Months went by, and the black hole was still there. I decided to cover it up by busying myself with being a good person. And the truth was, at that very moment, the bad people I loved so much could have been blowing their brains out, a clear sign that, if I wanted to survive, I had to switch sides.
I worked on bettering my grades and my manners, spent more time with my sister, and even told jokes during family lunches. Perfect.
The next thing would be to make a doghouse. I would buy the materials myself.
Is it good to know the inner workings of things? To know what makes them tick?
I still don’t have an answer for that. I only know that when I went to the hardware store and asked for twenty twelve-millimeter nails and a hammer, brand-name Kramp, the shop assistant told me they hadn’t stocked them for years. The company had closed its local branch three or four years before; she couldn’t remember when exactly.
She started to list other brands, which I listened to as one listens to a far-off murmur. The rumbling of the sea, that’s what I thought of, and I asked her to sell me a couple of planks. If I could feel their weight, if I could hold them in my hands and take them home, it meant I was still a real person.
I walked home, and I have a distinct memory of how, on the way, the afternoon breeze kept messing up a length of my hair that fell across the left side of my forehead. I pushed it back in place a couple of times, and then I let it be.
When I arrived, I went straight to the rear patio. I left the planks on the ground and, leaning my back against the rear wall, sat down to gaze at the space between me and the house. How much breeze had blown across there? For how many millions of years had that space existed?
When finally I went inside, I told my mother I wasn’t hungry and went straight to my room.