Back Rabbit Island
Chapters (15)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Title Page
  4. Gerardo’s Letters
  5. Strychnine
  6. Rabbit Island
  7. Regression
  8. Paris Périphérie
  9. Myotragus
  10. Notes on the Architecture of Hell
  11. The Top Floor Room
  12. Memorial
  13. Gums
  14. The Fortune-Teller
  15. Acknowledgments

The TV lounge is empty. It’s Saturday. Why had it never occurred to me that the high school students would have gone to Talavera? I wonder if they walk down, taking it for granted that they don’t have cars, that their only transportation is the bicycles on which they do balancing acts along the ditch in the nonexistent moonlight. In one corner of the room a router connected to a computer is blinking, and my fingers itch to open my email. I have the sense that, having not checked my account for the entire day, some critical piece of news must be waiting for me. I also harbor the vague hope that there might be a message from you. The computer takes ages to boot up, and the room is so cold that I plug in the hairdryer and place it next to the keyboard, cursing Gerardo, but at the same time enjoying the sensation of being pissed off at him again because even an ounce of pity would jeopardize my resolve.

There are four unimportant emails in my inbox. I answer them mechanically, then drag one of the couches over and plug the hairdryer into the adaptor by the TV so I can watch it with a stream of warm air blowing on my legs. It’s so cold that my breath seems to be freezing in the air. I tell myself that it must be warmer outdoors, that it’s only icy inside the hostel. The posters of singers covering the window prevent me from seeing just how long the building is, and I’m tempted to go outside to check. I could take a stroll to the basketball courts; if I had my coat, I could even sit and gaze at the stars. I need to do something; here, curled up on the faux leather, with the hairdryer resting on the instep of my left foot, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to hold out until morning. However, leaving my refuge would mean meeting Gerardo, because he’s now the one walking up and down the hallways, the one who’s gone out to smoke a joint on the grass and throw a stone into the scummy water. I sit watching a documentary about trans fats and, when it’s over, leave the room, with the impression that the temperature has risen slightly.