Vignette: 12:21

In the moment between a ringing phone and a devastating truth, a young man's world shatters. As numbness battles grief, he navigates a surreal journey to say goodbye.

The home phone is one of those black phones where you have to insert your index finger to dial and turn the carousel until the metallic noise marks the pulses of the call. It hangs on the wall of the hallway, between the foyer and the kitchen.

It's practically impossible to have a private conversation. It's also easy to identify who's being called simply by the "racka-racka" of the phone's mechanism.

I have my bedroom door open, the computer on.

I look at the clock, it's 12:21 - “palindrome, that’s funny” - and suddenly the phone rings as if it had been waiting for those minutes to come. I jump in my chair and head to the phone - it's barely 6 steps from my room. "Ring Ring" two steps, "ring ring" three steps, "ring ring" four steps. I pick up the phone.

"Honey?" asks a familiar voice, though my brain is still fogged by sleep.

"Yes"

"It's your aunt" her voice is trembling. I notice she's distraught.

"Huh?" I respond, somewhat dryly.

"Grandma... grandma has passed away..." my aunt bursts into tears and can't continue the conversation.

I don't answer. I can't answer.

The first thought that crosses my mind is that I should be crying, and I'm not.

The second is that this can't be happening.

The third is that I should have spent more time with my grandmother, that I should have been able to discern between what's important and my desire to go out and escape, and that if there is a God, he must be a son of a bitch for letting my grandmother die.

"... are you listening to me?" my aunt has been talking meanwhile and I haven't heard what she said.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you" I respond, laconic.

"You need to get the death papers."

An image of zombies covered in post-its crosses my mind. I smile and realize I'm smiling and I know feel horrible, how absurd it is that my grandmother has died and I'm smiling.

"I don't know where they are" I respond, neutral.

"Grandpa says they should be in an envelope in the hallway dresser..." my aunt starts crying again and I still show no emotion.

"Okay, I'll get them and go to the clinic." I force myself to speak the words slowly, evenly. I say nothing more, and hang up abruptly.

My brother is watching television.

"Hey, grandma has died," I hear myself saying I say it out loud, in a neutral tone, almost mechanically, aseptic, I can almost see the words coming out of my mouth, as if it were someone else saying it.

My brother looks at me, says nothing, lowers his head and starts crying.

"I have to go to the clinic with the burial papers, stay here, make yourself a sandwich and don't mess around, I'll be back as soon as I can."

The words sound cold in my ears, but I'm on autopilot.

I realize I've been harsh, but my emotions seem to have abandoned me.

I head to the dresser, it's in the hallway between the living room and the bathroom, covered with classic books with green spines. I open the central part where papers of all kinds spring out like an accordion.

I find the papers in an envelope with a stale smell, an ochre smell, strong, ancient. The papers are stuck together, I carefully separate them, with patience, as if time had unfolded. I find the policy.

I go to my room, put on the first thing I find, slowly, delaying my journey on the Metro.

I return to the living room. My brother is looking at the TV, but his eyes are lost in a void.

"Are you okay?" I ask, knowing there will be no answer. The question feels empty, a routine gesture.

My brother looks at me from the couch, and tears well up again, he sobs and hides his head between his knees.

I approach again, hug him for a few seconds. "I have to go."

I grab the Discman, close the house door and get into the elevator.

I press play.

"Underneath the bridge,

tarp has sprung a leak

And the animals I've trapped

have all become my pets..."

I walk to the metro, with pause and parsimony, observing the people who continue their day-to-day. It's surreal, how life around me doesn’t skip a beat. "They don't know who's gone," I think to myself. Kurt raises his voice in my headphones:

"...It's okay to eat fish 'cause they don't have any feelings."

The journey takes 40 minutes with two transfers.

I'm on the second when the metro doors open and a guy my age comes out and bumps into my shoulder. He turns around, looks at me, and says angrily, "What's wrong, are you blind?" He's taller than me, more athletic, and has long hair.

I fix my pupil on his and in a neutral tone I say, "I don't have time to beat the shit out of you now."

The words come out like they belong to someone else. I get into the wagon. Stunned, the guy stands looking at me and makes a gesture with his index finger passing it across his throat and sticking out his tongue, imitating the idea of cutting my throat.

I look at him, calmly, smile, and as the doors close, someone inside my body force me to shout. "I'm already dead inside, you fucking idiot" and I go back to focusing on the music.

"...I'm so lonely, that's okay,

I shaved my head And I'm not sad

And just maybe I'm to blame

for all I've heard But I'm not sure..."

The escalators transport me to the metro exit, but it feels like I'm drifting rather than walking. I'm in no hurry.

After a few minutes, I'm at the clinic door. Before entering, I take out the red pack of Fortuna, the cheap cigarettes, grab one, bring it to my lips, and light it while I see an ambulance arriving with the siren at full volume as it enters the emergency parking lot.

I take a drag.

A lady with almost violet hair comes down the clinic stairs crying, with black gloves that bring a Kleenex to her eyes covered by black sunglasses. She's wearing a fox fur coat, a Balenciaga bag, and a dark scarf around her neck. She's accompanied by the arm by a young girl, petite, pretty, with a round face and green eyes washed in red.

"I mustn't be the only one saying goodbye," I think, and a laugh bursts from my throat, as the lady passes 3 meters from me and looks at me surprised and contrite, and the young girl glares at me. I’m beyond caring. I don't flinch.

I take another drag and watch the cigarette burn down.

A dog approaches trotting three steps from its owner with its tongue out. It's a terrier, it has its tongue out and struggles with the leash it's tied to.

When it reaches me, the dog stops, sits down, and looks me in the eyes.

The owner gathers the leash and pulls it, while the dog resists moving and keeps looking at me.

The owner apologizes, "Sorry, I don't know what's wrong with him today, come on silly."

"Don't worry, it must be the smell of desperation," I respond.

The owner looks at me with a mixture of curiosity and terror, pulls on the leash, and the dog finally gives in and continues walking.

I watch them walk away as I take the last drag of the cigarette, throw it on the ground, and crush it with my foot.

I head to the clinic door, climb the stairs, open the door, and as I enter, the acrid smell of hospital food slaps me in the face.

I scan the lobby with my eyes, find the reception, and ask, "The room of P.González, please."

The receptionist (nurse?) looks at the register and without raising her eyes responds, "Second floor, room twelve, twenty-one."

"Thanks," I mumble.

I enter the elevator. I press the second-floor button.

The doors open and a wave of nausea hits my stomach.

I find it hard to breathe, as if grief itself is tightening its grip. I sit on one of the benches in the hallway, trying to recover.

A sensation of déjà vu, of having opened an interdimensional door, takes hold of me for a fraction of a second. "I've lived this before," the nausea gives way to a powerful sensation of anguish.

There's no one in this wing of the building, but I hear the rattling of activity and the moans of a patient in the distance.

A cold sweat runs down my back as I get up from the chair, my hands are shaking, and I notice that adrenaline is widening my field of vision.

I observe the sign on the door "1221." The numbers are white, the plate is black, and the door has a color that a couple of decades ago was probably white but tends to beige. I approach the door and grab the handle, round, silver, cold to the touch, and when I turn it, the door opens with a groan.

As I open the door, I see a window with white curtains that sway with the passing current. On the right is my aunt, with red eyes; my grandfather is in the back, sitting in one of those armchairs where in movies people fall asleep with a blanket.

And suddenly, my brain focuses on the bed. Someone is lying on it. For a split second, my mind refuses to understand, struggling to make sense of what's happening. Until the crushing logic of the moment takes over the situation. "It's your grandmother, idiot," says the voice.

Her body lies on the bed covered with a sheet. For an instant, the laws of space-time don't apply. I look at the headboard, where her pointy nose protrudes from the sheet, and I “see her” breathe.

"...answer me!" my aunt yells in the background.

But I don’t answer. I can’t answer.

I'm still in the dimension where my grandmother is still breathing, where my grandmother hasn't gone yet, where my grandmother can still hear me say, "I love you, thank you for everything."

But the laws of the universe bring me back to reality, and space-time reappears, realistic, brutal, and merciless.

That’s when the weight of everything hits me.

A river of tears floods everything, a tidal wave of emotions, of traumas, of lost memories.

A continuous and uncontrolled sob takes over me. Wash over me.

A sadness with such an overwhelming intensity that it brings me to my knees, knowing she's not there, and that now, she’s no longer expecting me.

And all I can say is “she is still breathing, she is still breathing, she is still breathing…”

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