14avo concurso de redacción de historias - La sombra / 14th story writing contest - The Shadow

El espectro en la pared desafiaba su cordura. Era una sombra de manos grandes y cabeza alargada, que iba y venía a uno y otro lado de la estancia con rapidez sobrehumana. No había rastro de un cuerpo que la portara, ni siquiera uno descomunal.

A veces se detenía y era entonces que se podía apreciar mejor su forma, cambiando entre estremecimientos convulsos para adaptarse a una nueva. El hombre la observaba fijamente y se sobrecogía, en parte por caer en la trampa que el miedo forjaba para él, en parte por tomar consciencia de lo que realmente sucedía. Algo que, si apartaba el velo de sus delirios, podía ver con claridad abrumadora.

Pero la sombra no decía nada, y aunque su silencio era tan amenazante como proferir insultos y reprimendas, él sabía que seguiría callada, sin voz propia porque él era el dueño y señor del espejismo que tenía frente a sí. Saber que la sombra no era real le daba el poder, pero no lo hacía sentir particularmente bien. Sobre todo porque el doctor le dijo que en su condición era normal que eso sucediera.

El doctor Armada, médico familiar, le había dicho sutilmente que seguiría viendo y oyendo cosas donde no las había, producto del trastorno padecido. No fue muy reconfortante que le dijera que hasta ahora todos los espectros incansables que lo habían perseguido no eran reales, sobre todo porque no podía hacer nada, realmente nada, por evitar estar loco. Porque era eso lo que le había dicho el médico, ¿no? Que estaba loco.

Había medicamentos que podían ayudarlo a «sobrellevar» la situación, incluso algunos que podían mantener al margen esos mundos que querían brotar de su cabeza, esos donde los demonios eran los ciudadanos visitantes, pero no era frecuente con sus pastillas. A veces simplemente no le apetecía tomarlas, ni más ni menos. Era por eso que cuando su hija se las proporcionaba, fingía consumirlas y al darse la vuelta las escupía, dejándolas en el fondo de la papelera, bajo montañas de papeles arrugados.

Por suerte todavía podía pasar por alguien normal, o eso creía él. A excepciones, claro, de cuando ocurrían «Los episodios», esas crisis que en ocasiones terminaban en hospitalización. Del resto trabajaba en su oficina y fingía hacer algo útil, porque hacía tiempo que su trabajo había dejado de valer algo y solo lo hacía para sí mismo. Sus hijas también fingían la utilidad de su rutina en la economía familiar, aunque eran ellas quienes se encargaban del sustento de la casa. Eran mujeres hechas y derechas, todas profesionales, que en ocasiones no tenían tiempo para cuidar de él.

Lo agradecía, porque aunque las extrañaba en ocasiones, no quería ser esa carga en las carreras profesionales de ellas. Sin embargo, a veces no podía evitar ponerse triste si pensaba en sus hijas. Si pensaba en su difunta esposa, y en la vida. Odiaba esa tristeza avasallante que le devoraba el pecho, pero cuando llegaba como perro por su casa a él no le quedaba de otra que abrirle la puerta y dejarse inundar.

Muchas veces sucumbía a ese dolor emocional que a veces le impedía respirar o continuar con sus actividades en la oficina. Cuando llegaba no lo dejaba concentrarse en nada más que en esa sensación que oprimía su pecho, y era entonces y solo entonces que se permitía echarse a llorar. Era un pequeño secreto que existía entre los espectros que evocaba y él, que no le dejaban algo de privacidad ni siquiera para cuando su alma cansada se rendía por cuestión de días.

Reclinado en el sillón, pensó: debí estar preparado. Cuando la sombra de aspecto escalofriante hizo acto de presencia en la oficina, casi echó a correr. Por más que le dijeran que las sombras eran producto de su imaginación, aún les tenía terror. ¡Vaya que su mente las hacía parecer reales! Y cada día más aterradoras.

Pero esa vez no intentó huir, sino enfrentar esa irrealidad que sus ojos podían ver con claridad, que sus manos casi podían palpar. Por eso se quedó sentado sin moverse, observando a la sombra fijamente, retándola a avanzar de esa condición de sombra inexistente. Por supuesto, él sabía que a quien se enfrentaba era a él mismo. A la mente averiada que había dejado de funcionarle con normalidad.

La sombra se cansó de cambiar de forma y adoptó la última de esa noche. La más espantosa de su lista, la que siempre funcionaba contra todos. Creció, se expandió, se hinchó y deformó. El hombre se levantó tirando la silla y quiso correr, pero era muy tarde. Nadie provocaba a La sombra y salía impune.

Esa noche el hombre murió. Lo hizo sin saber que la sombra era real, al igual que todas las que lo habían perseguido durante los últimos años.

The specter on the wall challenged his sanity. It was a shadow with large hands and an elongated head, coming and going back and forth across the room with superhuman speed. There was no sign of a body carrying it, not even a huge one.

Sometimes it stopped and it was then that its form could be better appreciated, changing between convulsive shudders to adapt to a new one. The man stared at it and was overwhelmed, partly because he fell into the trap that fear forged for him, partly because he became aware of what was really happening. Something that, if he pulled back the veil of his delusions, he could see with overwhelming clarity.

But the shadow said nothing, and though its silence was as threatening as uttering insults and reprimands, he knew it would remain silent, without a voice of its own because he was the lord and master of the mirage before him. Knowing that the shadow wasn't real gave him power, but it didn't make him feel particularly good. Especially since the doctor told him that in his condition it was normal for that to happen.

Dr. Armada, the family doctor, had subtly told him that he would continue to see and hear things where there were none, as a result of the disorder he had suffered. It was not very comforting to be told that so far all the restless specters that had haunted him were not real, especially since he could do nothing, really nothing, to avoid being insane. Because that was what the doctor had told him, wasn't it? That he was crazy.

There were medications that could help him "cope" with the situation, even some that could keep out those worlds that wanted to burst out of his head, those where the demons were the visiting citizens, but it was not often with his pills. Sometimes he just didn't feel like taking them, no more, no less. That was why when his daughter provided them to him, he pretended to consume them and upon turning away spit them out, leaving them at the bottom of the wastebasket, under mountains of crumpled papers.

Luckily he could still pass for normal, or so he thought. Except, of course, when "the episodes" occurred, those crises that sometimes ended in hospitalization. For the rest he worked in his office and pretended to do something useful, because his work had long since ceased to be worth anything and he only did it for himself. His daughters also pretended the usefulness of his routine in the family economy, although they were the ones who were in charge of the household's sustenance. They were full-fledged women, all professionals, who sometimes did not have time to take care of him.

He was grateful for that, because although he missed them at times, he did not want to be a burden on their professional careers. However, sometimes he couldn't help but get sad if he thought about his daughters. If he thought about his late wife, and about life. He hated that overwhelming sadness that ate at his chest, but when it came like a dog in his house he had no choice but to open the door and let it wash over him.

Many times he succumbed to that emotional pain that sometimes prevented him from breathing or continuing with his activities at the office. When it came, it would not let him concentrate on anything else but that feeling that oppressed his chest, and it was then and only then that he would allow himself to burst into tears. It was a little secret that existed between the specters he evoked and him, that did not leave him some privacy even for when his weary soul gave up for a matter of days.

Leaning back in the armchair, he thought: I should have been prepared. When the creepy-looking shadow made an appearance in the office, he almost ran. No matter how much he was told that the shadows were a figment of his imagination, he was still terrified of them. His mind made them seem real! And more terrifying every day.

But this time he did not try to run away, but to face that unreality that his eyes could see clearly, that his hands could almost touch. That's why he remained seated without moving, staring at the shadow, challenging it to move forward from that condition of non-existent shadow. Of course, he knew that the one he was facing was himself. The broken mind that had stopped functioning normally.

The shadow tired of changing forms and adopted the last one that night. The most frightening one on his list, the one that always worked against everyone. It grew, expanded, swelled and deformed. The man got up throwing the chair and wanted to run, but it was too late. No one provoked The Shadow and got away with it.

That night the man died. He did so without knowing that the shadow was real, just like all the shadows that had haunted him during the last years.