#jardín de niños

[alertachiapas]

"Conoce a tu Policía": Programa de prevención del delito llega a escuelas de Tapachula

Es parte de las acciones implementadas para la prevención del delito por el presidente municipal, Yamil Melgar. Los menores de edad participaron en pláticas, actividades lúdicas y conocieron de cerca el funcionamiento de una patrulla. Tapachula, Chiapas.- El Ayuntamiento de Tapachula que preside el alcalde Yamil Melgar Bravo, a través de la Secretaría de Seguridad Pública y Protección Ciudadana…

[hyann1e]

"toda esta gente nueva aquí, no me da buena pinta..." by @benjard

con una vela alumbrando, se siente inmersa en una telaraña que ella misma tejió. y no es sólo que le hiere la imagen, está destrozada. tampoco terminaba de entender la finalidad de todo aquello. "al parecer no soy la única" menciona con un tono bajo, para que sólo el opuesto pudiera escucharle "se los invita a un evento y asesinan a astor" comenta sin pudor de acusarles. "no es casualidad que todo esto haya comenzado con esa manifestación" gira el rostro para reconocer interlocutor. sabe que la mancha también le persigue "¿qué decía?" le indaga respecto a algo que ( asume ) el otro también entiende. no desea dar mayores detalles, pero espera que comprenda.

[visitando-jardines]

Jardines de Casa de Pilatos (Sevilla)****

Un espectacular conjunto, de palacios y jardines, que es resultado de una mezcla de estilos gótico y mudéjar de finales de la Edad Media con influencias renacentistas del siglo XVI.

Abstract: A highly representative building from the era when Seville was the economic hub of the former Spanish colonial Empire, blending Gothic and Mudejar styles from the late Middle Ages with Renaissance influences from the 16th century. Palacio señorial Este palacio señorial es fruto de una mezcla estilos gótico-mudéjar de fines de la Edad Media con posteriores aportaciones renacentistas.…

[humanismo-nostalgico]

Mi amor es suave como la brisa marina, es cautelosa como una golondrina, es una chimenea de afectos y a veces el carbón es fuego de pasión, pero mi amor es un ejercicio, es un árbol que crece y extiende sus ramas hacia el cielo con reflexión. Mi amor sueña, mi amor camina observando sus astros, porque aprendió a aterrizar en sus valores y en el discernimiento de hospedar a quiénes admiren su morada. Mi amor es como dos niños jugando a explorar el mundo y aprender de él. Mi amor es una oración, un canto espiritual y una corona de laureles. Es un amanecer y un atardecer, un jardín de lirios que contempla la gracia de estar compartiendo día a día un sorbo de vida. ¿Cómo construyes tu amor? ¿Cómo es tu amor?

[dominicths]

JARDÍN — después de tener que lidiar por media hora con sus hijos y el por qué no deben quitarse los abrigos, había podido regresar a reunirse con los adultos, sabía que alguien los estaba cuidando en la zona de niños por lo que podía disfrutar un rato. ' buen día ¿está disponible este asiento? ' pregunta a la persona que está alado de la silla mencionada, pues desde ese lugar se le hacía fácil mirar hacia donde estaban los pequeños jugando.

[thaleleah]

𝓖𝓸𝓭𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓼 (𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝓞𝓷𝓮)

Pairing: Billy The Kid x Fem!Nun!Reader

Warnings: ***NON-CON***, Dub-Con, Dark!Billy, Virgin!Reader, Oral (female receiving), Fingering, P in V, Corruption Kink, Creampie, Possessive Behavior, Masturbation, Wet Dreams/Sex Dreams, Seduction, Emotional Manipulation, Religion and Religious Beliefs, Explicit talk of gunshot wounds, blood, and the bullet's removal (kinda? Idk if it's explicit explicit, but its a little more than just mentioned), Mention of physical abuse/child abuse (not from Billy), Childhood Trauma, Mention of alcoholism, Moral/Religious conflict within one's self, My bad Spanish, Nun breaking her vows, Probably too quick of a healing process to be fucking someone but I'm not a doctor so 🤷🏻‍♀️, Using the word "drawers" instead of "panties" which is kinda cringe to me but I wanted to be somewhat accurate

Word Count: 9.6K

A/N: Billy's passed out for most of this but I hope y'all like it anyway. Please know I'm posting this and then running away. Okay, byeeeeeeeeee

Summary: When Billy stumbles into your clinic, hurt and in desperate need of care and refuge, you don't hesitate to help him. Perhaps this is God's will. Perhaps He has brought him into your life to help heal the parts of him that the cruelness of the world has soiled and broken. You are a healer by trade, both of the physical body and of faith. If this is to be God's mission for you, then it shall be done. How could you have possibly known that the young man who begged for help that fateful night would turn out to be the devil himself?

Next >>>

Translations:

Por Dios - Oh my God

Que Dios te bendiga - May God bless you

Qué sorpresa! - What a surprise!

Y él no quería que su mamá lo supiera. Así enterró la carne en el jardín - And he didn't want his mom to know. So he buried the meat in the garden

Pero el perro la desenterró y ella se descubrió de todos modos. Tuvo que lavar platos él solo por dos meses - But the dog dug it up and she found out anyway. He had to wash the dishes by himself for two months

Ese niño - That kid/child

Parece que era un buen amigo - Seems like he was a good friend

Sí, él era - Yes, he was

De nada - You're welcome

Gracias, Hermana - Thanks, Sister

They say the devil can take on many forms.

He is a demon figure - with the face of a goat, horns, hooves, and a blade pointed tail.

He is a great dragon - large and terrifying, destructive and formidable in the power he holds.

He is a roaring lion - hungry and fierce as he stalks God’s children, waiting for them to fall into his trap before he attacks them like prey.

But the devil was once God’s favorite angel, amazingly beautiful and wise. The angel of light, God’s morning star - a traitor now, a trickster . . . evil.

The Lord teaches love for all, compassion and understanding despite another’s upbringing or current situation. All humans are God’s children, all made in His perfect image, brothers and sisters in unity under His loving and eternal care. You are thankful to know this, grateful that you can feel His presence coursing through your veins despite the horror that you’ve come to face daily while working at the clinic. His gift to you is your endless drive to help those in need, sitting by the bedsides of the sick and dying, applying a cool rag to their sweaty foreheads, or spoon feeding them soup to give them strength when they are too weak to do it themselves. 

It is a taxing life, and the sorrow you feel when you cannot nurse someone back to health is ever present in your heart, but the Lord is clear in your life’s mission and you will be forever thankful for the lessons you learn in this lifetime. 

He has made you a healer, using you as a vessel for His healing touch for all you come across - regardless of wealth, status, religious affiliation, or criminal record. 

Which is why when he stumbles into the clinic during the late hours of the night, face pale and hand pressing hard to his side where blood is streaming through his fingers despite the pressure, you don’t hesitate to help him. 

You think you should have - should have let him bleed to death on the clinic floor. Would God have abandoned you if you had?

“Sister Maria!” You cry instead, running to the injured man and looping his arm around your shoulders to help him lean against you. “We need fresh towels and water! And sutures! Hurry!”

Sister Maria runs in the room, bedsheets still cradled in her arms from where she had been turning over a recently discharged patient’s room. She gasps at the scene, dropping the linens on the floor as she rushes to the main utility closet. You guide the man to a bed, helping him drop onto the thin mattress with a tortured groan. One of your hands splays over his, helping to maintain pressure on the wound until Sister Maria can bring in the needed supplies. Your other hand lays gently on his sweaty forehead, thumb caressing the straight line of his nose trying to soothe him. 

His baby blue eyes stare up at you through their pained haze. 

“P-please, help,”

The devil can take on many forms and carry many names.

And yet, despite all you’ve heard about who he is and what he’s done, you never once considered Billy the Kid to be one of them. 

Misguided and uncared for - sure, but never evil. 

He’s so young. You can’t even imagine what horrors he must have had to go through to lead him to the path that he’s on now.

Perhaps it’s fate that you’ve been brought together, an opportunity for you to spread the healing power of your Lord’s love and mend not only his body but his bruised heart as well. You’ve seen too many times where hardships have hardened the minds and spirits of others, caging them off from God as they struggle with their wavering faith. 

“Don’t you worry,” You say. “The Lord is here with us. He will see you through.”

Whether he groans from your words or the pain, you’re not sure.

Sister Maria is quick to grab the supplies, dumping them on the side table. She dunks a clean cloth in the water, wringing out the excess, but pauses when she sees his face. 

“Is that— ” 

“Nevermind that!” You hiss, pulling the cloth from her hand. 

You lift his shirt, exposing the injury and the dirt dusted skin framing it. It looks horrible, blood seeping from the laceration in a steady flow and a part of you is thankful that the sight of blood doesn’t make you immediately drop to the floor like your cousin, Paul. He gasps when you touch the cloth to the wound, blood immediately seeping into the white of the cloth and marring the pure color. 

His fingers dig into the fabric of his trousers, gripping it tight as he clenches his teeth against the pain. Your free hand rubs lightly against his forehead, trying to soothe him as best you can while you clean the wound. 

You think it must be God’s mercy that he passes out before you can pull the bullet out. The pain of the forceps digging into his body as you pulled out the thick ball of lead and the shock that would have come with it would have surely dragged him under had blood loss not gotten to him first. It’s better this way - he’s safer cradled in sleep’s loving hold rather than crying and jerking about as you try to save his life. 

Sister Maria holds a small bowl out in front of you with one hand while the other delicately holds his wrist, feeling his pulse between her dainty fingers.

The bullet comes out easy, your forceps finding the lead and guiding it out of the wound’s entrance with ease. It clanks as you drop it into the tiny bowl, and you send up prayers of thanks for allowing such a quick and simple removal. The grace of your Lord has certainly just saved this man’s life.

With quick fingers, you stitch him up, practiced movements securing the wound shut before covering it with a generous dressing of cloth to keep it clean from any dirt and debris. 

His sleep isn’t restful, the pinch in his brow and the way his cheeks twitch in the flickering candlelight of the small room make that clear. Your own brows pinch as you reach a hand out to trace the furrowed skin, smoothing it out with a gentle thumb. You don’t like seeing people suffer, but it’s more often than not that the people you come into contact with while working in the clinic are in pain, or suffering, or at Heaven’s doorstep. You help who you can and pray for the souls of the ones you can’t so they may be guided to God’s kingdom where they can live in an eternal paradise by His side. It always hurts when you can’t heal someone, the feeling of failure is a stark reminder that ultimately it is the Lord who chooses to give us life, and he can choose to take it away just as quickly. 

It feels different this time though, somehow more personal in a way you can’t understand. The young man before you still has his whole life ahead of him, still so much to do and so many lives to touch. The sins that he’s committed thus far can be forgiven, if only he lifts them up to Him and asks for forgiveness. You can feel it, deep in your bones, that you need to save this man. You can’t fail. 

He’s alive, for now. And you can only do your best to make sure he stays that way. 

“He cannot stay here,” Sister Maria says quietly, gathering the red stained water and rags. “They will find him.”

You nod, gathering the small bowl with the bullet remnant and the sutures kit. “We’ll keep him here tonight and move him to the back room in the morning after he’s rested a while,”

“No,” Sister Maria says. “He cannot stay here. Helping an outlaw is punishable by death. They will hang us,”

“God will not abandon us,” You say, firmly. “We are all His children, servants and outlaw alike. He wouldn’t want us to toss him out on the street to die.”

You look over your shoulder towards the sleeping man again. His brow is furrowed again, the sweat on his face glistening in the light. You sigh before turning back to Sister Maria. “Don’t worry, Sister. I’ll think of something,”

The pacifying words seem to offer Sister Maria no comfort, and her worried eyes snap upwards as she looks towards the ceiling, voice cracking as she breathes a pleading, “Por Dios,” up towards the roof. 

The room is silent to her plea.

You don’t leave Billy’s side the entire night, sitting in the chair directly next to the bed, dabbing at his heated face and neck with a damp washcloth and changing his bandage when the first one had soiled through. He wakes a few times during the night, icy blue eyes fluttering open and locking on yours for the briefest second before slipping closed once again, a quiet sigh escaping through his slightly parted lips. 

This is the hardest part - the waiting. Waiting to see if your hard work to heal someone was enough. You keep a close eye on him, looking for signs of pain or illness, keeping an eye on the injury site to try and prevent infection. You flushed it with alcohol during the dressing change, having found an extra bottle hiding in the supply closet while grabbing some fresh cloths. Supplies like alcohol for disinfecting, while needlessly abundant in saloons and brothels, are difficult to acquire for the clinic. You think it's foolish, wasting something that can be used for healing purposes on something as pointless as getting drunk. Your father had been a drunk, drinking away his cares and woes, his only goal was to make it to the bottom of a bottle. 

You wish you would have found it sooner so you could have actually disinfected the entire wound instead of just the outside and stitches, but this is better than nothing, you suppose. The smell as you pour it over his wound makes your stomach turn, reminding you of all the times your father came home reeking of the stuff, belly full of poison and his mind, hazed with drink, still evil enough to find your mother and make her suffer as if she were the reason he deemed himself a failure in life. Billy lets out a pained moan in his sleep, body subconsciously tensing in pain as the alcohol flushes the stitched up skin, but thankfully he doesn’t wake. You don’t want him to be in pain, but there’s a part of you that selfishly thinks he’s sharing your own pain, the memory of your childhood trauma somehow seeping into his brain as you recover his wound. 

You know it’s not true, but you’re thankful he’s there with you anyway. 

When morning arrives, you’re beyond exhausted. 

The night shift always takes more out of you than the day shift and your eyes have been threatening to close since the first rays of the sun started spreading across the dust covered floor of the clinic. 

Sister Ann and Sister Catherine arrive before the sun does, the first rays of it only starting to spill over the New Mexico horizon line when their footsteps echo through the entryway. You lean forward in your seat at the sound of them, glancing over at Billy’s still sleeping frame as Sister Ann’s gentle humming of a nursery song her mother used to sing to her spreads throughout the clinic. Quick footsteps cut through the song, the humming stopping entirely as frantic whispers sound from the entryway. And then three sets of running feet are getting closer to the corner room. 

“Oh, good heavens,” Sister Catherine breathes, eyes locked on the special patient taking up the small bed. 

Sister Ann has a dainty hand clasped against her mouth in shock and Sister Maria nervously wrings her own together from behind them. 

“He was hurt,” You say, immediately defensive of the injured man. “We couldn’t leave him to die. The Lord says–”

“You don’t need to preach to us, Sister y/n,” Sister Catherine interrupts. “It’s the right thing to do. The Lord is on our side.” She’s confident in her words, and it gives you comfort you didn’t know you needed to have your beliefs validated. But she pauses, eyes flickering once again to Billy before they meet yours - the fear in her brown orbs clear as day. “The law, on the other hand, will not be.” 

“We need to move him,” You say.

“To where?” Sister Ann whispers frantically. “The sheriff and his deputies are sure to show up here. They know he’s been shot, it’s only a matter of time.”

“It is a blessing they have not come already,” Sister Maria adds.

They’re right. With Billy injured, they have to know he couldn’t have gotten far. Their only saving grace is that the Sheriff more than likely would have never believed Billy would have come to the clinic for medical attention if on the run from the law. Perhaps holed up in some abandoned alley, bleeding out while propped up against a wall. Or maybe they think he tried riding out of town, desperate to get as far away from the people hunting him as possible before inevitably succumbing to his injuries and falling off his horse in a nearby field. 

You rise from the chair, leaning over the bed slightly to rest a gentle hand on Billy’s forehead. It’s still clammy against your palm and he shivers slightly in his sleep, subconsciously pressing his head a little harder against your hand looking for comfort in his pained state. He needs to get away from here, away from any prying eyes because if he’s found, his life on this Earth is over. He is in no position to run or fight for his life. The road to recovery for him is a long one if he hopes to heal well enough to regain his strength and usual mobility. The only thing he will have to look forward to if discovered before he can is a necklace of rope and a quick fall. 

“Help me get him to the back room,” You say, sternly. In moments of uncertainty and panic, someone needs to be the guiding light. Your fellow Sisters are still as stones in their spots, all in various states of distress as they look at the man who, if discovered under their care, could very well be the catalyst that marks the end of their missions here on Earth. The Lord brought Billy to you - you need to protect him. “He can stay in the alcove until we can figure out where to take him.”

“He cannot stay in the clinic!” Sister Maria exclaims. “They will surely check every room searching for him!”

“Trust me,” You soothe. “Please, Sister. We need to move him before they come or we will all surely pay the price.”

There is a short pause, but to your frantic brain it feels like an eternity before Sister Catherine nods and gently nudges Sister Ann to the opposite side of the bed. 

“Let’s hurry,” She says, reaching to pull away the thin blanket you threw over Billy’s shaking frame at some point during the night. “I fear we don’t have much time left.”

Together, the four of you lift Billy from the bed. It’s a struggle. Even for multiple women to carry a fully grown man, it's a task and a half just to get him from the small patient room to the back area of the clinic. He whines in his sleep, his wound jostling and stitches pulling from the regretfully poor stability you have on his body as you carry him. But, somehow, he doesn’t wake. 

The back room is small, but comparatively large compared to the patient’s rooms. The entire width is the size of two patient rooms combined, but that’s not giving it much grace. It makes you sick sometimes, to see people with money spending it on lavish items, large houses and grand parties just to show off their wealth when there are people in need all around whose lives would change if they only had a fraction of the wealth the ones in good standing do. As it is, the back room of the clinic is despairingly bare - limited backstock of supplies, linens, and food are scattered among the wooden shelves lining the room. If only those wealthy men who think to only fill their pockets would hear the Lord’s call to give to the needy instead. It would make your heart happy to see these shelves filled just once. 

There’s a small alcove in the back of the room that you and the other Sisters use when times prove most trying. On the days when things are difficult, emotions are too much for you to handle alone or a patient isn’t doing well and there’s nothing you can do other than wait and pray for their recovery, you visit the alcove. It's been adorned with simple yet revenant items, a small yet beautiful cross nailed to the center of the wall, a small ceramic dish holding a wooden beaded rosary placed on the floor below it, resting on a pleasantly fluffed up pillow - ready to help guide their prayer. 

Resting against the side wall of the alcove is a folded up cot. It’s not uncommon that one of the Sisters might have to sleep at the clinic during their off shift. More often than not, they are able to return to their lodgings to sleep and reenergize for their next shift. But there are times when too many people are injured, too many of the townspeople have fallen ill to whatever flu or illness that’s crossing through the town and all hands are needed here. The foldable cot is their home away from home, and while it might not be the most comfortable, you are thankful the Lord was able to provide it lest you be made to sleep on the floor behind the extra blankets neatly folded on the shelves. 

You all adjust your grips on the young man allowing for Sister Maria to release her hold and pull back the thick blanket shielding the entrance to the alcove. You grunt under the presence of the additional weight, the awkward grip you all have on him unhelpful in the way his limp body bears down on you all. Sister Maria is quick in tying back the privacy blanket so that it stays to one side, and works to wrangle open the finicky cot. Once it’s unrolled, you help in depositing Billy down onto the makeshift bed, quickly checking his wound to make sure no stitches accidentally ripped in the journey back here before turning to accept the fresh blanket Sister Ann hands you from the shelf. 

Billy’s brow is furrowed again, breathing a little harsher probably from the pain of being jostled. You lay out the blanket over top of him and pull it up to his chin, your hand reaching out to smooth the wrinkled skin between his eyes again. 

“What do we do now?” Sister Ann asks, and Sister Catherine pulls her hand away from where it was plucking nervously at the skin at the sides of her fingers.

“We wait,” She responds, cradling Sister Ann’s damaged hand delicately between her own. “We won’t be able to move him out of the clinic before the Sheriff arrives. We’ll have to keep him hidden here until then and pray they don’t find him.”

The thought of the Sheriff and his men finding Billy here makes your stomach churn. The undeniable fate that waits for you if he’s discovered is one that you’re willing to sacrifice. He’s come here for help, God has brought him here to you for your healing and protection and you can’t fail Him just because your humanity makes you fearful of your end. It’s supposed to be a beautiful thing - death. The moment when your soul on this Earth fulfills its mission here and your granted eternal life at the side of God in the Kingdom of Heaven. It’s what you’ve wanted your whole life, a life of peace and serenity that seems so out of reach here on the soil. Fear will not keep you from looking forward to it. But you’re not done here yet, you have many years left of helping others and spreading His love to those in need. This is not your end. But if it is, it’s worth the sacrifice to try to save Billy. 

You’ll hang with him, if need be. 

Your fellow Sisters though . . . the thought of them hanging for your own choice, regardless of if you think it was the right thing to do, makes you sick. Your decisions are your own, and they shouldn’t suffer for your choices. 

Billy’s forehead unwrinkles under your gentle fingers, and you can feel your heart break as you look down at him. He’s so young still, a young man just at the beginning of his life. He has so many fine years ahead of him. He’s handsome, fit and strong - he would make a fine husband for some lucky lady, a dutiful father for his children. He’s not as evil as they say. You’ve learned to trust your instincts when it comes to people. Sometimes the most misunderstood people are the kindest, and you can’t help but think Billy is the most misunderstood of all. You can’t sense a single whisper of badness in him. 

You stand up and pull the privacy blanket back in front of the alcove, hiding Billy from sight in the safety of God’s makeshift altar. Together, you and the other Sisters make your way out of the back room. A few rooms down a sickly man is coughing up a storm, and from how hard and continuous his coughs are, you know his throat is raw. Sister Ann shoots the rest of you a worried look, but turns to grab a water carafe off of a side table before rushing down the hall towards the coughing man and away from the current situation. 

“You can head back, Sister Maria,” You say, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. “Get some rest. It’s going to be a long day and we’re going to need you for the night shift.”

You can tell she’s torn, both wanting to stay and help in any way she can but seeming to know that there’s nothing she can do. All there is to do is wait. After a few moments, she nods, her own hand coming up to rest on top of yours. “Que Dios te bendiga,”

You watch as she makes her way towards the front, pushing open the wooden door before jerking to a halt. “Sheriff Garrett! Qué sorpresa!”

Her words sent a spark of panic through you. It’s so soon! You knew it was coming, but it’s still so incredibly soon. You had hoped for at least a while longer to try to gather your thoughts and think of a plan of where you can take Billy, but it feels like time moves slowly as the Sheriff and two of his deputies step into the clinic.

“Sister,” Garrett responds, respectfully tipping his hat. 

Even through your panic, you still feel a twinge of irritation. A gentleman would take off his hat, but you suppose it’s better than the two men standing behind him who do nothing but trail their eyes around the clinic's entrance suspiciously (and with a clear bout of judgment).

You know for a fact these men with gold lined pockets have never given so much as a dime to the clinic. 

Sister Maria turns back to look at you and Sister Catherine, desperation clear in her eyes and you're glad that none of the men are looking at her anymore or you think her obvious distress might have given you all away.

“Have a good rest, Sister,” You say, urging Sister Maria away. Thankfully, she listens, nodding to you and then Garrett before scurrying out the door. 

“How can we help you, Sheriff?” Sister Catherine asks. 

Garrett takes a few leisurely steps along the entryway, observing the interior of the clinic with the aura of a man who thinks he can see everything. You suspect he sees nothing at all. 

“I apologize for the interruption, Sisters. I know you’re hard at work," He says. “But we’re looking for an outlaw on the run.” He pauses, looking over at the two of you with pointed eyes. At your silence, he continues. “William H. Bonney, otherwise known as Billy the Kid,”

“Oh, dear,” Sister Catherine gasps. 

You feign concern also, bringing your fingers to your mouth as a sign of shock. Garrett nods in agreement at your supposed horror. 

“As you no doubt know he is a very dangerous, very unlawful, man,”

“So we’ve heard,” Sister Catherine says, nodding solemnly. “Is that what brings you in today?”

“Yes,” He says. “There was an altercation last night between him and I. I was able to shoot him so he is very hurt, but he got away before I could arrest him or finish the job.”

“Kinda stupid to come to a clinic when you’re a wanted outlaw, Pat,” One of the men behind Garrett grumbles. “We’re wasting our time here.”

You can’t help but agree, despite that being exactly what Billy did. But maybe that’s what makes it smart. You're hopeful that Garrett will listen to his friend, will assume that Billy couldn’t possibly be here and leave the clinic without investigating it. 

The small spark of hope dies as Garrett laughs without mirth. “The Kid’s not stupid. But we’re covering all our bases,” 

“Helloooooo,” A voice calls from another room opposite the patient still occasionally coughing up a lung. “Can someone please pay attention to the sick people around here? Hellooooooooooo?”

Sister Catherine smiles tightly. “Mr. Taylor,” She says by way of explanation. “A rather problematic patient here. He’s a good man, just impatient.”

Sister Ann’s voice can still be heard attempting to soothe her own charge, so Sister Catherine has no choice but to tend to Mr. Taylor. When she disappears from sight, you turn back to Garrett, trying your best to deter suspicion. 

“I can assure you, Sheriff, that we haven’t seen any sign of Mr. Bonney around here,” The lie leaves your lips far too easily for it to feel like the sin that it is.

Garrett nods, and you can tell he believes you, but puts his hands on his hips all the same, one hand pushing aside his coat to rest freely on the hilt of his gun. “Mind if we have a look around?”  

You force a smile on your face. “Not at all. As long as you don’t bother any of the patients. They need their rest,”

“Certainly,”

You lead him around the clinic allowing him and the deputies to search the rooms for their missing outlaw. When they get to Billy’s old room, the room they just vacated not minutes before the Sheriff arrived, you tell them that a patient was recently discharged and that you hadn’t had the time to turn over the room yet. 

“Why is there blood on ‘em?” One of the deputies asks, nodding to the blood stains still covering the stark white of the sheets. 

“A cooking accident,” You reply. “An incorrect knife hold can sometimes do that,”

Another lie. You feel this one a little more than the first. 

Eventually their search comes to the back room. You can’t keep them out, that would be too suspicious, so you allow them to walk through the half filled shelves. It's more than clear that there’s no place to hide anyone here other than the alcove and you're naively hoping they won’t even realize it’s there. 

It’s a large blanket hanging on the wall. Of course, they’re going to notice it. 

And, sure enough, one of the deputy’s eyes cut to the blanket. He heads towards it with a gruff “What’s behind here?” but you intercept him, rushing over to stand between him and the alcove.

The Sheriff and his deputies have their eyes on you now, each one closing in closer to you and the alcove, much too close for comfort.

“Sister,” Garrett says, voice stern with authority. “What’s behind the blanket?”

“It’s our place of prayer here,” You say, voice calm despite your nervousness. “Our altar.” You can’t mess up now. If you show any sign that you’re being untruthful, both you and Billy as well as your fellow Sisters out front will be on a one way trip to the courthouse. You’ll all die hanging from its top banister. “When healing doesn’t seem to be enough, it helps to have a place dedicated to God to call upon his everlasting power to perform miracles.”

Garrett nods. “Mind if we take a look?”

“Yes, actually. I do,” Your quick denial clearly catches him off guard, his eyebrows raising towards his hat. “Just as God bids us to modesty with our clothing, we must also show privacy and modesty in our places of worship. They’re sacred spaces. Surely you understand that, Sheriff,” 

The words feel like poison on your tongue. Using worship and prayer to cover up a lie is the catalyst that makes bile feel like it's rising in your throat. It’s not a lie, you have to remind yourself. It is a makeshift altar, you do use it as a place of worship and prayer. Just . . . not right at this moment. 

The reality of the situation is catching up with you, and you hide your slightly shaking hands by folding them together in front of you. You haven’t lied in years. You lied a lot as a child, a necessity of living with a father who’s anger could strike at a moment’s notice. You resented having to do it back then, forced to sin for the sake of trying to keep peace in the home. It’s much like the situation you find yourself in now, having to lie to try and protect another person. To protect yourself. 

When you found refuge at the convent all those years ago, you were told you would never have to be untruthful ever again.

“God is granting you freedom from your woes,” You were told, and you remember how light those words had made you feel. “Thank him for His good graces with your undying loyalty and strive to always be who He guides you to be.”

You hadn’t lied since, no matter how tough things seemed. Sickly patients lying on their deathbed, scared and begging you for any kind of reassurance that it wasn’t the end for them. You wouldn’t give them false hope. Instead, you would tell them to turn their worries to the Lord, clasping their hands in yours and praying with them.

“Your soul is strong, bright and ever-present,” You would tell them. Sometimes you would let them hold your rosary so they can find comfort in it. “The body is a temple, and we do our best in our life to care for it. You’ve done that. If it weakens now, it is because God is calling your soul back to Him.”

The guilt is clawing at your chest, but you force it back as best as you can as you meet Garrett’s eyes. “I ask that you don’t force us to desecrate that,” 

Garrett just stares at you, an unreadable expression on his face. One deputy just looks between you and Garrett, uncertain with how to proceed in the face of defying authority, and the other deputy that sneered at the thought of Billy even coming to the clinic scoffs at your words. 

“Listen, lady, the law–”

“John, enough,” Garrett interrupts, voice shockingly hard as his eyes cut to his deputy. “She’s a Sister and you’ll show her respect.”

You feel a quick spark of satisfaction at the way the deputy’s confident, power hungry facade dies under the Sheriff's ridicule. He mumbles a quick apology to which you accept with a nod despite how insincere it sounds. 

Garrett nods his head towards the door, silently gesturing for the other two to head towards the exit before he tips his hat at you directly, thanking you for your time and apologizing for any inconvenience their visit may have caused. 

You want to tell him it was no inconvenience at all, but you’ve already sinned enough today and you can’t bear the thought of intentionally adding to the tally without justified need. Instead you settle on curving your lips into a convincing smile, thanking the men in return for their brevity and understanding and wishing them a good rest of their day as you usher them out of the back room and towards the front entrance.

Every single muscle in your body relaxes once they are completely out of the clinic, relief washing over you as you whisper out a quick prayer of thanks to God for allowing everyone to get out of the overwhelmingly dangerous situation unscathed - at least for now. 

Sister Ann and Sister Catherine peek out of their respective rooms when they hear the front door swing shut, their wide eyes mimicking the relief you know is shown in your own. 

“I can’t believe they didn’t find him,” Sister Ann admits, and it pains your heart to see tears begin to well up in her eyes. “I thought this was truly the end for all of us.” 

You have her in your arms in an instant, cradling her small frame against your chest as she begins to cry in earnest. For as scary as it’s been for you so far, you can’t imagine what she’s been going through. Sister Ann and Sister Catherine have only known about Billy for less than no time at all. And yet, despite the short period of time between finding out about Billy, getting him into the alcove, and the entrance and departure of the Sheriff - you’re sure it probably felt like an eternity to her. 

“Hush now, Sister,” You whisper, running a soothing hand along her back. “You’re safe, I promise.”

Sister Catherine places one of her hands on Sister Ann’s back as well, but she’s looking at you when she speaks. “He still can’t stay here,”

You know that. You know. You got lucky that the Sheriff didn’t find Billy this time, but who's to say that he won’t come back when he’s unable to find his missing outlaw anywhere else? Covering all his bases, that’s what he said. He’ll come back again when he sees that his other ‘bases’ have turned up nothing but dead ends. 

Your older brother, Joe, has a cabin just outside of town. It’s a hidden place, specifically built for peace. No visitors. He lives alone, no wife or children to keep him company and he prefers it that way. 

“If I’m alone, I can’t turn into him,” 

You're positive he wouldn’t. Your brother is far from being anything like your father, but the task of trying to prove that to him seems to be out of your skillset. He tells you he’s happy with his life, that he’s chosen the path he feels he needs to be on just as you have. Who are you to pass judgment?

Joe likes the solitude, that much is certain. But he also has an adventurous spirit which guides him on lengthy trips from town to town, exploring all the world has to offer while never having to be tied to one place. He’s away now according to the last letter he sent you, planning to stay in Chihuahua, Mexico for a while and that he’s not sure yet when he’s going to be back. 

“It’s dangerous,” Sister Catherine pushes, taking your silence as reluctance.

“I know,” You say. “I know. I think . . . I think I have an idea.”

The cabin will be empty. Joe isn’t due back for the immediate future, and even if he does return earlier than you suspect he will, you and Billy won’t be in danger. Joe can be trusted. He’ll help you, if need be. You can’t imagine that the Sheriff would ever know about it. It’s secluded - far off of any of the usual paths. It’s safe there. The perfect place to hide the wanted outlaw for a while. He can rest there, heal up uninterrupted for a few weeks until he can safely move around on his own two feet again. 

Sister Catherine listens openly to the idea, but her face is pinched in displeasure. 

“We don’t have much of a choice,” She says, reluctantly. “It seems like the best place for him to disappear to until he’s healed.”

You can hear the underlying pause in her agreement loud and clear. “But?”

“The clinic cannot spare two of us. We would lose half of our staff and it is too much for one person to handle alone per shift,”

“I wouldn’t ask any of you to come with us,” You say. No, for as much as you believe God sent Billy into your life for a reason, this was your mission to bear. You’ve already put your fellow Sisters through enough.

“You want to go alone?” Sister Ann sniffles, raising her head up from your chest.

“You need to think about this,” Sister Catherine says, sternly. “You shouldn’t be alone with him. He is a child of God, yes. But he is also an outlaw and a man. Sometimes, one of those is worse than the other.”

They’re being protective. The more rational part of you is grateful for their concern, and you think that if the positions were switched and one of them were in your position instead, you would react the same way. But a part of you is bitter. They’ve heard the stories. You know exactly how cruel men can be and you know exactly what they’re capable of. It’s a risk you’re taking, but you feel called to take it anyway. Billy needs your help, and God would never put anything in your path that you can’t handle.

“The Lord will protect me,” Despite the truthfulness of your words, you can see how they do little to reassure them. Your next words are better. “The Lord will help me protect myself.”

Sister Ann looks at Sister Catherine, once again bringing her hands together to pick at the reddened skin at the edge of her nail. Sister Catherine sighs, and the back of her hand reaches up to tap her forehead as if feeling the temperature or wiping away sweat. 

“Alright,” She relents. “How do we get him to your brother’s cabin?”

“I don’t know,” You admit. “We need a wagon. Or a large wheelbarrow that we can put him in and attach it to a horse. I haven’t ridden a horse in a long time, but I’m sure I can manage.”

“Where are we supposed to get that?” Sister Ann’s tone borders on exasperated. 

As if answering your unspoken prayer, the door to the clinic opens once more, this time revealing a bright faced Samuel Anderson, carrying a crate full of fresh supplies. And behind him, lit up by the sunlight like a bright blessing, is his wagon.

Sam Anderson is the son of local store owner, Edward Anderson, the clinic's top provider for basic supplies that are not strictly medical. While medicine shipments and more specialty items are donated from suppliers farther away, and frankly much less frequent than necessary, Mr. Anderson and Sam never fail to come through with plenty of food for you to make soups and nutritious meals for your patients. On occasion, you even have enough to give away to the families who are stacked together in a small two bedroom on the edge of town. With eight children total between two families, you're honestly not sure how they manage - but you do your best to help when you can. 

Seeing Sam walk through the front door is like a beacon of light from Heaven is shining down on him. He’s smiling already, the crate of food handled carefully between his hands as he lets out a cheery, “Good morning, Sisters”. But as soon as he sees your faces, more specifically when he sees the tear tracks still visible on Sister Ann’s cheeks, he’s placing down the crate and across the clinic’s entrance in a second. 

“What’s going on?” He asks. His hands automatically reach out towards Sister Ann’s face as if to cup it, but he stops himself. Instead he just looks at her worriedly, his concerned gaze leaving her face for only a moment to glance at you and Sister Catherine before they’re back on her, voice low and gentle. “What’s wrong?” 

It’s no secret that Sam harbors some romantic feelings towards Sister Ann. There are days when you feel sorry for him - a young man, good and kind and generous, who you have no doubt would make a fine husband to any lucky woman is in love with one of the four women in the entire county who are incapable of returning his affection. But it’s moments like this when it’s easy to see God’s presence in other people. Sam is as respectful and kind as they come. He accepts his feelings can never be reciprocated and in turn uses his undying love and loyalty to Sister Ann by helping you all at the clinic with anything he can. 

Somehow, he doesn’t expect anything in return, never stares at Sister Ann with an ounce of lust in his eyes, and it warms your heart to see the godly quality that’s usually so absent in men so prevalent in him. 

“Something’s happened,” Sister Ann tells him, her voice still wobbly with emotion. 

“What?”

“Sam,” You say, calling his attention back to you. “I know I have no place to ask this and I won’t fault you if you decline, but– I’m asking.”

“Tell me,” He insists, pulling his hat from his head and holding it to his chest, and God bless how the sincerity in his voice bleeds into his words. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it,” 

So you tell him everything. Sam listens with wide eyes, shooting panicked glances at Sister Catherine and Sister Ann when you tell him about the Sheriff’s visit, and he’s genuinely sorrowful when your voice gets caught in your throat as you tell him that you had to tell some lies to get him to leave without discovering Billy. He’s nodding already when you mention your brother’s cabin.

“I’ll take you there,” He offers before you can even ask the question. “My wagon is always at your disposal.”

“It’s dangerous. If we’re caught, you would hang with us,” 

Sam lets out a breath, unconsciously glancing over at Sister Ann again. “If the four most wonderful and religiously minded people in town hang for trying to do the right thing, then this isn’t a town or even a world that I want to live in anymore. Please let me take you. It would be my honor,”

A small smile graces your lips as you reach out and gently cup his cheek in thanks. For as many men pull and grind on your nerves with their endless greed and manipulation tactics, Sam is a breath of fresh air - a truly God-fearing man with a good heart.

He’s another person that you’re putting at risk, another life in danger because of the choice you’ve made. You try not to think yourself too selfish. Surely the fact that Billy has turned up in your life is God’s plan, and He does not put obstacles in your way that you cannot overcome. 

He tells you that he’ll come back tomorrow. He has a delivery that’s expected in a town over and if he’s going to make it there and back before nightfall, he needs to leave before the sun comes up. 

“I’ll stop here first,” He says. “We can load him into the back of the wagon while most people are sleeping and make the trip to your brother’s before I head on my way.”

“Thank you, Sam. Honestly,”

“My pleasure,” He nods his head at you, replacing his hat and tipping it kindly towards Sister Catherine and Sister Ann. “Until tomorrow, Sisters,”

The door swings shut behind him as he leaves and you let out a deep breath, hands smoothing over the dark veil covering your head just to feel a bit more grounded before you pick up the crate of food Sam brought. Billy needs to eat something. You're not quite sure how long it's been since his last meal, but even if he ate a minute before bursting through the clinic’s doors in the early morning, he would surely still be hungry and in need of sustenance by now. His body is weak and it needs nourishment to heal. 

Billy’s still sleeping when you peek around the privacy blanket. His head is turned to the side and buried in his pillow as much as he can get it, mouth hanging open as he breathes. Your hand itches to reach out and touch him again, to smooth against his forehead or cup his cheek, maybe place your fingers under his chin to help close his mouth in hopes of him breathing through his nose instead so his mouth doesn’t dry out. 

You’re not sure where this desire is coming from. You’re as affectionate with your patients as any nurse should be - kind and supportive, offering comfort when needed, but not overly so that it can be considered inappropriate. You’re all brothers and sisters, children of God - yes. But there are still social norms that must be considered. 

It feels different with Billy for some reason. 

“I’m going to get you to safety,” You whisper. You’re unsure about if he can hear you in his sleep or not, but you feel the need to tell him anyway. “I promise.”

You fall asleep at some point during the night, slumped against the wall next to the alcove’s entrance. 

You don’t remember falling asleep. You remember feeling tired, exhausted by the stress of the day’s events, and how your eyelids were threatening to close permanently more and more with each blink. The soup you had made still sat out in the small kitchen, and you had wanted to stay close to Billy so that whenever he awoke, you would be there ready to help feed him.

Instead, you wake to the sound of Sister Maria giggling to your left and a low, unfamiliar but still soft voice speaking in Spanish to her.

“Y él no quería que su mamá lo supiera. Así enterró la carne en el jardín,” The voice lets out a small chuckle, the smile on his face evident in his tone despite you not being able to understand most of his words. “Pero el perro la desenterró y ella se descubrió de todos modos. Tuvo que lavar platos él solo por dos meses.”

“Ese niño,” Sister Maria laughs. “Parece que era un buen amigo.”

You can’t see his face, but you can hear how he loses the smile in his voice. “Sí, él era,”

Pushing yourself to your feet, you step over to where Sister Maria is kneeling in front of Billy’s cot. It’s only now you see the mostly finished bowl of soup in her hands. Billy’s sitting up slightly, back propped up against his pillows enough to allow him to sit up a bit straighter but not enough to pull too much on his stitches.

At seeing your movement, his eyes snap to your approaching frame, big blue orbs staring up at you and you can’t help the relief you feel at seeing them.

“You’re awake,” You breathe, a small smile pulling at your lips. “Thank the Lord,”

His lips twitch a bit in what looks like a suppressed smile. “Kinda sounds like I should be thankin' you,” He says, and you notice how prominent the shift in his accent is as he seamlessly switches from Spanish to English. “Sister Maria says that you’re the only reason I’m alive right now.”

You shake your head, humbly. “Oh, no. Sister Maria and I work together as a team. I couldn’t have done it without her aid,”

“You show no fear,” Sister Maria insists. “Where I hesitate, you show mercy and strength. It is because of you that we are all alive now.”

“See?” Billy says with a blinding grin, and you can’t help but notice how handsome he is while no longer at death’s door. “My angel,”

You feel your face heat up at the endearment. An angel. Surely the comparison shouldn’t fluster you like it does. You’ve thought of your fellow nuns as the embodiment of angels before, angelic beings put into human bodies by the grace of God to spread His word. You know that’s not exactly true, that you’re just using your belief of what God’s angels would be like and seeing those beings in your fellow Sisters just like Billy is doing with you now, but you’ve never once thought yourself to be comparable to such a holy being and the compliment makes you flush.

You run a hand across your face, feeling the warmth under your palm, and clear your throat. “Oh, well, thank you,”

Sister Maria stands, taking the nearly finished bowl of soup with her. “He has eaten plenty and I changed his covering as soon as he woke up. You will want to change it again when you get to the cabin.”

“That’s great. Thank you,”

“De nada. I’ll go check on the patients and keep an eye out for Sam,”

She nods to you and Billy before she turns to leave, a small smile pulling at her lips when Billy rasps out a soft, “Gracias, Hermana,”

When she’s gone, you take her place in front of Billy, kneeling at his side and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better thanks to you,” He responds, wide eyes trained on yours, a smirk playing at his lips as he continues. “Don’t feel much like I’m dyin’ anymore,”

A small laugh escapes you at his morbid joke. “Well, I’d say that’s a very good thing then,”

“Sister Maria said the Sheriff came lookin’ for me,” 

“He did,” You confirm. “The Lord kept us all safe though and has given us an opportunity to get you to safety.”

Billy’s eyebrow raises skeptically. “Sounds like it was more your doin' than the Lord’s,”

You try to not let the slight against God rattle you. You had sensed this was coming anyway. William H. Bonney a.k.a Billy the Kid is an outlaw afterall, and no outlaw becomes an outlaw while still maintaining a positive relationship with the Heavenly Father. He’s gone through many hardships no doubt, and has more than likely deemed his bad luck in life as God’s personal vendetta against him.

“The Lord speaks through all of us, if only we have an open heart to hear him.” You tell him.  “Fear can make His words harder to hear, and I’m thankful that He was able to guide my mind and heart enough through the fear for us to get to safety.”

“Hm,” Billy hums, and you can tell how much he doesn’t believe your words. He doesn’t argue though. “And where exactly is this safe place you’re gonna take me?”

“My brother has a cabin just outside of town. It’s well secluded and unknown to most. We’ll be safe there until you’re healed enough to go on your own.”

Billy’s eyes drop to your hand still resting on his shoulder, thick dark lashes casting shadows on his cheeks before his bright blue eyes are locked on yours again. “You gonna be takin’ care of me, Sister?”

“Of course, I will,” You reply. “We shall see you well again, Billy. I promise.”

His own arm crosses his chest so his hand can rest on your own, his eyes wide and so earnest as he whispers a quiet, “Thank you,”

It’s only about an hour longer before Sam arrives. It’s still early morning, the sun still a ways away from coming up behind the horizon line, and town is silent. Sam pulls his wagon up to the back door of the backroom before coming around the front to help push it open from the inside. It’s been so long since it’s been opened. The door was once used for the scheduled delivery of goods for easy access to the storage area, but as years went on and the county and surrounding counties became overrun with greed and poverty, the shipments became less frequent. Now, anything needed just comes through the front door. It’s never too much anyway, so what’s a trip or two to the backroom while carrying a crate. 

Sam slams his body against the door a few times, the wood groaning in protest under his weight before it finally swings open. Billy watches from his place on the cot, his eyes threatening to close but forcing himself to stay awake. You want to tell him to sleep, he needs his rest to help him heal and recover, but you’re too busy checking your bag to make sure you haven't forgotten anything before tossing it in the back of the wagon. You need to leave before the townspeople start to wake up. If someone sees you, if just one person witnesses you smuggling away a wanted outlaw, then all of this would have been for nothing. 

“Sister y/n,” Sam calls, squatting at the head of the cot. He’s got his arms wrapped around Billy’s torso. “Come grab his legs. We’ll do our best not to jostle his wound,”

You come to a kneel at Billy’s legs, placing a comforting hand on his knee. “Do your best to relax, okay? If you tense, you might tear your stitches,”

Billy lets out a harsh breath through his nose, clearly nervous, but he nods anyway, brows furrowed in determination. 

Together you and Sam hoist him up. He gasps, groaning as his wound pulls but you can see how he’s trying to keep his stomach untensed. Getting him into the back of the wagon is not graceful, and you find yourself spewing endless apologies the whole time despite the relatively short journey. 

Sam’s laid out a bed of hay covered by two thick blankets throughout the entire bed of the wagon. Crates of food and other supplies take up half of the bed, but he’s managed to make it so Billy will have enough room to lay comfortably on his designated side. Billy sighs as he’s laid down on it, one of his legs bent at the knee and his palms pressing into the makeshift mattress as he cranes his neck up to look at you. You ball up a spare blanket, tucking it under his head before you push him back down with a gentle hand on his forehead.

“Rest now, Billy,” You tell him, crawling out backwards and helping Sam slide on the rectangular backing on the wagon to secure it shut. “We’ll be there when you wake up,”

His eyes stay locked on you as you circle the wagon towards the front. Sam helps you up onto the spring seat before jogging around the rear and hauling himself into the driver's seat. You smooth out your tunic, looking around the dark street for any suspicious or wandering eyes that might be peeking out from around buildings or through windows. You don’t see any, even as one of the horses whinnies when Sam urges them forward. The clinic is located towards the edge of town, so it only takes a few minutes of nervous eyes and your head on a swivel before the wagon is passing the final few buildings that mark the town’s end of population and you can relax.

You blow out a deep breath, meeting Sam’s equally relieved gaze as he snaps the reins and nudges the horses a little faster. You look over your shoulder to check on Billy and you’re expecting to see him sleeping, no doubt still exhausted from the trauma of taking a bullet. Instead, he’s looking at you, head twisting so he can see your elevated frame from his laid out position. His eyes seem to pierce into yours, so blue and intense as he watches you that it makes your breathing hitch in your throat. 

You’ve never seen eyes so beautiful before. Like endless pools of glistening water. Surely God must have taken much care when crafting them for him. 

You feel your skin prickle under his stare, body straightening in your seat. He doesn’t stop watching you.

“Sleep,” You tell him. “You’re safe, I promise.” And thankfully he listens, eyes trained on your face for just a moment more before closing his eyes. The tingling feeling in your body dissipates with the removed gaze. 

Your gaze turns around the front again, looking out to the vast stretch of land before you as you leave the civilization of town behind.

“Sam,” You start, looking for anything to pass the time and distract from whatever unusualness just happened between you and your charge. “How’s your mother?”

[1562738]

En algún momento de mi vida, comencé a hablar conmigo misma. La primera vez que recuerdo haber hecho eso es cuando mi pequeña niña juega afuera en la naturaleza en soledad. Soy creativa, entonces sé divertirme. Había tanto que explorar, tantos animales también. Comencé la escuela y los niños empezaron a entablar amistades. Eso fue muy duro. Pasé tanto tiempo sola, todo el concepto de cercanía era extraño. Como alguien que pasaba tiempo en soledad, comenzaba a cuestionarme por qué nadie pensaba de la misma manera que yo sobre la naturaleza. ¿No vieron la belleza? Encontré algunas personas que me acompañaron, como en un caso, encontré un pequeño árbol en el jardín de la escuela, hablé con él y lo acaricié. Alguien se unió pero, cuando vi que tenían otro mejor amigo, me decepcioné. A partir de entonces, mi felicidad en la soledad fue destruida. TENÍA que construir amistades, para la escuela, para mis padres, para las actividades. Pero nunca sentí lo mismo por ellos. Como en mi soledad. Nunca pensé en ello de la misma manera. Cuando volví a estar sola en la naturaleza, me invadió un nuevo sentimiento. Un sentimiento de soledad. La soledad ya no podía proporcionarme. Los amigos, como se llamaban a sí mismos, nunca pudieron hacerlo en primer lugar. Esto ha hecho que mi niña interior desee el Amor. El amor como objetivo final de la vida. Estaba dispuesta a darlo todo para alcanzar el amor. Cuanto más di, más me perdí. Al cumplir los 16, 17, 18, mi niña interior estaba llorando. SOLO necesitaba esa única cosa, amor. A medida que pasaban los años, mi yo adulta se dio cuenta de que, en primer lugar, buscar el amor nunca lo conseguiría. Mi yo infantil comenzaba a sentir que se estaba muriendo, cuando mi yo adulta estaba tratando de acunarla, callarla, diciéndole que ya había hecho lo suficiente. La gente se volvió insignificante. Establezco metas materiales. La naturaleza se volvió algo desagradable, mis pensamientos sobre el futuro sobrepasarían la alegría del ahora. Y, por supuesto, poco a poco fui alcanzando mis objetivos. Pero más aún, comencé a cuestionarme a mí misma,

¿Qué ha sido de mí?

¿Quién era yo antes?

¿Donde esta mi niñez?

¿Hay un lugar para mí en este mundo?

¿Hay amor?

[mesetacadre]

dijiste que conocías poetas comunistas. tienes favoritos?

Miguel Hernández tiene que estar. Poeta y militante comunista.

Luchó en Madrid, Teruel, Andalucía y Extremadura, miembro del 5to regimiento. También visitó la URSS y acudió al II Congreso de Escritores Antifascistas. Después de la guerra fue encarcelado, y murió en su celda en 1942. La causa de muerte fue enfermedad, pero él fue asesinado.

Si hay hombres que contienen un alma sin fronteras, una esparcida frente de mundiales cabellos, cubierta de horizontes, barcos y cordilleras, con arena y con nieve, tú eres uno de aquellos. Las patrias te llamaron con todas sus banderas, que tu aliento llenara de movimientos bellos. Quisiste apaciguar la sed de las panteras, y flameaste henchido contra sus atropellos. Con un sabor a todos los soles y los mares, España te recoge porque en ella realices tu majestad de árbol que abarca un continente. A través de tus huesos irán los olivares desplegando en la tierra sus más férreas raíces, abrazando a los hombres universal, fielmente.

Al soldado internacional caído en España, un homenaje de Hernández a las Brigadas Internacionales.

Otro militante comunista fue Rafael Alberti, forzado al exilio en Argentina en 1940 por las autoridades francesas. Un poema suyo que por lo que sea nunca se enseña en institutos es Redoble lento por la muerte de Stalin

[...] No ha muerto Stalin. No has muerto. Que cada lágrima cante tu recuerdo. Que cada gemido cante tu recuerdo. Tu pueblo tiene tu forma, su voz tu viril acento. No has muerto. Hablan por ti sus talleres, el hombre y la mujer nuevos. No has muerto. [...]

Pablo Neruda es otro, militante del Partido Comunista Chileno, a quien la guerra civil también le inquietó su lado político.

[...] Por las calles la sangre rota del hombre se juntaba Con el agua que sale del corazón destruido de las casas: Los huesos de los niños deshechos, el desgarrador Enlutado silencio de las madres, los ojos Cerrados para siempre de los indefensos, Eran como la tristeza y la pérdida, eran como un jardín esculpido, Eran la fe y la flor asesinadas para siempre. Camaradas, Entonces Os he visto, Y mis ojos están hasta ahora llenos de orgullo Porque os vi a través de la mañana de niebla llegar a la frente pura de Castilla Silenciosos y firmes Como campanas antes del alba, Llenos de solemnidad y de ojos azules venir de lejos y lejos, Venir de vuestros rincones, de vuestras patrias perdidas, de vuestros sueños Llenos de dulzura quemada y de fusiles A defender la ciudad española en que la libertad acorralada Pudo caer y morir mordida por las bestias. [...]

Llegada a Madrid de la Brigada Internacional

Prácticamente toda la generación del 36 en España eran o comunistas o simpatizantes comunistas.

[akira-dulbar]

La vida que dejastes atrás-

Parte 1 parte 2: vigilancia

parte 3

Resumen: Jasón después de descubrir que tiene un hijo decide seguir/vigilar a su hijo y la madre desde una distancia prudente, ya que tiene miedo que si se acerca puede arruinar todo.

advertencia: Acoso, intento de robo, violencia, mención de embarazo adolescente.

-------

Jason ha vivido muchas cosas, vivió en la calle, fue adoptado por un multimillonario, se convirtió en Robin, murió, resucito y se convirtió en red Hood, todo con tan solo con 21 años, vivió y vio mucha mas de lo que cualquiera debería. La verdad, se sentida preparado para todo...

pero..

Un padre jamás, ahora no pueden culparlo, su padre biológico era un desgraciado (que gracias a Dios esta en la cárcel), mientras su padre adoptivo lo dejo morir (aunque ya estaban hablando de eso), por lo tanto nunca se imagino siendo padre... y uno a los 15!.

Por eso cuando Tim y Damián le hablaron sobre la existencia de un hijo de 6 años que andaba por hay en Gotham City, pensó que se trataba de una especie de venganza después de una broma de mal gusto que les hizo unas noches atrás cuando estaban en patrulla. Pero cuando miro la pantalla de la baticomputadora donde estaban todo la evidencia (demonios, también había 3 pruebas de ADN) sintió que le vaciaron un balde de agua fría en la cabeza y cuando se dio cuenta se había desmayado.

Ahora bien, no podían culparlo, Jason podía ser todo, un asesino, un criminal, vigilante, jefe mafioso, hermano mayor, hijo desencariñado, entre otras mil cosas mas!.

pero nunca un padre...

jamás un padre..

No sabia ser un padre, apenas recordaba ese colegio, cuando murió y lo metieron en el pozo de lázaro lo ayudo físicamente pero no mentalmente (en realidad lo empeoro), muchos de los recuerdos que tenia desaparecieron y otros son como una neblina la cual no puede ver nada, por eso no sospechaba que tenia un hijo o que había dejado embarazada a una chica (demonios, el pensaba que todavía seguía virgen cuando murió!) ni siquiera recuerda a la chica (cosa que le deja mal sabor de boca, aunque ni siquiera es su culpa).

Por eso un mes después del descubrimiento y de haber tenido una crisis, decidió que por lo menos debía ver al niño. También porque Alfred dijo que por lo menos debía verlo aunque sea de reojo. Porque no se podía revertir lo que hizo (o lo que no hizo).

Cuando se entero que había una cafetería al frente del jardín de niños donde estudiaba su hijo (¡Tenia un hijo por el amor de Dios!), pensó que podía verlo de lejos en una distancia prudente, sentado en una mesa junto a la ventana que daba una gran vista de la entrada del jardín, lo que no esperaba fuera que su hermano mayor Dick decidiera acompañarlo.

-Nadie pidió que vinieras- Jason miro a Dick quien estaba a frente suyo bebiendo un batido, no quería que estuviera hay, el siente que necesitaba hacer esto solo.

-oh vamos, te la pasaste un mes encerrado en una de tus casas seguras sin hablar con nadie y cuando por fin sales esperas que no te apoye?- Jason sabia que Dick no tenia malas intenciones y que también el tenia emoción por conocer a su hijo (todavía no se acostumbra a esa palabra).

-si hable con alguien, hable con Alfred quien es mejor que cualquiera de ustedes- Alfred siempre ha sido la voz de la razón en la familia y la mejor persona con quien hablar con los problemas, después de todo los demás tienen problemas de comunicación (como el).

-y eso es genial, pero no solo cuentas con Alfred, ¿recuerdas?, también estamos nosotros, no estas solo Jasón-

-no se porque estando aqui me ayudas-

-apoyo morar, conocerás a... no, mejor dicho, veras por primera vez a tu hijo hoy creo que necesitas todo el apoyo que te podamos ofrecer.- Jason en vez de sentirse agradecido, solo puede sentirse desesperado.

-escucha Dick...-

-Oye mira, mira!- Dick no parada de señalar algo que estaba al otro lado de la ventana.

Jason miro como los niños empezaban a salir del jardín, todos con sus respectivas madres o padres, algunos estaban corriendo, otros saldando como unos locos y hablando tan rápido que seguro ni se le entendía ni la mitad de lo que decía, pero se veía como los padres solo asentían y sonreían a lo estuvieran diciendo. Parecían felices...

Y por un momento Jasón no pudo evitar imaginarse si hubiera sabido sobre el embarazo, si no hubiera muerto solo tal vez... tal vez el seria uno de ellos, uno de esos padres llevando a sus hijos de la mano y que les contara que como fue su día en el jardín, lo que hicieron, lo que descubrieron, lo que aprendieron...

Como seria.. como seria tener su mano entre la suyas, una mano tan pequeña comparada con la de el que es grande, como seria fácil cargarlo y mecerlo cuando tenga sueño...

Jasón no pudo evitar que su mente volara, tantas cosas que se perdió y que no podría experimentar..

-Oye mira, hay esta-cuando Dick dijo eso Jasón levanto rápidamente la mirada y lo que vio lo hizo congelarse en su lugar.

Hay esta un niño con un libro contra su pecho mirando de un lado a otro buscando posiblemente a su madre. Se dio cuenta que si, efectivamente era suyo, no se podía negar el parentesco.

El niño tenia el pelo, ojos y forma de cara a Jasón, pero había cosas que eran diferentes, como la forma de la nariz y la boca eran diferentes a la suyas, debió haberlo sacado de su madre.

Jason bajo los ojos para ver mejor el libro que tenia el niño, dándose cuenta que era un libro sobre mujercitas de Louisa May Alcott, jason se llevo una mano a la boca mientras sonreía, ese era una de sus libros favoritos también, al parecer el niño tenia el mismo gusto de libros que el. Se acuerda cuando Tim le dijo que cuando fue a buscar el ADN del niño vio un montón de libros en su cuarto en una estantería, Jason se preguntaba cuales otros libros les gustaban y si había otro que juera el favorito de Jasón.

-Valla tienes un hijo muy lindo, seguro que lo saco de su madre-Ah cierto, la madre, se preguntaba como serias, ¿también te gustaba los libros como el?, ¿Qué tanto se conocía el uno al otro?, ¿Por qué quisiste conservar al niño? (no lo malinterpreten, para el es una pregunta justa).

El niño sin saber que su padre biológico estaba a una pasos de el, empezó a correr hacia un lado, en seguida tanto Jasón como Dick se alarmaron y se levantaron de sus respectivo lugares (después de todo ¿Por qué un niño correría tan de repente si no fuera por peligro).

Pero los dos se calmaron casi al instante cuando el niño salto a los brazos de una mujer quien lo alzo y dio algunas volteretas con el, hay ambos se sentaron dándose cuenta quien era. Era tu la mujer de las fotos, la chica que Jasón había dejado embarazada (a quien le debía un montón de pensión alimenticia, demonios).

tu, la mujer en cuestión estaba vestida de una forma formal como de oficinista. Bajaste al niño, quien rápidamente empezó a saltar y mostrarte su libro, tal vez hablando sobre las paginas que leyó en el recreo, en todo caso, solo sonreías y asentía a todo lo que el niño decía.

Jasón miro como tu tomabas la pequeña mano del niño y empezaba a caminar por donde la la joven había aparecido, el solo se quedo mirando ambos se alejaban del jardín... de los demás niños y padres.... de El.

-Parecen felices, ¿verdad Jasón?- Dick volteo a mirar a Jasón después de ver como te dabas la vuelta a una esquina y desaparecían.

-Si, muy felices- Jasón solo se quedo mirando por donde la joven se había ido, eran felices.. muy felices y bien.. sin el. (aunque tampoco podía culparlos).

-------

Después de ver a su hijo y a la madre por primera vez (se esta acostumbrando a la palabra) un poco mas sobre ellos, aunque Tim y Damián ya lo habían ello y le dieron una carpeta con toda su información, no lo acepto por que decidió que quería hacerlo el mismo.

así que cuando descubrió como te llamabas se alegro de por fin colocarle un nombre a la cara (porque se estaba cansando de llamarla la madre de su hijo o la joven embarazada). Pero lo que si le sorprendió era el nombre se su hijo, cuando descubrió que tenia un hijo, trato de ignorar por completo el nombre, no quería ni verlo en pintura porque estaría aceptando algo que no estaba preparado.

Pero ahora era distinto, ya estaba aceptando el echo que tenia un hijo e incluso lo había visto cuando salió del jardín, así que ya se sentía preparado para el nombre..

Resulta que no, no estaba preparado..

Peter...

No había que ser un genio para saber de donde venia el nombre, ahora bien, no había forma de confirmar se le habían puesto el nombre en honor a el o por si fue casualidad de la vida, pero aunque no te conozca, tu parece una mujer que haría eso.

En todo caso cuando se descubrió donde vivía empezó a patrullar por la zona, aunque esta estuviera un poco lejos de su territorio no le importo, en realidad se alegro, eso quería decir que estaban mas lejos del peligro (aunque en todas las esquinas de Gotham fueran peligrosas).

Algunas veces solo se sentaba en el edificio del alado para mirar a la ventana de tu departamento y verlos interactuar en la sala o solo estar comiendo mientras ven una pelicula, era reconfortante ver esos momentos era como una terapia de relajación que Jasón tanto necesitaba. Sus momentos favoritos eran cuando estaban en el cuarto de su hijo y escuchar como tu le leía una pagina de algunos de los libros que Peter tenia en tu habitación o cuando los dos simplemente jugaban con las figuras de Superman y la mujer maravilla.

Mientras que Jasón estaba en las escaleras de incendios tratando de permanecer escondido escuchando todo lo que ellos dos decían y sentir una calidez en corazon, después de todo su hijo tiene lo mismo gustos de libros y de superhéroes, todos en la familia sabían que Jasón era fanático de la mujer maravilla y saber que su hijo también lo fuera solo lo hacia sonreír como un loco y cuando se entero que Peter no era fanático de Batman como todos en la ciudad, lo único que pudo hacer fue saltar de felicidad (por fin alguien que piensa como el!).

Si amaba esos momentos, eran relajantes y reconfortantes, aunque no le gustaba como su mente a veces divagara en que el también podía ser parte de esos momentos, que el también le leería libros a su hijo y a ti y que en algún momento estarían dormidos en el piso todos abrazados.

Debido a eso siempre pensó que hubiera pasado si se abriera enterrado desde el principio.

hubiera estado hay para su nacimiento, para sus primeras palabras, la primera vez que caminara, diablos apenes pensara si pudieron a ver sido una familia feliz, si las cosas contigo abrieran funcionado y hay estaría el, siendo una familia de 3 felices.

pero ya no había vuelta a tras, ellos estaban mejor sin el.. sin Jasón Todd quien es un jefe mafioso, quien estaba roto y que seguro en cualquier momento podría arruinarlo todo si se involucraba con ellos.

Por eso era mejor así, después de todo ellos estaban mejor sin el..

Sin un desastre como el...

-------

Había pasado dos meses desde que Jasón patrullaba en la zona cerca de tu casa de y su hijo (se dio cuenta que amaba llamar a Peter su hijo), los incidentes eran en su mayoría menores, solo unos robos aquí y allá y nada mas. por eso estaba feliz deseando poder verlos por la ventada del apartamento esa noche también.

aunque se dio cuenta rápidamente que ninguno de los dos estaba en el departamento, si no que habían ido a comprar algunas cosas para mañana, ya que aparecer a ti se te olvido en el ultimo segundo. Jasón se dio cuenta que eras una mujer muy olvidadiza, no se sorprendería si algún momento se te olvidara de su hijo en el jardín un día de estos, aunque estaba seguro de que paso alguna vez en el pasado.

Cuando tu y el niño salieron (siendo tu quien cargaba a Peter por que este se desmayo del cansancio después de un día tan largo), Jason siguió a ambos de cerca a un distancia considerada para poder asegurarse que todo estuviera bien, lo cual estaba todo en orden en su momento. pero cuando los dos doblaron en una esquina y Jasón la doblo también vio como un hombre estaba parado enfrente a ellos con un cuchillo en mano y tratando de arrebatar tu bolso, siendo complicado teniendo en cuenta que estabas cargando a Peter.

-No te enseñaron a respectar a las mujeres?-Jasón estaba feliz de llevar su casco de red Hood puesto todavía.

ambas personas se dieron vuelta para mirarlo, el ladrón palideció cuando lo vio, en cambio tu parecía mas sorprendida al verlo.

-Red Hood.. que haces aquí, este no es tu territorio-

-Si bueno, a veces es buena salir de la zona de confort-Jason saco su pistola apuntando al ladrón.

-Sera mejor que pienses tu próximo movimiento- obviamente las balas que tenia no eran letales, ya que Batman lo convenció de hacerlo, pero eso el ladrón no necesitaba saberlo.

Dicho y echo el ladrón soltó el bolso y salió corriendo al lado contrario de donde apareció, dejando a los tres solos de nuevo. Jasón estaba apunto de guardar su arma y salir de hay cuando sintió un tirón en su camisa. levanto la mirada a ti quien lo sonreía todavía cargando a un inconsciente niño, que parece que no se perturbo por el pequeño alboroto.

-Gracias por salvarnos- esto no era bueno, Jasón no quería que se involucraran con el de ningún modo, y mucho menos como red Hood.

-Si bueno es mejor si no vuelves a salir de noches a esta hora- Jasón quería salir de hay lo mas rápido posible.

-Aun así nos ayudaste mucho, si me hubiera robado tendría muchos problemas-

-Si bueno, de nada- Jasón estaba por darse la vuelta y marcharse a un lugar mas seguro para seguir vigilándolos.

-Como..- Pero parecía que tu quería seguir hablando.

-Que?...- Jasón la volteo a ver.

-Como te llamas?.. yo soy ..... y el mi hijo Peter- eso ultimo ya lo sabia.

-Cariño no me conoces?- okey el no quería llamarla así, fue algo natural que se le escapo.

-Se quien eres-

-Entonces?, no puedo revelarte mi identidad, por algo se llama identidad secreta- Jason cree que te has svuelto loca por preguntarle eso, no fue que escucho como ella se llevaba la mano a la boca tratando de no reírse, que lo confundió.

-Se quien eres.. pero quiero que tu me lo digas- que?, Jasón estaba confundido.

-¿Quieres que te diga quien soy?, ¿aunque tu ya sabes quien soy?- Jasón solo pudo ver como tu solo asentía mientras buscaba algo en el otro bolso de la compra.

-Red...Red Hood..-

-Bueno Red Hood aquí tienes, tómalo como un regalo de agradecimiento- le entregastes un jugo a Jasón mientras que el todavía estaba confundido.

-De nuevo gracias por salvarnos- le sonreíste por ultima vez a Jasón mientras que este todavía estaba congelado en su sitio viendo como tu y su hijo (todavía dormido) desaparecían de su vista.

Jason solo pudo mirar la botella de jugo mientras pensaba que con quien se había involucrado cuándo era mas joven.

Esa noche Jasón soñó con una chica sonriéndole en un colegio mientras le preguntaba como se llamaba..

-------

Termine la segunda parte, yo sabia que si hacia la primera parte tenia que hacer obligatoria mente la segunda parte.

feliz día/tarde/noche.

@4rachn3 por cierto aquí esta la segunda parte, lamento no haberte respondido.

[vaniinh]

Me parece que de pronto, las opiniones se volvieron colectivas y polarizadas. Ya no existe la opinión individual. No puedes ver una película, leer un libro, ver una serie, sin que un grupo de personas haya señalado que es buena o mala. Así, en una dicotomía infantil que recuerda al jardín de niños. Y si piensas por encima un poco diferente, entonces estás en un error, pues todo el grupo ya te notificó en qué debes pensar, qué debes sentir, qué debes experimentar. Toda la experiencia de la novedad, la curiosidad, y el fabricar tu propio argumento es ahora diluido pues todos están condicionados a la misma opinión replicada hasta el cansancio.

[vanenathy]

Y si un día volvemos a coincidir

hagamos un trato,

vamos a ponernos esa borrachera que nunca pudimos,

vamos a bailar hasta que nos duelan los pies,

vamos a cantar hasta que nos duela la garganta,

vamos a hablar de esa casa con la que soñamos,

con el perro y el gato que nunca tuvimos,

con el jardín grande y la estancia grande para recibir a nuestros amigos,

de la oficina juntos,

de hacer el super juntos,

de los domingos con los niños,

de las noches juntos,

de las mañanas juntos,

del desayuno juntos,

de la vida que soñamos juntos,

y si el mezcal o el tequila nos obligan a salir de ese lugar,

vamos a besarnos aunque no sea lo correcto,

vamos a hacer el amor de camino a tu casa o a la mía,

o vamos a aquella habitación que tanto nos extraña donde fuera la primera y última vez que nos vimos,

vamos a hacer el amor hasta el último aliento,

hasta el último gemido,

hasta el último orgasmo,

hasta que ya no podamos más

y nos veamos desnudos abrazados

bajo las sábanas llenas de ti y de mi.

Y si por la mañana despiertas

y descubres que aun sigue siendo el lugar donde quieres estar,

si me ves y sonríes,

si me ves y no me odias,

si me ves y te quieres quedar,

hagamos de cuenta que nunca nos fuimos

y volvamos a empezar...💫

[jartita-me-teneis]

Una pareja no lograba tener familia

Vieron a un especialista quien, les dijo que la solución era buscar a un padre sustituto

- ¿Qué es un padre sustituto?

- Es un hombre seleccionado que hace las funciones del esposo, para que la mujer quede embarazada.

La señora vaciló, pero su marido le dijo al doctor que no tenía inconveniente, con tal de realizar su ilusión

Días después contrata a un joven para que cuándo él no esté, vaya a cumplir su tarea

Un fotógrafo de niños que había sido llamado a la casa vecina para retratar a un bebé, se equivocó y llegó a la casa.

- Buenos días señora, vengo por lo del niño.

- Pase usted. ¿Quiere tomar algo?

- No, muchas gracias, el alcohol no es bueno para mi trabajo

- Muy bien, ¿Pasamos a la habitación?

- Me gustaría más aquí en la sala, dos en la alfombra, dos en el sofá y también en el jardín.

- ¿Cuántos serían?

- Más o menos cinco, pero si usted acepta pueden ser más.

- Quiero que vea algo de lo que he hecho, tengo una técnica que gusta mucho a mis clientas, mire este niño qué bonito; lo hice en un parque público, a plena luz del día; se juntó la gente para verme y hasta me ayudaron dos amigos, porque la señora era muy exigente, Para colmo, esa vez tuve que suspender el trabajo porque llegó una ardilla y comenzó a mordisquearme el equipo

La señora estaba estupefacta,

- Ahora vea estos mellizos, En esa ocasión sí que me lucí, la mamá se portó estupenda y todo lo hice en menos de cinco minutos: llegué y ¡paf, paf!, solo dos disparos y mire que bien me salieron los gemelos

La señora estaba cada vez más asustada, oyendo al fotógrafo que continuaba:

- Este niño la mamá era muy nerviosa, le dije, usted vuélvase y deje que yo haga todo, se volteó y ya pude

La señora estaba a punto del desmayo.

El fotógrafo le dijo:

- ¿Quiere comenzar?

- Cuándo diga -contestó ella-.

- Bien, voy por el trípode

-¿Trípode?

- Sí, mi aparato es muy grande, es para apoyarlo porque ni con las dos manos puedo sostenerlo bien y...

..¡Señora!..¡Señora Señoraa-

[waltfrasescazadordepalabras]

CÓMO PREPARARSE PARA EL COLAPSO DEL CAPITALISMO * Vive simple 1. Aprenda a plantar, no solo un huerto, sino también cultivos básicos (maíz, yuca, etc.) y árboles (frutales, nativos, leñosos); 2. Cree un vínculo con alguna tierra, ya sea la suya o la de un pariente, un proyecto, un jardín comunitario, etc. Participe con las personas que viven allí, vaya poco a poco buscando formas de pasar más tiempo en el campo que en la ciudad, aprendiendo a plantar, construir, tratar los desechos orgánicos y sanar en la naturaleza; 3. Desarrollar habilidades prácticas (cocina, carpintería, reparación de máquinas, procesamiento de alimentos, costura, etc.). Enseñe estas habilidades a niños y amigos, vecinos, vecinos; 4. Busque un grupo de apoyo mutuo, donde las personas se cuiden entre sí, hagan productos de necesidad básica colectivamente, como productos de higiene natural, remedios naturales como jarabes y tinturas de hierbas, procesamiento de alimentos, como alimentos conservados y fermentados; 5. Simplifica tu vida ahora, liberando más espacio y tiempo. Descubra todo lo que puede hacer sin dinero, caminar, hacer ejercicios, manualidades y artes del cuerpo, socializar con sus seres queridos, jardinería; 6. Separarse de la lógica de consumir más y más. Prefieren productos artesanales que duran mucho tiempo, de calidad, hechos por pequeños productores, empresas sociales y empresas económicas solidarias. Hacer intercambios, dar y recibir obsequios por valor afectivo, en lugar de valor financiero; 7. Intercambiar, almacenar, multiplicar y diseminar semillas criollas (nativas, no modificadas genéticamente, producidas por la agricultura popular y familiar); 8. ¡Reconoce que la vida será mucho mejor después! Solo estamos en transición. "Nuestra creatividad es el límite del sistema"

- Bill Mollison, co-creador de Permacultura.

[thecanvasofmadness]

Muerto por el amor.

Giovanni Papini

“Amé a muchas mujeres y fui correspondido por ellas, pero no son esos amores los que me han llevado al umbral de la muerte. Quizá recuerde usted algunas palabras que le dije en París, estando alrededor de la mesa de aquel café. Lo que temía se ha realizado: soy víctima de la inaudita y universal belleza del mundo. Estoy consumido y muerto por mi sensibilidad jamás adormecida, por mi obstinado entusiasmo, por mi irrefrenable eretismo intelectual, por mi infinito amor hacia todos los seres, hacia todas las cosas.

"Voy por una calle, entro en un museo o en un bosque, en un palacio o en una taberna, en una feria campesina o en un jardín de suburbio, y paso así de una maravilla a otra, de un éxtasis a otro. Todo me atrae y me aferra, me inflama, me causa sorpresa y maravilla. Entiéndalo usted bien: todo, sin exceptuar ninguna cosa, todo cuanto veo me fuerza a amar y a admirar: una piedra jaspeada, una flor moribunda, una joven florecida, una pobre prostituta ajada, un árbol sin hojas, las manchas y musgos de una vieja pared, un pensamiento insólito y temerario, un torso de mármol ennegrecido, un dibujo hecho por un niño, una oveja que come hierbas en el campo, la puma del mar, la nube del atardecer y la estrella de la noche; todas las infinitas ostentaciones del universo me conmueven, me inundan de felicidad, me obligan a deshacer en mil palpitaciones mi corazón de eterno enamorado.

"Y no le hablo del arte, que tiene sobre mí un poder irresistible, pavoroso, lacerante. He viajado mucho, pero, cuántas veces, no pudiendo resistir las congojas causadas por repentinas nostalgias, partí apresuradamente para ir a ver la Sainte Chapelle o la Resurrezione de Pier della Francesca, el Sindaco del Villaggio que se admira en el Museo de El Cairo, o la Galatea de Rafael, o los Goya que hay en el Prado, las esculturas de Olimpia, un retrato de Bronzino o de Rembrandt. Era como un amante angustiado por la lejanía del ser amado, que recorre miles de millas para ver, aunque sea por unos pocos minutos, los ojos, la boca, la cabellera, las manos que le han embrujado.

"Siento fuertemente, y por eso amo fuerte y perdidamente. Tengo también la malhadada pasión de hacer sentir a los demás lo que yo siento, de querer persuadirles a que amen lo que amo. Por esto siempre estoy excitado, me siento feliz y lacerado, torturado por el recuerdo y la espera, siempre estoy en el fuego del incendio, siempre me veo en movimiento sobre la Tierra, siempre intranquilo, lleno de gozo y de locuacidad.

"Usted no imagina qué dilapidación de fuerzas, qué gasto de nervios y de sangre me cuesta ese perpetuo amor. Desde hace muchos años casi no puedo dormir, y frecuentemente me olvido de comer. Para el que ama desesperadamente al amor, toda hora de sueño es una hora de ausencia y de pecado, de verguenza, de martirio. Si el universo es una perenne posibilidad de hacer maravillosos descubrimientos, si la vida es un milagro continuo, si el amor, el amor desinteresado y fiel es la única ocupación digna de un hombre, entonces la indiferencia y el olvido son culpas inexpiables contra el espíritu y contra Dios. Pero esa llama interna me ha consumido, me derrite, me destruye, me mata. Siento que no puedo resistir más, que estoy ya en vísperas del fin. Hércules pudo arrancarse de encima su vestido de fuego, pero mi fuego está en lo interior, me quema hasta las últimas fibras en cada instante. Perdóneme que no le pueda decir cosas diversas, que no pueda darle otras noticias respecto de mi persona. Quizá no volveremos a vemos. Acuérdese de mí. El amor ha saturado y colmado mi vida, el amor me mata, ¡adiós!"

[deepinsideyourbeing]

después de los ask de Enzo con bebés no para de pensar en los demás chicos cómo papás y me muerO 🥹🥹🥹

Me imagino a Pipe con un nene queriendo enseñarle a jugar fútbol

Fluff ♡

Felipe observaba con ternura cómo el pequeño de dos años, que había heredado su cabello castaño y el color de sus ojos, jugaba con la pelota que le había regalado sólo unas horas atrás. El jardín trasero de la casa que ahora llamaban un hogar estaba desprovisto de cualquier peligro y el niño corría libremente por todos lados.

Cuando tu esposo abandonó el banco en el que ambos se encontraban creíste saber hacia dónde se dirigía la situación y no pudiste evitar preocuparte. Felipe era bruto y el fútbol lo apasionaba, habías perdido la cuenta de cuántas veces te pidió verlo en los partidos con sus amigos, y también la de la cantidad de lesiones que sufrió.

-Ojo- advertiste-. No le vas a tirar la pelota en la cara.

Soltó una carcajada y se agachó para quedar a la altura del pequeño.

-Es para patear esta pelota- explicó con suavidad-, no para tirar. Mirá, así.

Mientras Felipe realizaba su pequeña demostración, golpeando la pelota con la parte interna del pie, podías apreciar la atención y la inocente admiración con que lo miraba tu hijo. La escena te hizo sonreír y de no haber estado tan absorta en las personas que más amabas habrías recordado tomarles una foto.

El pequeño imitó la acción con movimientos torpes pero Felipe lo festejó de todas formas, gritando como si se encontrara frente al máximo goleador de todos los tiempos. Lo tomó entre sus brazos e imitando un festejó lo arrojó unos pocos centímetros en el aire, con más cuidado del que dejaba ver.

Continuaron con las lecciones bajo tu atenta mirada, ambos disfrutando de la compañía del otro y de tus palabras de aliento acompañadas de aplausos. El sol comenzaba a caer en el horizonte y la luz dorada iluminaba el cabello cada vez más despeinado de ambos, así como sus ojos cada vez que te miraban en busca de aprobación. Era encantador el parecido que guardaban.

-Mañana lo llevo a probarse en River- bromeó en algún momento Felipe.

Cruzaste tus brazos y negaste mientras intentabas contener tu risa. Grandes eran las probabilidades de que Felipe lo volviera un fanático de su equipo favorito, que pronto lo vistiera con las camisetas y que en caso de que el integrante más pequeño de la familia compartiera su pasión, esta los hiciera todavía más unidos de lo que eran.

Unos minutos más tarde abandonaron el jardín y mientras ellos recogían los juguetes desperdigados por la sala pudiste oír la conversación que mantenían... Bueno, era más que nada Felipe prácticamente monologando, explicando un sinfín de aspectos sobre el deporte que el pequeño todavía no comprendía en lo absoluto.

-¿Qué es eso de llevarlo a la cancha?- preguntaste cuando entraste en la habitación-. Todavía no sabe ir al baño.

-Y no importa- dijo Felipe entre risas, sujetando al menor entre sus brazos y besando su cabello antes de hablarle-. En un futuro vamos a ir todos juntos, ¿sabés? Con mamá y tus hermanitos.

Las últimas palabras las dijo mirándote y conteniendo la risa, esperando que lo regañes por la insinuación, pero sólo sonreíste. La idea de agradar la familia jamás había cruzado tu mente, pero si Felipe iba a ser así de fantástico y tierno siempre...

Para las Pipe girlies <3 taglist: @madame-fear @delusionalgirlplace @recaltiente @llorented @chiquititamia @lastflowrr @creative-heart <3