Louis Hannibal Nez
The entire ordeal El Horgas remembers regarding his distance from Britu began with a conversation they had years ago, one Friday night. Brittany was already living Downtown and beginning to become famous, but she still spoke with El Horgas from time to time. She called that night, and he answered.
"Hello? Britu?" he greeted her.
"Hello, yes, it’s me. Who else, dummy?" she said while getting ready in the bathroom.
"Hello, Britu."
"Get your butt off the couch. I’ll pick you up at your place in thirty minutes," she announced.
"Britu, not today. Really, I’m not well. You know that."
"Not well? None of that. I won’t take no for an answer today. Stop being stupid. We have to celebrate! I’m becoming rich, but money is useless if I can’t enjoy it with you. You’re coming Downtown now, and we’ll celebrate. You won’t need to go back to the mud; we have enough eCoins to buy our house. Whichever one you choose will be fine with me. Don’t you think that would be wonderful? Let’s celebrate! It’s what we always wanted, what we talked about so many times."
"I know, Britu, I know, but I don’t have money for the train. Traveling Downtown is expensive… and then there’s the Eastern Wall checkpoint. I like living here. We grew up on Lawrence Island, Britu."
"Don’t worry about train fare, sweetheart, I’ll pay. Please don’t stay home feeling sorry for yourself. Come on, don’t be a grouch. Let’s go have fun. We can eat oysters in Baybeach or have a drink at the exclusive To my mouth in Midtown. Then we’ll go dance at Technoir Downtown. We can do whatever we please. What do you say?"
"All that in one night, Britu?"
"All that? Pfft, much more. It will be a beautiful evening, together. When the night seems over, hmm, who knows what we might do. Anything in particular come to mind?" Her laugh sounded mischievous and teasing.
"It’s just that I…" He did not dare tell her he did not want to go.
"What do you say? Come on! The night is on fire."
"I’m sorry, truly, Britu. And thank you for that incredible invitation, but…"
"What’s wrong with you? Isn’t all that enough?"
"On the contrary, it’s more than enough. It’s too much. You know me; that life isn’t for me. I want to build a family with you, you know that, to have our own home even if it’s humble, celebrate our birthdays and our children’s, go for walks. I don’t need those wild nights to live this life you’re beginning to have, surrounded by luxury, never staying still anywhere for even a moment. It isn’t what we dreamed."
"How boring, for God’s sake. Then come to my place and we’ll have dinner. It can be a wonderful night; we’ll stay here."
"But Britu, that isn’t what you want. I’m an obstacle to you now, dead weight."
"Don’t say that, sweetheart."
"Our paths are splitting, and you have to move forward without looking back, without looking toward wherever I am holding you down."
"Ugh, what a drag. Seriously, I don’t recognize you."
"I will never stop loving you. The greatest proof of love I can give you is letting you fly without clipping your wings, however much it tears me apart from the inside out."
"I’d better let you rest. We’ll talk tomorrow. Goodbye."
The call ended, and for the umpteenth time, so did the relationship. For long moments after the connection broke, El Horgas remained deep in thought. He remembers well what followed. He felt wretched all that night. Even before ending the call, he regretted what he was saying to the love of his life, yet could say nothing else. He knew there would be no turning back. He let her go but never stopped watching everything that happened to her. Britu’s dream was swiftly, relentlessly coming true. After filming her first movie, her popularity grew rapidly through charm and charisma. The gulf separating her from El Horgas became irreversible. From that night onward they never spoke again, not even as friends.
In the days that followed, when Britu finished shooting scenes and returned home, her mind landed in sad reality. She felt profound anguish, loneliness, and emptiness. She wanted to end the deep sorrow and hollow ache that gave her no peace. And so one night, after acting all day in the new film, she came home, undressed, settled into a bathtub filled with warm water, drank a liter of red wine straight from the bottle, and swallowed an entire container of sleeping pills. Not content with that, she took a razor and cut her veins first horizontally, then vertically, lengthwise: a T.
Gabriel found her dying the following morning when, by chance, he discovered her unconscious and bled nearly dry in the bathtub, her veins open. Media outlets harassed the ambulance carrying her from Downtown to Stormport Medical Complex to save her life, although their pursuit itself endangered the emerging celebrity’s life. With or without pressure from society as a whole, cameras and reporters pursued her almost to the hospital room where doctors attempted to save her. Her condition was tirelessly debated on various online channels, including UHR Channel and its many entertainment-news products. Disinformation bred dozens of competing versions.
Some speculated—in fact insisted—that she had staged everything for media attention. In any event, with or without the media, Brittany was already deeply loved by the public of every age. Her movie was a resounding success. Everyone wanted her to overcome the tragedy. When El Horgas learned of it days later, delayed by the lack of communication keeping them apart, a part of him died with her. Britu’s pronounced public notoriety grew exponentially across the media, infuriating El Horgas because no one truly knew her—no one as he did. It enraged him to see or hear people speak about her as if they knew everything about her life.
As soon as El Horgas learned of the tragic accident, he tried to contact the family, her parents and sister. Apparently, they did not know what had happened. Mr. Norman invited him to discuss it. And so at noon El Horgas returned to Lawrence Island. Once again his feet sank into the flooded ground’s mud and he swatted away thick clouds of mosquitoes. He reached Britu’s family shack, raised two meters above the flooded earth, and they welcomed him kindly. He climbed the handmade stairs and entered. The family invited him to sit, and El Horgas took a handmade wooden chair in a cramped space intended as a living room. Inside, he breathed air saturated with Britu’s scent.
He could not conceal how deeply it affected him. Britu’s mother María sat opposite. Mr. Norman sat to his right while Louse, Britu’s little sister, sat on his left whenever she stopped playing. Then El Horgas told them his suspicions.
"I think we must go—you and I—to Stormport Medical Complex and pressure them to tell us what treatment they are giving Britu." The response was slow to arrive.
"How dare you come into my home and tell me my daughter has died? Irresponsible! Do you have proof?" María complained through sobs. She was nervous more than worried, and trembled.
"Ma’am, they’re reporting it everywhere. How long has it been since you watched the news?" El Horgas asked, planting the seed of doubt in her.
"Do you think it fair to bring us such worries? And as if that weren’t enough, you mock us. We don’t watch that thing you call news," Norman exclaimed.
"This isn’t fair to anyone. Not to me either, but least of all to Britu," El Horgas explained.
"And you? When was the last time you saw her?" the father now asked.
Norman’s question transports his memory to a cheap Downtown apartment Britu and he rented long ago. She was not yet widely known, much less famous. The summer heat was overwhelming. El Horgas slept to her left. They had made love an hour earlier, but their many pleasures seemed too distant to touch tangibly again. Brittany sat up on the bed. Still naked, she went to the bathroom, washed beneath a cold shower, dressed, and ate something quickly. On a 3D holographic screen projected by the refrigerator, she reviewed and reread tasks listed in a virtual calendar—household chores they were meant to do that day. Brittany checked them several times and consulted the time.
She sighed and concluded they would do nothing. Holding her head in both hands, she swept hair away from a face whose expression crumbled by the second. She decided what she had to do that very instant, taking a moment to consider it. She did not feel ready for domestic life as a couple, at least not at that stage. Nor did she feel prepared for the shared life other mortals dreamed about. She was beginning to become famous; her artistic weight grew by leaps and bounds, and she wanted more, much more. She moved her left hand as if swatting a fly, closing and extinguishing the virtual calendar. Britu dressed in the first things she found, clothes made of artificial fabrics, and left without looking back or saying goodbye to El Horgas.
Had she awakened her boyfriend to say goodbye, unbearable though the need to do so felt against her skin, she knew she could not have carried out her decision. She wanted to see, kiss, embrace him, and tell him while looking into those sad eyes he so often wore, but she would lack the courage to leave. Drowning in anguish, she did what she believed she had to, convinced it was right. What she did not know was that El Horgas had been awake throughout her struggle. When he heard the door close and the love of his life leave, he merely allowed the most intense weeping to overtake him.
María watched the young man closely, awaiting his answer to Norman’s question.
"A long time ago, Downtown, about a year back. We’ve spoken many times since, but we haven’t seen each other again," El Horgas answered. María shivered with nerves.
"Well, if you love her as much as you claim, you should have taken care of her, for God’s holy sake," the mother exclaimed angrily.
"Why must she be dead? Those are rumors. Couldn’t she be somewhere no one bothers her, disconnected from everything?" Norman asked him.
"Amen," the mother remarked upon hearing this.
"No," El Horgas cut in emphatically. "I know her better than I know myself. She isn’t one to hide. She loves being on everyone’s lips, being watched, spoken to, idolized. She would never hide where no one could see or hear her. I tried many times to locate her, all useless. I even contacted a lawyer for advice. No one will help me, so I’ve turned to you. People have tried persuading me to stop asking questions. I don’t like any of this. They’re hiding something, and I fear the worst. You are a police officer, Mr. Machado. Aren’t you going to do anything?"
In the end, the conversation accomplished nothing. After a long discussion, he left Britu’s family home empty-handed. Ready to do anything for his beloved Britu, he was determined to turn Stormport upside down and investigate until he knew what might have happened; he could sense it. By chance he discovered which clinic held her and went at once. Upon reaching the hospital, he was astonished to find Britu’s family there. He ignored this, only to discover that doctors, nurses, and even her family could not agree on her diagnosis. El Horgas questioned every staff member he encountered.
Amid changing doctors’ shifts and labyrinthine bureaucratic back-and-forth, no one knew the true severity of her condition. Apparently, the artist spent seventeen days in intensive care, then was transferred to a private clinic called BioGenLife. Responsibility for her health fell to a young physician named Abraham. El Horgas went to BioGenLife, within Stormport Medical Complex, and waited because he could not see Britu without the doctor’s authorization. He watched Abraham arrive in a luxurious silver sports car. Before entering, Abraham addressed a press conference.
El Horgas tried speaking with Abraham, but as expected, the doctor was absolutely impervious behind the strict security and secrecy surrounding her. According to Abraham, this protected the patient’s privacy. El Horgas was denied a visit. Still, he persisted at the clinic day and night awaiting a chance. More journalists arrived daily. Not even Britu’s mother could see her daughter. This continued for thirty-eight long days. Abraham informed family and press that the young woman was stable. He assured and reaffirmed that her stomach had been cleared, her veins had healed, and she had received blood transfusions, explaining that Britu had required emergency treatment.
Despite how drastic the findings sounded, relatives, friends, and fans felt relieved: she was out of danger. Another month and a half passed before El Horgas could finally see his beloved Britu again. A nurse told him that, by the doctor’s order, he could visit for a few minutes. Her family had held such permission for two weeks. Enthusiastically, El Horgas entered the hospital room. He saw her reclining beneath very white sheets on a comfortable bed and approached smiling.
"Hello, Britu," he said, smiling and emotional as he took her hand.
"Hello," she returned with a smile, confusion showing on her face.
"Life and circumstances have separated us. I know, and I’m truly sorry. I promise we’ll never be separated again. I swear it. I’ll accompany you everywhere, to every concert. I’ll care for you at all times. You’ll see," El Horgas assured her without losing his smile. "I love you, Britu." He pressed her hand between his own.
For him, the moment was unique, intensely moving and heartfelt. María, Norman, and Louse stood witness in the room. Britu watched him and took time to answer, confusion reflected in her face. She looked into his eyes for answers, shifting between her family and him, attempting to return his smile. He saw something different in that gaze and forced smile. Somehow, she did not arch her eyebrows as before. The folds in her forehead differed when she frowned. It unsettled him; somehow Britu felt different and yet the same.
The thought plunged El Horgas into vertiginous panic. He slowly shook his head, loosened his grip on her hand, rose, and retreated several steps. Turning one hundred and eighty degrees, he looked the family in the eyes and found serious, sorrowful, empty stares. María gazed unblinking at the floor. Norman stared fixedly back; Louse was grave, distracted by her mobile device. El Horgas turned again to Britu. There she was, identical to the girl with whom he had shared so much. His thoughts clarified: that woman was not his childhood friend, girlfriend, confidante, and lover. She was very similar, almost identical, but not her. Someone had taken her identity. He was utterly dumbfounded.
"I apologize a thousand times for what I’m about to say. You seem very kind. Forgive me, but who are you? I don’t remember you," Britu confessed in a voice both strained and weak.
The words caused tremendous anguish in El Horgas, which he barely showed to avoid making things worse. The young woman did not even have Britu’s voice; to ears accustomed to hearing her, she sounded very different. Refusing to surrender, he replied:
"It’s me, Britu, me. Look carefully and try to remember my name. You’ve known me all your life. We’ve been friends since childhood; your family knows me. Don’t you, family?" Her parents did not join his appeal or even look at him. Only her father watched silently, his eyes crowded with threats.
"I’m sorry," Britu began, pausing to look at her family before returning to El Horgas, "but I don’t know you. Besides, my name isn’t Britu. I’m Brittany Condon. Perhaps you have the wrong room."
El Horgas felt death itself settling beneath his skin. A large part of his being had just died; what dies does not return. He wanted to deny it, insist upon who he was, provide details, force her through the effort of remembering, but it seemed excessive. She was still recovering. He smiled as though nothing were wrong, eyes flooded by tears that would soon roll down his cheeks. He wanted to say many things, yet knew he could say nothing more without bursting into tears of anguish and impotence. He delivered an immensely long speech within himself. The following silence was profound, burying daggers in him.
"I’m the one who doesn’t know who you are, Brittany Condon. What’s clear is that you are not my Britu," he declared angrily.
It was all he managed before rising, turning quickly, and walking toward the hospital-room exit without saying goodbye. The young woman watched him as she might watch fish in an aquarium. He fled. In the corridor he let his own tears drown him. Thereafter, El Horgas saw the young woman’s condition improve. Although she remembered nothing, people celebrated her miraculous recovery. Cameras returned to filming her twenty-four hours a day. None of this satisfied El Horgas, but it would not be his last encounter with Brittany Condon.
The last time he saw her was at To my mouth, a Midtown pub. Outside that night raged a devastating storm typical of the age. Hurricane winds rocked the building. Inside, Brittany sang for those around her. Her manager Gabriel stood nearby. The cast of Orgasmic Quarantine celebrated its successful premiere. She sang, danced, and enjoyed herself with colleagues, shouting foolish, vulgar things as she often did in improvised eccentricities. Smiling broadly, Gabriel moved to another area. When Brittany next saw him, he stood beside a woman, drink in hand. Apparently, she was laughing at one of Gabriel’s customary stupidities.
Amid the festive maelstrom, Brittany stopped what she was doing to get a drink. At the bar she took a prepared glass containing thick violet liquid, turned, and unexpectedly saw someone unexpected. Castmates demanded an answer to something they had asked. She ignored them. Her gaze fixed on El Horgas, before the disease now afflicting him. He wore a modern gray suit over a physique much like the one she had known, though his face no longer held adolescent features. She focused on the face silently watching her with an unbearably melancholy gaze. He neither moved nor drank nor spoke to anyone. She could not win that contest of stares, and knew it.
Brittany set the drink on the bar and went to him. Music few attended to blared through To my mouth, situated amid and beneath tangles of routes, roads, and highways connecting every Stormport district. Words would not leave her mouth. He only watched, expressionless. She knew him and understood that silent gaze truly said everything. Outside, thunder exploded in the night sky with a powerful, shocking crash. Some covered both ears. Afterward, rain twice as furious fell from distant dark clouds, drops heavy as lead pellets accompanied by hail.
"It seems your parents’ God is angry with us. You should write a song about it," El Horgas joked. She did not smile at all.
"What are you doing here? Aren’t you a little far from Lawrence Island?" she challenged when he stood before her.
"A hello would have been better, Brit—" She shushed him, preventing him from finishing, and raised her index finger.
"Shhh. Don’t call me that here. They know me by my stage name." He watched her silently, sadly. "Come on, don’t look at me with that lost-puppy face."
"Sit down. Let’s talk a moment." Brittany looked at the chair he indicated and considered it for several seconds.
"No. Good to see you. I have to go; they’re waiting." Brittany turned as if to leave, but did not.
"You look splendid," he complimented her with a forced smile. Brittany turned back to face him.
"Um, thank you," she replied uncomfortably.
El Horgas looked aside, exhaled, and met Brittany’s eyes again. She swayed, crossed her arms, then moved them as if she did not know where to put her hands. She gathered courage to say more.
"I couldn’t continue with that life. I loved you, you know that, but I needed to live this," Brittany admitted sorrowfully.
"I know you. I know," he replied with melancholy and a faint smile. "You shine with your own light. Beware of people who approach like moths to a lamp. They aren’t healthy or sincere. They steal the light you radiate. If you were still the girl I knew on Lawrence Island, they would crush you like a fly," he tried to explain with genuine concern.
"I’m not that girl anymore. Do you enjoy living in that pigsty of mud, shacks, and ankle-deep water every day of the year? Then go and live there."
"My home is wherever you are. I love you." They looked into each other’s eyes.
Gabriel stopped talking with the woman beside whom he had been drinking and laughing. He frowned and watched closely the man monopolizing so much of Brittany’s attention.
"I’m always near you, even if you don’t notice. I’ll say no more. I want what’s best for you," she told him before wiping tears from her eyes. She was sobbing.
"Near? What do you mean?" a confused Dave asked.
She stepped forward to speak quietly.
"Haven’t you wondered how you found work outside Lawrence Island, or how you managed to rent an apartment here in Midtown without offering even minimum guarantees?" He considered it for a moment.
"But what? My presence in your life harms your career, holds back your dreams. You left me overnight for that reason, remember? I woke and you were gone. Now you say you want me near. What do you want?"
Brittany struggled not to break into tears, doing everything possible to keep them from falling.
"It would be easier if you were the ordinary ex-boyfriend who throws a tantrum, gets angry, hurls insults, and disappears forever."
"Easy for you, always for you. You follow my steps to help me find work, but don’t call even on my birthdays. You help me rent an apartment without my knowing, but couldn’t leave my life after at least writing me a note."
Dave watched her, regretting the words the moment they left him. His eyes filled with tears.
"I’ll always love you. I want to help, I truly do, but don’t haunt the edges of my life like a lost soul. Don’t look for me anymore. Leave me alone."
"You’re the one trying to prove to yourself that you’ve moved on when you’re really still watching me. Why don’t we instead…?" Brittany wiped tears away and interrupted him.
"Forget me. Find someone who makes you happy. You deserve it. And don’t even think of saying another word to me."
She turned her back and walked away as quickly as she could without looking behind. Passing the table where the other cast women sat, two called to her and said something, but Brittany paid no attention. She continued until Gabriel intercepted her.
"Hey! What happened? Why are you crying? Where are you going? Who is that man? Want me to make him disappear? I’ll do it now," Gabriel questioned and pressured her.
"Oh! Leave me alone, Gabriel, you unbearable shadow. Get out of my way. I’m leaving. You pay for another round for those scarecrows," Brittany fired back, referring to castmates who could clearly see and hear everything.
Brittany approached the glass door, which opened automatically. She emerged into Midtown’s convulsed, storm-torn streets, wrapped, surrounded, encircled by spiraling arteries of traffic. Heavy drops fell from the clouds. She ran to the corner, stopped, and sank to her knees. Dozens, hundreds passed around her wearing transparent, watertight rain protectors with inner holographic screens simulating landscapes and virtual situations. Despite having been surrounded by so many people, she felt profoundly alone beneath a painful rain whose drops struck like stones.
Still inside the pub, Gabriel shot El Horgas a quick, threatening glance.
"You’re a dead man, buddy."