Imagen de mi autoría generada con ChatGPTSupongo que con los ricos todo siempre empieza así, como una excentricidad. Primero eran aromas, luego memorias grabadas en cápsulas, y ahora… dedos.
Trabajo en el Depósito 17, donde llegan los cuerpos voluntarios, bueno eso dicen, para ser procesados. Cada dedo se etiqueta según la emoción dominante que conservó en vida, “Primera caricia”, “Último adiós”, “Miedo nocturno”, “Asombro infantil”.
Dicen que los dedos guardan lo que las palabras olvidan y que al comerlos, uno siente eso por un instante.
Yo solo los empaco, me pongo mis guantes, delantal blanco y lo hago en silencio. Hay dedos suaves como de bebé, si hubieran otros rugosos, duros, como vivido aferrados al mundo. algunos todavía se mueven, y no me preguntes cómo porque ni yo entiendo.
Un día cualquiera, revisando la bandeja seis, vi un dedo con una marquita, chiquita, curva, justo en la base del índice, me paralicé, me acerqué más y era una cicatriz idéntica a la que tenía mi hermana.
Se la hizo cuando tenía seis años jugando a que volaba desde el sofá con una toalla amarrada al cuello, era ella, podía sentirlo.
Pedí el informe y me lo negaron, mi supervisor dijo que era una “coincidencia”, que estaba imaginando cosas. Pero mi corazón lo sabia, olía a mi infancia, olía a ella.
Esa noche no dormí, soñé con ella parada al pie de mi cama, no hablaba, solo me mostraba su mano incompleta y me miraba como esperando que entendiera. Me desperté llorando, con la garganta cerrada, como cuando de niños peleábamos y nos pedíamos perdón.
Volví al trabajo y el dedo seguía ahí, en la bandeja, esperando. Lo agarré cuando nadie miraba y lo guardé en el bolsillo interior de mi bata, me fui al baño, lo saqué con las manos temblando y lo miré por mucho rato, sentí que aún latía.
Apoyé la frente contra el espejo y le susurré: “Lo siento, Lore. No supe buscarte a tiempo.”
Lo acerqué a mi boca, por culpa, por amo, le di un beso, ypor un instante, recordé lo que era estar con ella, correr descalzos, reír a carcajadas, abrazarla, recordé todo, y me quebré.
No hablé en toda la jornada, no empaqué más dedos, solo pensé ¿cuántos más hay aquí que esperan ser llorados antes de ser servidos?
Ahora entiendo por qué la gente los compra, no es por lo que quieren sentir, sino por lo que temen olvidar.
Si quieres participar en este contenido
Invito a: @alicia2022 @osomar357 @ungrancuento
🇬🇧 English Version
Image of my own creation generated with ChatGPT
I suppose with the rich, everything always starts like this, like an eccentricity. First, there were aromas, then memories recorded in capsules, and now… fingers. I work in Warehouse 17, where volunteer bodies arrive, well, so they say, to be processed. Each finger is labeled according to the dominant emotion it retained in life: “First caress,” “Last goodbye,” “Night terror,” “Childlike wonder.” They say fingers hold what words forget, and that when you eat them, you feel that for an instant. I just pack them, put on my gloves and white apron, and do it in silence. There are soft fingers like a baby's, if there were others as rough, hard, as if they had once clung to the world. Some still move, and don't ask me how because I don't understand. One day, while checking tray six, I saw a finger with a tiny, curved mark, right at the base of the index finger. I froze. I looked closer, and it was a scar identical to the one my sister had. She got it when she was six years old, playing at flying off the couch with a towel tied around her neck. It was her, I could feel it. I asked for the report and they denied it. My supervisor said it was a "coincidence," that I was imagining things. But my heart knew it; it smelled like my childhood, it smelled like her. That night I didn't sleep. I dreamed of her standing at the foot of my bed. She didn't speak, just showed me her incomplete hand and looked at me as if waiting for me to understand. I woke up crying, my throat closed, like when we fought and apologized as children. I went back to work, and the finger was still there, on the tray, waiting. I grabbed it when no one was looking and put it in the inside pocket of my robe. I went to the bathroom, took it out with trembling hands, and stared at it for a long time. I felt it was still beating. I leaned my forehead against the mirror and whispered, "I'm sorry, Lore. I didn't know how to find you in time." I brought it to my mouth, out of guilt, out of love, I kissed it, and for a moment, I remembered what it was like to be with her, running barefoot, laughing out loud, holding her, I remembered everything, and I broke down. I didn't speak all day. I didn't pack any more fingers. I just thought, how many more are there here waiting to be mourned before being served? Now I understand why people buy them. It's not for what they want to feel, but for what they're afraid to forget. If you want to participate in this content I invite: @alicia2022 @osomar357 @ungrancuento
