Camila Sánchez Bola & ntilde - Home

Camila Sánchez Bola & ntilde - Home

Camila Sánchez Bola & ntilde - Home

I find myself crouched beneath the table, with my thighs pressed to my chest and my knees touching my chin. The hair covers my face and my eyes are kept closed in case my hair black and disheveled let some light in. The hands, which do not want to feel anything anymore, take my legs tightly and embrace them with fear that when I release them the slightest movement exposes me.

My mind is full of monstrous scenarios where your pale face and demonic hungry eyes always appear. Every time the image of your face takes over my filthy imagination I can smell your folly of having me and your desire to snatch me forever to the slightest show of innocence.

I will never know what it would have been if your dirty hairy thighs had not touched between shoving and denial my sweet yet hairless legs. I will never know what the woman you did not think of as a child thought of men. It will be forever impossible for me to understand that a caress does not always mean that someone wants to fight in my body.

I hide, trembling, while the light is still off, and so, small, I imagine all the possible ways to escape this nightmare that you have made of my life. A ray of light begins to peek out of the window to which you covered years ago with bars making impossible in my mind any fantasy of freedom.

My hands hug my legs tightly, my eyes more closed than never, my lips tight, my teeth grinding and fear running all over my body. Your hand opening the door, your feet slowly entering the room that has become my world and your anxious sweat soaking in the air. And as the years go by in the dark I can not get used to your fetid smell, your enormous strength, the bitter taste of your saliva, your current and forced between my legs, in the void your look and your lack of soul.

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