Chapter 32

In the middle of a quick thought "above the notion that I was being beaten by fists that looked like bricks," I blamed myself about how ironic it was to be attacked for simply returning home a little later than my standard work schedule. Compared to the days when I came back from a party, wearing an extremely short outfit, no intimate piece that blocked the path of a pervert, or sober enough to react. The shock made me cry and beg, louder than I would for the pain in my face, or the tinkling that a metal object produced against the closure of my pants.

I did not allow myself to imagine how my face would stamp the cover of a disappearance newspaper, or in the moments when I wasted my life with unnecessary hypocrisy. My friends would cry for me, I was sure of that. They wouldn't get tired until they found that guy. Even if the skill with which I opened my pants proved to me that I was not the first victim, and the kisses I spread on the skin of my lap marked my body for the final act,