Monstrilio

by Gerardo Sámano Córdova

“God is supposed to look over all of us,” Joseph explained. But Santiago said no, God chooses who he cares for, and he hadn’t chosen us. But, Santiago added, we shouldn’t be sad, God had too many rules anyway, and did we really want to follow so many rules?

I was tempted to pray for her, but God is a scumbag; he wouldn’t answer any prayers of mine. I wished instead, like one wishes on a birthday candle or a star.

Wouldn’t that have been a groundbreaking discovery, someone bringing a creature to life solely with their own grief and a prodigious unwillingness to let go?

“The monster can’t possibly shit all over las Lomas,” I said. “It’s shit is finite.”

The bartender refilled our whiskeys. Leonard Cohen’s voice made it to my stomach, where it boomed, making me ticklish. I was getting drunk. Keeping M’s secret felt safer than letting it out where its threads could come loose and knot, making a mess impossible for me to untangle.

They’d form a support group but soon grow to hate one another because what they needed wasn’t acknowledgment or empathy or closure; it was escape.