Revenge attempt against the four hearts of Freddy Laffita

Freddy doesn't know me, but I know Freddy. I saw him once at La Casa de la Bombilla Verde, and I saw him before: in Santa Clara, at a festival where we were all very drunk and where some drunks asked him fourth heart. And I, who only have one, felt what they call a blow to the chest four times.

No. He doesn't know me. He doesn't know that I exist behind a computer, or that I cried once —when they left me at a stop on the 400— listening to one of his songs.

Freddy, the troubadour, does not know that he is to blame for a few nights in a little house in El Cerro, nor does he know what I suffer from, nor that once I grabbed the guitar and shot a song at him: slight glare. He doesn't know that my alarms are odd, that I wake up at 10:35, that sometimes I don't wake up, that my ringtone is Foxy Lady, that I don't like Joyce.

What does Freddy care? Freddy sings as if his voice had been taken away and he can't, he shouldn't care about my tooth. He sings like he couldn't anymore. Freddy can't anymore. And it can.

I don't want to talk about the year in which he released such an album, I don't care. Neither does Freddy.

That night of La Bombilla we talked. We didn't say anything to each other. He mentioned something about a show he saw me singing on. Ah, but he doesn't remember. Freddy doesn't know me. If he did, he would keep his mouth shut and leave me alone, and not mess with my nights, with my exiled loves, with my heart, which was unique and small until it decided to turn it into a multiple and monstrous thing. And he wouldn't care if he threw me against the window of the 400. I don't care if he threw me against the window of the 400. I don't know what year he was born and I don't intend to look for him; I don't want to know what his first song was, because this is a bit of a tender revenge, much to my chagrin. I want people to know that Freddy broke my soul, that I cried because of him, that night I played his song 28 times, no matter which one. There was something that broke and since then I have been something else: a kind of torment that now puts on songs to vomit bile, or bile that vomits and dissolves. Freddy taught me to cry. to get rid of I owe him a lot. Maybe I'll see him one day and hug him. Perhaps I embrace the advertisements of the bodies, of the showcases, perhaps I am a mannequin that sings. Maybe he won't tell you anything.

They stole his voice, because it wasn't fair that his voice was sweet. His voice is bitter and shakes. His voice is the voice of rum and miracles. (Oh, Freddy, I shot your songs like people shoot Alprazolam to sleep well. But you were an adverse effect, a pill that left me insomniac forever).

Once I listened to all the songs in one go. I don't know how to play their songs. I don't know, because my voice is too childish to talk about intangible gods. Freddy did not wait to enter. I loved the women he loved, and I suffered the accurate ghosts, the absences. He is an absence because I can't take a bus right now and go to reproach him for anything. It left me without a voice and now I have to seek tenderness and it doesn't come out. Sweet words don't come to me. I cannot announce the arrival of your gods. I feel like people should know their gods, because they start on a minor chord and throw themselves through the window of the 400.

Please, someone tell him that I'm behind a computer, that I almost vomited bile that night because the streets of November were long, because there was no door other than the slight glow, because loves lacked bread, they lacked the miracle at a stop on the 400. Someone tell him that there is a girl who wanted to be a model for Yves Saint Laurent, a girl who died of skinny and no longer wanted to be a model for Yves Saint Laurent. Somebody tell him I can't eat sometimes either. Tell him that I had three more hearts, and that I'm glad that number was odd, that those hearts were alarms, light flashes. Someone tell him that he is to blame.

Blame him for the crying. Tell him to bring me a pill, not to take it with me, and that now I am praying to his gods, and that they are not so intangible.

Freddy, dear, this is my revenge. I don't know where you're going to go. I don't care what year you recorded the glows. You don't know me, but the sum is not fair.

You take care of narrowing the streets of November, of procuring my bread, of fixing my minor chords. Shut. Or better not shut up. (I come from sorrow as a day of love). Let my house be a market for eccentrics, bring me the earth and a rain of paper. Let me expose the silent stains. Let me, at least, fall asleep at 9:00. Let me go back to the showcases, get the idea that I can break my inhuman channels, that I can fight my neurosis and delirium (a thousand times, Freddy, it's not fair). Leave me alone, as you left that pain (I know it's a lie, that the pain is yours and that it hurts you). Let me go back to Joyce, to the gods themselves. Let me fast even if I prefer your bread. Stop trying to rain on my papers. Let it go through November without calculating the streets. Leave me uneven and serene. Leave me alone.

Then we fix.