“Cómo (How)” by Nicolás Lasaïgues

Nicolás Lasaïgues hails from Buenos Aires, and is a constantly-busy creative. He specializes in horror, but also enjoys making comedic stories and films. You should subscribe to his YouTube channel, 2defaina, to check out all of his films. He also has a book of short stories of horror and drama that is available for a free download from his website, nicolasaigues.com.ar. The book is called “Recorriendo el Labertino,” or “Walking the Labyrinth.” I’ve helped Nicolás with occasional English translations, and I am currently (albeit slowly) working on translating Recorriendo el Labertino in its entirety.
The story below, Cómo (How), is the first story in the collection, and the first I’ve translated. It is a dark tale, and it is horror, so consider yourselves warned. I hope you enjoy, and please check out the rest of his work at nicolasaigues.com.ar. His website has a nifty button to translate everything to English, so be not afraid to go check it out if you’re an English speaker like myself.
I’ve featured the story in the original form, followed by my translation. Thank you for reading!

Cómo

Nicolás Lasaïgues

La casa estaba dormida. No había un solo movimiento. En la cocina podían verse platos recién lavados, todo estaba en orden. Todo… Salvo una de las habitaciones.

La cama de dos plazas estaba desecha, con el cobertor caído en uno de los costados. Los veladores estaban prendidos y daban cierto color ocre a la blanca pared. La televisión estaba apagada y el sol empezaba a mostrarse en el horizonte.

La pareja se encontraba en medio de una danza estática, sus cuerpos sin movimiento, propietarios de una belleza especial…

Ella tenía cabellos oscuros y una boca no muy carnosa, pero lo suficiente para que cualquier hombre la deseara. Los pechos, ahora desnudos, eran dos esferas perfectamente redondas, coronadas por el rosado pezón. Su cintura, un poema entre el pecho y las caderas. Las sabanas tapaban el resto.

Él tenía puesto un pantalón gris y el pelo corto, castaño. Totalmente lampiño, se notaba que era o había sido cliente de algún gimnasio, porque tenía un físico trabajado. Estaba acostado encima de las sabanas, sin protección alguna.

Lo único que hacia extraña la escena, eran los seis agujeros que él tenía: Cinco en el pecho, y el sexto en la cabeza. Los disparos habían sido aleatorios: No marcaban puntos específicos. Creo que ninguno le dio en el corazón. El hoyo en su cara estaba cerca del ojo izquierdo y desfiguraba levemente su rostro.

Con ella, el trabajo había sido completamente diferente: Un corte cruzaba todo su cuello, pero ese sólo había sido el final. Antes había recibido múltiples punzadas en todo el pecho y la espalda. La escena dejaba ver la violencia y la resistencia de los participantes. Las sabanas, ahora rojas, se mezclaban con ellos. Las paredes estaban apenas salpicadas.

Yo estaba en cuclillas, a pocos pasos de la puerta. Observando, solo observando; tomando notas mentales.

Entonces escuché el crujir de la madera del piso a mi espalda.

Ahí estaba, parado. Sus ojos abiertos de par en par, miraban sin mirar. Su estatura era baja, su pelo oscuro pero brillante caía hasta casi tocar los ojos. Yo lo miraba con asombro. Cuando recorrí la casa no lo vi. No entendía de donde había salido. Vestía unos pijamas celestes con unos dibujos. Sea como fuere, el niño estaba ahí parado, mirando lo que quedaba de sus padres.
¿Alguien puede decirme cómo se le explica esto a un niño? Sus ojos, perdidos en ningún punto, empezaban a llenarse de lágrimas. No movía ningún músculo. Su boca, apenas abierta, ayudaba a que respire. No estoy seguro de si comprendía, pero veía en su cara su amargura, su angustia. ¿Podía entender que…? Parecía que si, no sé… ¿Cómo? ¿Cómo se le hace entender que…? ¿Cómo se le dice? Que tiene, ¿5 años? Yo lo miraba, atónito. Él… Miraba al vacío. Sus ojos dejaron caer las primeras lágrimas.

Yo no pude moverme; tan solo lo observaba. No tenía palabras. No conocía las palabras.
¿Cómo se le explica? Yo no puedo…
La vista se me nubló un poco por las lagrimas que se iban acumulando. De mi ojo izquierdo cayó la primera. Mientras rodaba por la mejilla, saqué el cuchillo aun ensangrentado del bolsillo. Mi mano sintió su peso. Me acerqué lentamente y, por primera vez, me vio. Su cara lo dijo todo.
Una lágrima cae ahora desde mi ojo derecho en una danza íntima. Empiezo a escuchar la música y no puedo evitar sonreír.
El sol se refleja en el cuchillo y este da un destello. El niño mira la hoja y sus ojos se abren levemente; se nota el miedo en su respiración… Y yo no puedo dejar de sonreír.

Pienso: “Lo voy a disfrutar, voy a hacerlo bien lento”
¿Saben qué? Hoy, soy feliz.

 

How

Written by Nicolás Lasaïgues. English translation by Michael Haase

The house was asleep. There was not a single movement. In the kitchen you could see freshly washed dishes, and everything was in order. Everything … except one of the rooms.

The double bed was disheveled, with a blanket fallen off one side. The lamps on the night stands were lit and gave a certain ocher color to the white wall. The television was off and the sun was starting to appear on the horizon.

The couple was in the middle of a static dance, their bodies unmoving, owning a special beauty …

She had dark hair and thin lips, but enough for any man to want. The breasts, now naked, were two perfectly round half-spheres crowned by their pink nipples. Her waist, a poem between her chest and hips. The sheets covered the rest.

He was wearing gray trousers and had short, chestnut hair. His body was hairless, and his muscular form made it obvious that he was or had been a regular at a gym. He was lying across the sheets, unprotected.

What made the scene strange were the six holes: the first five across his chest, and the sixth in his head. The shots had been random: they did not hit specific points of aim. I do not think any shot made it to the heart. The hole in his face was near the left eye, slightly disfiguring him.

With her, the work had been completely different: a cut crossed her entire neck, but that had only been at the end. Prior to that, she had received multiple stab wounds all over her chest and back. The scene showed the violence and resistance of those involved. The sheets, now red, mingled with the blood. The walls were barely speckled.

I was squatting, a few steps from the door. Watching, just watching; taking mental notes.

Then I heard the creaking of the wood floor behind me.

There he stood. His eyes wide, staring without looking. He was short, and his hair was dark but brilliant, falling to almost touch his eyes. I looked at him in amazement. When I went through the house I did not see him. I did not understand where he had come from. He was wearing celestial pajamas with drawings. Be that as it may, the boy was standing there, watching what remained of his parents.

Can someone tell me how to explain this to a child? His eyes, lost and unfocused, began to brim over with tears. He did not move a muscle. His mouth, barely open, helped him breathe. I’m not sure if I understood, but I saw in his face his bitterness, his anguish. Could he understand what he saw …? It seemed that he did, I do not know … How? How do you make him understand that …? How could he be told? What was he, 5 years old? I looked at him, stunned. He … looked into the void. His eyes filled with tears.

I could not move; I just watched him. I had no words. I did not know the words.

How could it be explained? I could not…

My sight was blurred by the tears that were accumulating. The first fell out of my left eye. As it rolled down my cheek, I took the still-bloody knife out of my pocket. My hand felt its weight. I approached slowly and, for the first time, he saw me. His face said it all.

A tear now falls from my right eye, beginning an intimate dance. I start to listen to the music and I cannot help but smile.

The sun reflects on the knife and it gives off a flash. The child looks at the sheet as his eyes open slightly; I can see the fear in his breathing … And I cannot stop smiling.

I think: “I’m going to enjoy this. I’m going to do it very slowly”.

You know what? I am happy today.

Would you like to contribute to Tall Tales Told? Email me at info@talltalestold.com

 

3 thoughts on ““Cómo (How)” by Nicolás Lasaïgues

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