The light that never goes out

By Marina Casas

Drama, family problems, drugs, alcoholism, adolescence...

On the brink of turning fifteen, alcohol is no longer enough to help Luz forget who she is. At a time when dreams are nothing but falsities of other worlds, the present brings nothing but one disappointment after another, and when invertebrates are so sure that there's nothing better for them that they commit suicide, will the stars align with her decision?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Jul 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781507129418

Book preview

CONTENTS

The night of the ripped tights

How I lost enthusiasm

Stop pretending

The writing on the wall

Happy Gloria

What little we know of Eskimos

Nothing

Pizza and vomit

Dance, let's dance

Happy birthday

Far from the bathroom

Flourescent lights

Points of light

Hope

ESTRELLAS DE MAR SUICIDAS

––––––––

Marina Casas

© 2015

© 2015 Marina Casas

1st Edition, September 2015

Cover design by Bufi Dion

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

For Linda, when she was fourteen, and for Cielo, always.

In a dream state the act of living is taking very seriously, even more so than being alive

The night of the ripped tights

I barely remember the night of the ripped tights.

The name came about when the next day I gathered up my clothes from the floor and saw the wreckage. I was surprised, but foolishly so – you see, the tights I wear are useless, absolute crap. I get them dirt-cheap from the supermarket next door, and they’re a little on the large side so I have to double them over at the waist and they keep getting tangled up with my underwear.

Half of the time they barely even last a month.

For those pairs which successfully make it to the one month milestone, I cover over the ripped parts with nail polish at the start and end of wherever they have begun to ladder. It’s a little trick my mother taught me. Although, if they start to rip when I’m out or I don’t realise, there’s not a lot I can do – just take the walk of shame.

On this day, my legs didn’t mind. In fact, they probably preferred the extra breeze, but strangers stared at me a little longer than normal. It wasn’t a normal look you give a passing stranger - nothing at all like the usual two or three seconds it takes for someone to decide whether you’re handsome, ugly, and dangerous or, you know, something. It annoyed me, because I just wanted to disappear forever, which isn’t easy to do really. At least not when somebody knows you exist.

Having spent the past fourteen years walking these same streets, I had no idea how I’d turned into one of the unknown; they could have been the streets of any city, for all the difference it made. The people could have been anyone – yet they were like exact replicas of the same people who by day would greet by name. It was as if I had been transported to an alternate universe, where everything was the same.

Except for me. I was a stranger to all.

Never before had I ever been so eager to get home and pee! The pressure in my bladder had not yet become painful, but maybe I’d lost the ability to feel pain. I wasn’t cold either. It was like a dream, where most of my senses were asleep.

The keys appeared in my hand – I don’t know how – and I let myself into the house, not caring how much noise I was making. Normally I’d take off my shoes before climbing the stairs, and close the door carefully, as quiet as a mouse. Yet the slam of the door that day was probably enough to convince the whole building that the upstairs neighbour was testing out explosive devices.

My mother was standing in the hallway, waiting for me. She was wearing smart jeans and a pair of heels, and looking back I’d swear she was plastered in make-up, but at the time I didn’t really notice. In any case, she was shall we say, presentable. To this day I still don’t know if she stayed up all night, or whether she was just leaving the house to find me there and then, or even if she had just arrived home herself. It could have been any of these.

She moved towards me – not to give me a hug, nor to slap me. She didn’t say a single word, which was odd because, unlike me, she always had to have something to say. She briefly looked at me, paying less attention than the strangers in the street. She didn’t even seem upset.

She didn’t ask where I’d been or what I’d been doing, nor did she offer up her two-cents on where she thought I’d been. She didn’t ask me the next day either, or any of the days that followed. That night belonged to the memory of another person, in the alternate dimension version of our city. We choose which one we like best, and she preferred one while I preferred the other.

All I could was yell at her, tears streaming down my face, nose running like a tap.

You are to blame for this! This is all your fault!

Again and again I screamed the same thing at her, trying in vain to initiate some sort of reaction until, pitifully kneeling on the floor, I was voiceless. My mouth continued forming the same words, although they emitted no sound, like a well-rehearsed prayer.

You are to blame – this is all your fault.

She didn’t interrupt me, not even once. She didn’t send me to my room. She didn’t lecture me. She didn’t defend herself from my accusations, but her silence was enough. Her silence spoke volumes.

You are to blame for this... you are, I said, resting my face on the floor tile.

My mother remained silent and motionless. She must have thought I wasn’t worth answering, that I was just a little brat who didn’t know what I was saying. It wasn’t important, and I wasn’t really upset. But I knew that nobody likes to feel guilty – it was one of the only things I was sure of.

How I lost enthusiasm

One time in class, we had a talk about the harmful effects of alcohol. We were told that alcohol can kill you; that you can overdose and just die. This sounded a little too exaggerated to me because, you know, the whole wide world drinks! At meals, at parties, on the TV, in the house, in bars, at night, in the day, you name the time and the place, and I bet you’ll find somebody with a glass of wine or pint of beer in hand.

During the talk, they told us that normally people first get into drinking alcohol because somebody, a friend or someone, offers it to them, and so it’s really important to JUST SAY NO. One little word that sounds oh-so simple, just as much as yes.

I knew how to say no, no thank you and even ‘no thanks, but maybe some other time’.

What they don’t teach you in these classes is that sometimes the person who pushes you to drink is your parent, perhaps thinking that they’ll prevent you becoming just another modern-day statistic of alcoholics, comatose down-and-outs or those weirdo holier-than-thou abstainers. Or that, sometimes, a person decides to drink completely alone, in their own house, purely out of curiosity. At midday. In such cases, saying no is a little more difficult. That’s how I started saying yes to myself, by asking myself but why not.

My first time taste of the forbidden apple was a cheap red wine that my mother kept in the fridge; I only drank a little, in case she noticed some was missing. I didn’t even like the taste, it was strange – a little stale, and it reminded me somewhat of a syrup. However, with every passing day I realised I wanted to drink more.

Who knows why?

Soon I found myself concentrating more on everything that surrounded me, finding alcohol in every corner. The people standing on terraces, laughing with their glasses in hand, the young boys gathering at the park with crude plastic cups of cheap booze. Even in ads, the actors were dancing and falling in love while waiters prepared a cocktail of beautiful colours. It all seemed so much better than my life, better than my reality. So of course, there was so much more reason to say yes than no.

As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t risk stealing the wine again after the first occasion, not when there was even the slimmest chance of my mother finding out. It was with this in mind that I decided to get myself a bottle of whatever I could get my hands on and hide it in my room, in my own safe place.

I bought Vodka. Easy to pass off as water when put in a plastic bottle, it was the ideal solution.

I didn’t buy it in the supermarket, though, I’m not that stupid. I went to one of those small shops, the ones that are open 24/7 with just one cashier and no supervisor. I picked up the bottle without hesitation, making it look as casual as possible, as if it were just another of my regular, every-day purchases. I also grabbed some chewing gum, as if I just remembered about them on sight, because carefree people tend to remember such irrelevant things, whereas the more hysterical would overlook them and just take a piece of gum when offered.

The cashier was about thirty, but I’m not really sure. Guessing the age of old people is not exactly my forte. He looked at me for just enough time put me on edge, to make me nervous. I tried to camouflage myself by eyeing the latest issue of Cosmo, with no intention of buying it.

Surely you’re not eighteen? he asked, scrutinising me over the counter.

Unashamed, I shook my head.

I know how many underage drinkers are out there (well, at least according to statistics), and somebody somewhere has to sell to them. Either that, or they’re not just underage drinkers, but common thieves too.

Have you got a large bag?

I showed him my black, faux fur handbag, selected with this exact mission in mind. It was extra-large - perfect to conceal a bottle without showing any suspicious bumps.

Good. Well, just in case, I didn’t sell you a thing, you hear me?

I nodded silently. Handing him the money, I put the bottle in my bag and left, somehow a little older than when I had entered.

When I got home I locked myself in my room, unscrewed the bottle and sniffed the contraband liquid. It was like a perfume, but without the floral essence, exactly the type of scent I would choose for myself.

The first sip was just a score, barely enough to even savour the taste; my mouth barely touched the rim of the bottle, but I let some of the liquid slide between my teeth. Cautiously sliding my tongue over them, the flavour suddenly came crashing into my palate.

I took my second sip a lot faster, mistakenly taking in much more than intended! So much so, in fact, that it burned my throat. I wasn’t expecting such a reaction, given that this had never happened with my mother’s wine! Despite this unexpected little surprise, I liked it! It was exactly how I imagine it would feel if you were to drink poison.

Before long I was dizzy, although it didn’t really scare me. It was a mild dizziness – my whole body felt soft and fuzzy, as if I was made of cotton. I threw myself onto my bed and suddenly everything became more enjoyable.

Even my train wreck of a life seemed somewhat better; memories and moments laden with problems and nothingness seemed to cloud over, my mind instead stained with the laughter of the moments of utter hilarity – the times you will laugh about again and again over time. I thought that I could easily spend my life going from drink to drink, and for the first time ever I understood exactly how and why some people do. Since that very moment, who am I to judge them?

A little while later I fell asleep. It was weird, because never before in my life have I slept face-up – normally I’d be curled in a ball, covered head-to-toe by my bed sheets. With the vodka, though, that didn’t happen. The vodka made me invincible.

I don’t think I ever purposely spoke with Carmen about ‘going for a drink’ or ‘buying a bottle’, but we never really spoke about the ‘what-if’ and ‘why not’ either. It just happened. It was obvious it would eventually, kind of like a rite of passage to maturity, a coming-of-age of sorts.

It seemed that Carmen began to drink because she was almost fifteen, and there are certain things that as an almost-fifteen year old you feel you need to at least try before you reach that age. Like dating eighteen-year old guys, for example. Which she did, whenever such opportunity would arise.

I liked drinking with Carmen, but not quite as much as I enjoyed drinking at home. With Carmen everything was rushed, we barely had time to truly appreciate what we were doing. Also, because it was so cold outside and sometimes a combination of the temperature and too much alcohol made my stomach hurt, and I’d feel like throwing up. Then I’d need to find a secluded corner