07 julho 2012

Backstage (english version)


After getting up she stared at the mirror, with horror, for it reflected a face that wasn’t hers and couldn’t be. It was a manly face; it had a broad jaw, square chin, stubble and thick eyebrows.  Unbelieving, she fumbled that face which the stubborn mirror insisted in showing and noticed that, just like the face opposite to her, the hands were manly, big and thick, the palms were calloused as if they had been coined in hard work.

Flabbergasted with what had been seen, she screamed a deaf and painful scream, like those of animals trapped by someone unknown.

She punched the mirror, in her nearly unstoppable desperation, and by doing so she woke up in her bedroom, as verified after the anguish was gone. She was soaked, immerse in sheets full of her own sweat.
   
For many days the nightmare with the male body persecuted and haunted her. She didn’t know what else to do, she had already tried everything. Everything she was told that could help her had already been done: from water glasses to warm milk and even slippers crossed under the bed, nothing worked, neither did the mixture of them. Actually, the harder she tried, the stronger the nightmares became – and with different hues.
  
Once, while she stared at that mirage, which gave her back the same astonished glance in that flat and cold surface, a woman appeared enveloping “him” in elongated and languid hugs. Breathtaking. However, as she noticed whilst turning back, the woman only existed in the mirror.  
    
Desperate, “he” stroke again against the mirror and once again woke up in wet soaked sheets.

As time passed, the point of losing oneself was reached, it was hard to know when one was awake or asleep. She started avoiding mirrors or any other reflective surface.

At night, she was afraid of turning on the light and touching her own face, body and whatever was real, she was afraid that what she thought was real was nothing but a bunch of fantasies from a twisted mind, and she was afraid of being a man, in fact. 

Once, not being able to stand so much anguish, as it had taken months already, she walked to the window, through her dark bedroom. There was no moon or star that night, the city was lightless too. She climbed the window and looking at the dark sky she fell.

She opened the eyes.

 She was standing in front of a mirror; a dressing table. She put some eyeliner, then some lipstick in the small lips. She put big bright earrings and some perfumed water on the neck and chest. She straightened the dress up at breast level and walked through a dark alley.

Some steps later, she got to an open space; it was wide and well lit. With the red curtain raised, microphone in hands, pompously, she started to sing.


Original written: Backstageby Daniel Prestes.
Translated to english by: Vinícius de Souza (2012).

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Ronrone à vontade.