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The fountain is old, rusted. Water no longer flows. The whole thing is overgrown with rich, green ivy, but Alma does not care. It has been in decline since her Abuelo’s death, and she can not separate his legacy from the grandeur of the fountain which, objectively, is beautiful. No question.
Alma just likes it better covered in ivy. It stops her from remembering the old man. How she’d be punished if she went too close to the fountain. She shook her head. How could a man hit a little girl so hard? What kind of man does that? Just because her father had died.
She thought: Your precious fountain isn’t looking so hot now, asshole.
It had always bothered her. The fountain, the house, the perfect family. The looks on the faces of her peers. But what was she supposed to say? Yes, I live in a nice house, but the backs of my legs are covered in scars. And sometimes…
Sometimes worse things happen.
She couldn’t keep up the façade and withdrew from social activities. She let herself become overgrown with ivy and neglected. She did not allow anyone to see beneath, where she was already rusting even if the fountain was not.
Alma picked up the bottle of warm vodka beside her and took a long, slow drink. So this is my life, she thought. Gloating over a dead man’s treasure and drinking. It could be worse.
The drinking was like the ivy and the rust. But Alma was searching for destruction she could trust.
They buried Alma and sold the house and tore down the fountain, and none of it mattered anymore. Just one more tragic story thrown at the pages of time. Which is the lesson Alma finally taught herself before she grabbed the razor.
Nothing matters if you give it enough time.
#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...