There seemed to be no place to escape the rush of the busy city. Tall, medieval buildings defined the heart of it and, paradoxically, it was there where people could enjoy an oasis of relaxation.
The pub was situated on the first floor of the ancient block structure which took up most of the area of that boulevard. There were no signs or banners to indicate the presence of the pub. You’d have to enter on the left in a space which looked like all the other ones along the street, and go up circular stairs covered in thick dust and which were neglectfully decorated with drops of fresh concrete.
You’d then be welcomed by a tall gate covered in stickers which would advertise various gigs or artists. Inside, there were tables arranged so that they’d create a nostalgic atmosphere.
The gloomy pictures on the walls looked like pieces of lost people’s memories. The few lamps were far from modern or expensive; they were manually made from bits of paper and straws.
Heated arguments homed there usually consisted of silence. A thick layer of smoke kept swinging from room to room and in the toilet. A tall, skinny child was dragging its drunken desperation out of it. Her bones protruded the worn out clothes and her mumbling words resounded as wolves’ howls in the woods.
“Sophie, where… where,”
I looked at the girl trying to figure out what her problem was. Her tiny eyes, hidden under huge saggy eyelids, hinted she must have drunk up the pub’s depo room. I knew I would find her here, the little bitch. After looking around for a minute longer, she saw me. I was her Sophie. I also used to be her mother. I liked to think I had absolutely no connection whatsoever to that vandal, that misery of a child. Why was I there? I knew I would find her there! I wanted to find her there, I… wanted to see if she was ok. Ok? My God, she needed an ambulance, a psychiatrist, a psychologist, a counsellor, and she’d still need a lot more help. I could not offer anything to her that would help her, I was good of nothing. I followed her with my eyes. My pupils got larger and larger until finally she was sitting next to me, my child Angela. I named her Angela in the lustful blind hope that God had offered me an angel of a child. How ironic, I thought, as I turned to look at the person I still couldn’t help but call my child.
“Hey, chica!” a husky voice said. I muted. The moustached young man before me was a mere stranger. I stood up hastily, ran down the stairs in the dark and quickly lost myself in thoughts and the ever so busy city. I was being haunted and it was me who desperately needed all the help that I could get. The crowds of people surfed upon my head and I just wanted silence. But God knows that was the only thing I had been after since then.