I wrote this for my Mexican Women Writers final and I just thought I'd post it for the heck of it.
This is from the novel Tear This Heart Out by Á ngeles Mastretta. She owns these characters, not me. I DO NOT OWN IT!!! Y'all should read her book, it's fabulous.
I broke it into paragraphs to make it easier to read, and all the fragment sentences are intentional.
Tear This Heart Out
is a fictionalized account of Mexican politics in the thirties and forties, as seen through the eyes of the irrepressible Catalina, wife of a governor (Andrés). This is my version of what I think she should have said when she is standing alone at Andrés' coffin...---
Look at you. You look awful, Andrés. I wish you'd died young, so I could remember you that way. Remember a time when I loved you. I hope I don't end up like you. I won't! I refuse to! I've always been afraid to die. This was never more true than when I was with you. I may have turned a blind eye to most of your activities, but the killing was what bothered me most. I was afraid that I would just be one more item to check off that day's list. I didn't want to die in some dirty back room, surrounded by leering henchmen who were just "doing their job." Alone and afraid. I would rather have had you pull the trigger. I would rather you'd look me in the eye and tell me, "Cati, I'm sorry. You have to die." Such cold words, but from someone I had once loved. Someone who I understood. I didn't want to be anonymous in death. I want everybody to know when I'm gone, and to mourn for me.
I've always wanted to be somebody, I guess. Lead an exciting and romantic life, traveling to exotic locales with the man of my dreams. At 15, you were that man. Any man, I think, would have fit the bill. It wasn't until later that I realized I should have had a choice. I was never given a choice, though. My life was never really mine. You gave me everything I asked for, but it was always your command that made it so. It was always your voice, loud and imposing, throwing the order this way and that. My voice carried no weight without yours. Now that you're gone I suppose it'll be the same way. Lying there in your coffin, looking older than you ever have, cold as the weather in that cursed Zacatlan. See, even in death, you'll still run our lives. You wanted to be buried in Zacatlan, you'll be buried in Zacatlan. I'll respect that. But don't expect me to do anything else for you. I'm free, you hear me? Free! I won't let you control me anymore. I'll take care of your children because they're mine, too, they always were, more than they were yours. I'll dole out your ranches and your bank accounts. I'll give statements to the papers, I'll accept the honors in your stead. Anything to get rid of you. To bury you.
I can't wait to bury you. Your soul may be attached to me forever; your stigma, your authority, but at least I can be rid of your body. In a few years you'll have withered down to bones, even those wearing down until you're nothing but dust. A fitting end. In time no one will even remember you. Maybe you'll make it into a history book or two. Cienfuegos will try and stamp out all traces of you, I can guarantee that. Soon even your beloved compadre will have forgotten you. Perhaps he'll haunt me in your stead. "Catalina," he'll whine, "how are you holding up? Perhaps a trip to the beach would do you good. There's a parade in Puebla next month, perhaps you might accompany me..." Fito was never a subtle man. He'd better be careful, though. You were always a jealous husband. Even in death I don't doubt you'll keep an eye on me. Perhaps your dusty bones will rise up out of your grave and take revenge on your compadre at last. What if I'd had an affair with Fito, hmm, Andrés? Would you have killed him, too? Perhaps I should have slept with him, just so you'd get rid of him for me. But then you would have lost your position of power behind the president.
It's too bad Carlos chose music instead of politics. He would have made a good president, and that way we all would have been happy. I would have the man of my dreams, you would have had your power, Carlos would be alive. Carlos will always be alive, to me. More alive in death than you were in life. Now that you are dead, I hope I can forget you. I hope there comes a day when I don't think of you for a week, a month, maybe a year. I wish. I'll never be rid of you, I've realized that by now. I'll always think of you. There will always be some trace of you, everywhere. When I'm in my little house, I'll know I am there only because Carlos is dead. Because of you. When I drink coffee, I'll think of you, when I go to the movies, when I pick flowers. Everything is tainted by you.
I could leave. I could sell all my jewelry and get on the bus and move to Los Angeles. But I couldn't do that to the children. I couldn't leave them, not now. At least one of their parents will never abandon them. And in Los Angeles no one would know who I am. There would be no Juan to drive me around, no servants at my beck and call. Maybe that's what I need. Maybe I need to be anonymous. I couldn't live like that, though. I couldn't live without love. The children would still love me, even if I was gone, much like they'll always love their father. As long as someone remembers me. As long as my great-grandchildren tell their friends stories of their crazy Grandma Catalina.
I want to be remembered. I want to be remembered as me, not as Andrés and Catalina. You always came first. I was just the governor's wife. The conductor's mistress, the director's girlfriend. Never just Catalina. If they put me in the history books, I want to be as far away from your name as possible. Just once I'd like something written about me that didn't mention you. I wish I was my own person. I want my own life. I want to go back in time, to that day under the arcades when I first caught your eye, and to whisper in my own ear, "Cati, run, run far away. You'll be sorry someday," I'd tell myself. "You'll wish you'd never laid eyes on this man. One day you'll bury him, but he'll never leave you. You'll never be rid of him. He will haunt you." And then I'd watch myself as I ran home, locked myself in the house, willing myself to forget you. I would not answer the door, even for Papa. And when you brought me flowers, I'd trample them and throw them in the garbage.
Perhaps you would have killed me, like the others. I didn't use to believe you could kill out of passion, only for cold, calculated business reasons. Now I know different. Now I know all of the murders were crimes of passion. A love for the power. You told me you loved me, but I know now that you never really did. What you loved was the part I played in your little game. And you've still got that power, even in death. People will remember you, you know. They might hate you, but they'll remember your name. No one will remember me. "The governor's wife," they'll say. "What was her name? Was he even married? I don't remember..."
I'm beginning to forget, too. Who I was. I know who I am going to be, though. I am Catalina Guzman. I will never again be Catalina Ascencio. I am going to control my own life now. I won't let you make my decisions any longer. I'm going to say goodbye to you now, and after the funeral I'll go about my business. I'll remember you, of course, always. I could never forget you. But I can forget me. I can pretend I'm 15 again, I can pretend I'm young and naive and unaffected by the world around me. I'll just be me, and in time I'll build a new identity for myself. One that doesn't include you. Only a young girl with a loving family and a dead husband. That's all you are, now. My dead husband. I don't have to listen to you anymore. Only myself. I only have myself. I think, really, that's all I've ever wanted.
Goodbye, Andrés. I love you.
---
I'd appreciate a review:)