You are feeling nervous. Seated in front of the computer, you feel your body stiff. Can't write. You stand up from your seat and walk along your room. It is getting smaller and smaller. You can't breath. Feel your legs tremble. A weight on your chest. Cough helps a bit, but not enough. You think you're having a heart attack and go back to your chair. You know there's no one at home; no one can help you now. You can’t reach your phone. Would you have time to call 911? Does anyone can fight death if she comes to get you? The screen is twinkling. Is it you or the computer? Is it in your brain? It doesn't matter. You think of the recent death ones. They're not yours, but hurts anyway. Life is so unpredictable. Yesterday you were writing your best works, touring around the world, speaking as a goddess to thousand audiences. Now you are here. Alone. Defendless.
The screen twinkles again and your mail opens. It is absurd, but you need to look for help. Your name is in it, but you can’t understand the language. 911 you type. Instead of what you need, the Internet throws you to a page where you find the signs. They are similar to the mail written to you, but there are only a couple of letters, not the whole alphabet. You feel the blood beat in your neck. A drop of sweat runs down your forehead, falls on your right eyebrow and slides to cloud your eye. You blink one, twice, three times. Suddenly, you realize you’re feeling better, forget about the email and start to see the pictures you’ve been keeping from your trips. They open up for you. Nice feeling.
Argentina, your first talk. A whole success in the summer humidity. People clapping. You get more and more secure. Your word is law.
At home, your children playing with your husband and the dog. The garden was wet and green. An amazing place for happiness. They were happy. You can feel it. You smile.
Chile, almost a thousand people queuing up to see you. They are waiting for you to sign their books, your book. They wanted to ask you questions, to follow your path, your success. Remember how you felt? Yes, it is easy to forget people and life while you are up on the throne. Images.
Another scenario, your mother at the hospital breathing for one last time. Don’t know who took this picture. Tears run down your cheeks. You were not there. You didn’t hear her final words. You didn’t kiss her goodbye. Then you remember the fight. Why was it? Something she ate, something she did, something she said. It doesn’t matter anymore.
Seattle. It rains and you love it. Barnes & Noble full of women trying to talk to you about how they feel after reading your magnificent work. Radio journalists wait to catch some of your words. Television is there too. Finally, you did it. After years, you did it. People adore you. Do they really understand what you wrote?
Unknown picture again. Bob, your husband, kisses your best friend. She is wearing a beautiful dress. It’s so alike the one you were keeping for a special occasion. Your teens applaud. The neighbours are there too. They all smile.
So many pictures you haven’t seen before. It is weird. Obviously, you can’t remember every single moment of your life. There’s no way to do it. But why are you looking those pictures? You are running out of time.
Your email twinkles again. You start to understand what the email says. Impossible. Wait. A couple of words. Not enough to get the whole phrase. Real dwvok olohñp...weird..kuvhsode féjn...life…
The dog is barking outside your door. Can’t hear nothing but that noise. It seems the people of the neighbourhood are out on vacation. You try to say something to the dog, but you can’t shout. So you walk up and open the door. The dog lick your hands and sit down near to your feet. You feel his warmth. It’s so nice to be loved.
You remember when you were loved. When you used to go out to buy things for the family and no one knew who you were. Happy times. Then, when fame came into your life, everything turned weird. And you needed that stupid diary. The one that appears now on your screen: “Revelations” by D. R. Smith.
So many secrets. Is that your book? Oh no! You never authorized it! It must be hidden. Anguish.
New words appear on your mail. It looks like it is something that you have written before. Old times, it seems. It is your diary.
People started screaming. It wasn’t because of me. It was because I cough and couldn’t stop. And then I cried. I cried all my fears out loud. I cried my loneliness. I cried the death of my mother. I cried Bob cheating on me. I cried and vanished.
And you ask yourself why in the world your diary is online. Why in the world your feelings can be read by anyone. Why you read and the language is strange again. So strange than can’t be understood.
Again you stop breathing for a second. The screen is making a rare noise. Your hand is feeling a kind of electricity when your brain tells you are asleep. One deep breathing and you open your eyes and smile. The pandemic wasn’t real. You've been coughing in your sleep. Your diary is not online. Your secrets are saved and you are alive.
You wake up, look outside the window. There is no one. You hear the dog barks. Suddenly you feel nervous. You feel your body stiff. Can't move. You sit again. Then stand up from your seat and walk along your room. It is getting smaller and smaller. You can't breath. Feel your legs tremble. A weight on your chest.
Note: I do write in Spanish. This is my second attempt without translating.