Hurricane Season by Fernanda Melchor

Author:Fernanda Melchor [Melchor, Fernanda]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Fitzcarraldo Editions
Published: 2020-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

VI.

Mamaaaaaaa, the man was screaming, forgive me, mama, forgive me, mamita, and he yowled like the dogs that drag themselves, run-over but still breathing, to the roadside: Mamaaaaaaa, Mamiiitaaaaaa. And Brando, huddled in his corner, in the gap between the wall and the cell toilet, the one space he’d been able to claim for himself after Rigorito’s men threw him in there, thought, and not without a certain glee, that maybe it was Luismi screaming, Luismi howling somewhere in the building in the grips of all-consuming agony, Luismi bawling to the point of retching as they beat a confession out of him with wooden boards. The money, they wanted to know where the money was, what they’d done with the money, where they’d hidden it, and that was the only thing that interested the filthy pig Rigorito and the cocksucking police when they beat the shit out of Brando until he was spitting blood, and then tossed him into that cesspit that reeked of piss and shit and the acrid sweat that seeped from the skin of those miserable drunks hunched, like him, against the walls, snoring or snickering under their breath, or smoking and throwing rapacious glances his way. He’d already had to defend himself from three men who jumped him the second he set foot on that side of the barred wall; three young guys who knocked him around and told him to take off his trainers – or what, you wanna play the punk with me, faggotkiller? said their ringleader, the one who shouted loudest, the one whose hands trembled as he stroked Brando’s face, a dark-skinned guy, practically all skin and bones, with a beard and one missing tooth, dressed in a shirt that was more like a tattered rag, who spoke in a booming voice that seemed to come from nowhere: Cocksucker, give me your fucking shoes or I’ll fuck your ass so hard you won’t know what day it is, and Brando, who could barely sit upright after the beating the police had just given him, had no choice but to remove his Adidas and hand them over to that bearded reprobate, who put them on in a flash and then did a kind of victory dance complete with indiscriminate kicks in the guts of the drunks groaning in their sleep on the cell floor. That sniveller from before, the run-over dog, hadn’t stopped yelping for a second. His howls rebounded off the cell walls and were drowned out entirely whenever Brando’s cellmates barked back: Shut your fucking mouth, you mangy bitch! Shut it, you butchering fuck! This junkie kills his own mother, smashes her head in on some crackhead fucking rampage then says the devil did it! I mean, Jesus fucking Christ! Someone needs to knock the shit out of you, you little bitch. Brando had curled up in a piss-ridden corner of the cell with his arms crossed over his stomach and his back pressed as close to the wall as humanly

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