Gilberto has closed himself in his room. He took the key from the lock, opened the window and threw the key away. He opened the drawer of the bedside table and took a notebook, searched a little and finally found a pen.
I don’t know very well how to start and much less what to write. I think these words are useless but here they are. Lately I feel I don’t exist. I feel like I am an old brush which the painter will have to replace… I am good for nothing. Lately, the talks, our talks sum up to bills, money, loans. Well…
I don’t mean to apologize for anything but also don’t mean to take the blame. Maria, I think it is your fault. You have just watched to this drama that summed up to the degradation of my life. What have you done? Nothing. You just worried about working and knowing if the money was enough to pay the bills. Well…
You live from appearances and that isn’t good for me. You must be asking yourself: What about gambling? What about drinking? What about cocaine? Let me tell you that these are all my real pleasures. In the last couple of years they were my only companions. I know they are vices but… we all have them. I am saying goodbye but not to you. Just to the world. Well…
I have some messages to my mother. Tell her I have never understood her well. If she didn’t want me to live “this kind of life”, as she often said in family gatherings, why did she feed “my kind of life”? About bad friends, that she accused of being the causers… just tell her that there are no friends in the world. There is only today and now… she used to tell my father “We must help him! We must get him out of this!” Ask her if she ever asked me if I wanted to be helped. If I ever asked for help. I can’t understand. Well…
As to my father, you can tell him that I have nothing to tell him which is bad.
The next lines are for the children.
Henrique: I know that being just ten years old, it will be very difficult to understand it all that I am doing. But my dear son… I also want to die. Don’t suffer for me because I don’t deserve it.”
Gilberto stopped writing. He laid the pen down and sniffed a line of cocaine. He sipped the last gulch of whisky.
He went on.
“My son, I would like to have lived time enough to see you being happy but I confess that lately I didn’t even see you at all . You annoy me with all the questions you make and the demands to play football in the park. Have you ever asked yourself if I like playing football? Well…
But I love you.
Now, for Mateus: Dear son, you were born because of a mistake your mother made. She thought that your birth would “save” our marriage which already had nothing left to be saved. At the beginning I doubted that you were my son but I take her word for it. Being just one year old, you probably won’t ever remember my face or even my existence but maybe someone will tell you about me. Well…
As for the remaining, Maria, I must tell that lately I have always lived to the limit, always trying to fill in a void I feel inside. Because I couldn’t do it and I don’t have money enough nor anything else to sell… I feel it isn’t worth being around.
Don’t judge my action as selfish or coward… I just think you will be better without me.
Goodbye to you all.
He laid the notebook down on the bed and sniffed the last line of cocaine. He opened the bottle and drenched himself with the diluent. He lighted the lighter and followed the course he had given to the key.
Gilberto has closed himself from the project A STATE OF MIND
Photo: Sérgio Moreira
Text: Adão Baptista