the steering wheel, with the eyes out of  orbit, the mouth as open as the mouth of the subway, and his face marked in a grimace of horrified surprise. She gives a fierce swerve to the right with the wheels still blocked and at that precise moment I feel that I am made of ice. The car set and its balance is broken. It is breaking to the beat of the bell turns and thousands of crystals cut the photograph. Quiet.

In a couple of laps the carcass of the vehicle ejects violently the brunette, who makes a spectacular acrobatic flight before breaking on the asphalt. Then she continues to show herself in majestic mortal leaps that seem rather agonizing epitaphs. She passes in front of me falling apart in fragments, I can smell the iron of her blood before crashing into the trees on my right, and their carnal remains come together to form a broken piece. I know I am about to enter catatonic state, and despite that I find myself running towards the girl beautiful, without paying attention to the pain of my knee. The floor is strewn with drinks, bags and packages from a supermarket, which trample and kick without any regard. I reach the biker who has joined and removed the helmet. Blue monkey shouts something with rage and begins to run towards the beginning of the curve. From the cabin of the truck also shouts mixed with murmurs of some radio station come out. We run in unison and both limping, and it gives the sensation that we make a film of Marx brothers. On the way he strips off his leather jacket and gloves half burned by     the touch of asphalt. He is somewhat older than me, his face is pale and his pupils are abnormal. We kneel before the beautiful girl and a puddle of blood soaks us. The right arm of the girl is broken and bent by three zones, and the bone is seen by each of them. Under the right armpit and at the height of the chest she has a frightful blow that has sunk her ribs, and her hip is turned in an impossible position to bear. We see an open wound under her her right breast and another on her hip, from which flow dark blood streams, almost black. I take off my sweater and plug the hip wound pressing it. The biker rips off his shirt and tries with the chest, but bleeding does not stop. I check the pulse on the neck of the brunette. It is almost unpredictable. I put my ear to his mouth looking for breath, but I find a hollow sound, and I see it stop. The insecure pulse is lost. It breaks. I know that the wounded are not touched if there es no. The biker and I looked at each other disoriented. Look is that of a corpse. He does not know what to do and he is not in good condition either, I could say that St. Peter is around him. I try to rescue from my memory the teachings that my beautiful lady gave me and I never thought I need. I do not remember them well and I curse myself for being an moron. I tell the rider how to do word of mouth and when, what I could evoke. I look for the sternum clumsily and place my fingers entwined and my right hand on the left and my arms firmly stretched. I pump six or seven times and he blows two puffs of air when I warm him. The heart and respiratory system of the girl do not respond but we do not stop, and we continue with the CPR between uncorked sweats that fall on the brunette. Around us are the truck driver and the scared driver of Ibiza, who covers his mouth with his hands so as not to vomit his own fear. After almost ten minutes he lacks air, and my arms, lacerated, have stopped transmitting pain. I look for an answer in the girl’s chest that does not come. His future becomes hostile and ruthless for life. The biker and I looked at each other, but we only managed to see ourselves blurred through a film of water. She does not move, she is still. And he and I merged in a fearful silence. I raise my eyes and crawl around looking for your eyes, but it’s been a long time since you stopped doing it. I look around with a quiet sadness, and contemplate the marks of this place, which are now my own footprints. I have been here.

I stand up and wander disoriented with short steps and tired by the landscape of which I am already part without pretending, in which I will never be mild again. And I am left with the bitterness and sorrow of the brunette girl, to never again seem static. I look at the pretty girl and the biker, who is still motionless, petrified, as if cast in the scene.

And when I get to his height, I do not know how to warn him that it looks like a photograph, but I can not, I am short of breath when I watch the bleeding of the motorist’s ears, and he collapses, followed by 5 convulsions that shake his body, his eyes are totally white, and so he stays with her. Quiet.

 

 

 

 

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