When I saw her, I thought of the novel I’ve been reading for a while now. I was quite perplexed, and I had to rapidly command my eyes to look away. She looked perverted in every possible place. I felt terrible just with the thought of it. I tried to neutralize my facial muscles so nobody can notice my inner reactions, disgust and assimilation.
Her eyebrows had been stretched all the way to the forehead in an almost direct diagonal line. She had no hair in them. You could only catch some wrinkled skinned waves. Her lips had been modified in a swollen imperfected void. Her bone cheeks seemed deemed and pimped. Even her hair was a rotten entanglement of red-died threads. The only grasp of nature were her thin thinned down hands whose long boned out fingers could not appreciate tact anymore.
Her gazed caught mine. I panicked and, again, I looked away. I realized she sighed. How can someone’s body be so much intervened in order to improve our so-called human physical imperfections? Her eyes had no spark anymore; their light had been stolen away from her. There is a story that temps my gut, but it repulses me harshly to pursue a continuation of my creative imagination.
I told my boyfriend we should move away; I could not handle it. Her stare made me nervous and immensely uncomfortable. When we moved a couple of seats back, I could glance what she had in her hands. It was McDonald’s. She suddenly put her right old hand in her pocket and took a small sugar sachet, ripped it apart and threw it into her mouth with such strange body movements that she captured many of the surrounding people’s gazes, but as soon as they saw her they all had to turn around instantly. She did not seem to care. She enjoyed it in such fascinating joyful way that I had to smile. That was when I realized she is an old woman’s body with a young girl’s mind. Her Parkinson made things extremely awkward and it made her look more malicious than she might have actually been.
She decided to stand up and move towards the tram’s first door. Every single head, along with mine, followed her Quasimodo walking. The tram stopped. She pressed the button to open her door. Went down one step, turned her head to me, and smiled. When she did, the whole tram vacillated in the meaning of such incoherence.
I closed my eyes not to be fully cursed. Like me, she was a witch.
Jorge Writes 