My mother, displaying the supernatural strength of a protective tigress, decided her postpartum rest was over and rose to perform her daily tasks with admirable determination.
I had the invaluable opportunity to observe her in her full extent and magnificence. Despite having given birth just the day before, she was an incredibly attractive woman, about twenty years old.
Without a doubt, she was well-endowed in every imaginable sense, with a toned body perfected through effort and hard work. Her hair, reaching her shoulder blades, was a beautiful golden hue with reddish highlights scattered throughout its length like sparks of fire.
The dancing candlelight made it seem as if living flames danced within each strand, creating a hypnotic spectacle.
The days passed with maddening slowness. A week after my birth, my senses began to develop gradually, like flowers opening at dawn. However, newborn life was far from exciting by any measure.
I spent most of my time lying in my improvised crib, utterly unable to move with purpose. I felt incredibly bored and powerless, like a prisoner in my own tiny body.
Gathering information about my new world proved to be an arduous and frustrating task. I couldn't even clearly distinguish the passage of days and nights due to obvious limitations. The reason was brutally simple: I slept almost all the time, like a hibernating bear. A baby's body was terribly inefficient in every aspect.
I fought against the constant drowsiness that assaulted me like a drug, but it was a losing battle from the start. As soon as I opened my eyes with effort, my eyelids would close again as if they weighed tons of lead. And when I managed to stay awake for a few precious moments, hunger struck immediately with the force of a hurricane.
There was no point resisting this biological reality. When the need became absolutely unbearable, I resorted to the only method of communication at my disposal: screaming with all my might.
The pride and honor of my past life had no place in my new reality of basic survival. In desperate moments, desperate measures were required. Crying was the only effective way to communicate my basic needs and ensure my survival in this hostile world.
Despite all my unconscious efforts, my mother hadn't managed to sleep properly since the first day of my existence. There were no visible signs of my father anywhere…
Father… It seemed that in those primitive times, child-rearing fell solely on the mother's shoulders. My mother kept a constant watch over me when we were alone at home, like an untiring guardian.
She tucked me in carefully whenever my limbs slipped out from the protective blankets, even if I was dozing. She tried to help me sleep after feeding and burping me with the patience of a saint.
My mother's daily routine consisted of an endless cycle: feeding me, burping me, and helping me sleep, over and over. I pretended to sleep when my mother wanted to rest. She could only sleep for a scant hour when I feigned peaceful slumber.
I saw my mother cry for the first time after a full week of this hell.
I heard her sob with exhaustion, though her silhouette remained blurry to my underdeveloped eyes. Her sobs were the opposite of the joyful laughter I'd heard at birth. My mother must have been at the end of her strength, having gone a full week without proper sleep.
I was her first and only child, so it was her first time raising a baby. She couldn't go to the bathroom alone or sleep more than an hour at a time.
Then she broke into desperate sobs that broke my heart, and I realized how tremendously difficult it had been for her to raise me during these first days.
I saw her stop crying abruptly to feed me when I began to whimper, and in that moment, I felt I could go hungry for a whole day if it meant my mother could sleep deeply for one night.
However, my mother grew anxious and checked every corner when I suppressed my hunger pangs and didn't cry as expected.
Twelve times a day, every two hours on the dot, like clockwork.
My mother fed and burped me again as if she hadn't cried at all. My goal of protecting her wasn't far off or in a distant future. It was right here, in front of me, in every gesture of unconditional love.
***
I found myself inhabiting a dark, fragile, and vulnerable space, like an egg about to crack. My new home was a precarious construction of ill-fitted planks, a feeble barrier against the cruel whims of the outside world. Cracks adorned the worn walls like battle scars, while the wind, like a mocking, persistent spirit, slipped through with a ceaseless whistle.
From my limited perspective, I observed the remnants of our possessions: tattered blankets that barely shielded us from the piercing cold and a pair of brass bowls, their original shine dulled under thick layers of accumulated rust.
The damp, peeling walls were the undisputed domain of dark, diligent insects, their constant march resounding like tiny war drums heralding a lost battle. Mud dripped from the cracked ceiling in an irregular rhythm, a constant reminder of the absolute fragility of our makeshift shelter.
The air, thick and stale, clung to my tiny lungs like an invisible but tangible weight. Yet, I had no choice but to adapt to this brutal reality. I had learned to accept the incessant chorus of creatures sharing this miserable space with us, a grotesque symphony marking the passage of my days and nights without distinction.
When hunger became an unbearable pang piercing my stomach like a dagger, I broke into desperate cries. It was an instinctive, primal wail, my only available means of announcing my urgent need to the world. As always, the response came swiftly: my mother's warm, comforting voice broke through the oppressive silence like a ray of sunlight.
"Oh, it seems our baby's hungry again," she murmured with infinite tenderness.
Her arms, soft as a blanket on a cold winter's night, enveloped me with absolute gentleness, and my crying ceased instantly, as if by magic. Why keep crying and exhausting myself needlessly when I'd already gotten exactly what I needed? Crying was draining, and in my state of constant hunger, it only made me feel weaker and more vulnerable.
"Hehe, I think you recognize Mommy," she said with a laugh that lit up the heavy air around us like a torch in the darkness.
How could I not recognize her? Though my body barely responded to my conscious desires and my world was a confusing chaos of blurry shapes and distorted sounds, I had memorized every line and curve of her angelic face. A shy smile spread across my lips as I heard her say "Mommy" with such love.
I watched her unbutton her blouse with a single motion, and when she offered her warm breast, I accepted it without a moment's hesitation. The first few times, a shadow of shame had darkened the act, but now it was the most natural thing in the world to me. The warm, comforting breast milk slid down my throat with the smoothness of a crystal-clear spring stream, filling me with absolute calm and profound well-being.
I surrendered completely to that sensation of total fulfillment. My eyes closed slowly, not from overwhelming fatigue but from pure satisfaction and gratitude.
As days turned into weeks with maddening slowness, I noticed my perception of the world sharpening gradually, like an instrument being tuned. My mother's voice, once a distant, distorted echo, became clear and melodic. The blurry shapes took on more defined, recognizable contours, though they remained a partially deciphered mystery.
My mother, an indefatigable and determined woman, spent her days weaving baskets with rough but skilled hands, worn by years of labor. Each fiber she wove was a silent testament to her superhuman strength and unyielding perseverance. In her scarce free moments, she became a gatherer, an ungrateful task that barely kept us afloat in this ocean of poverty.
I accompanied her for the first time to the place she called, with resignation, the "refuge." She carried me on her back with an improvised but functional harness, and from that privileged perspective, I observed a world that confirmed my worst expectations. The underground tunnels formed a labyrinth of perpetual darkness, lit only by faint lamps flickering like dying stars on the brink of extinction.
The ground was a barren expanse of hard earth, riddled with treacherous potholes and sharp rocks, with no trace of vegetation or life. Above us, there was no blue sky or clouds, only an unfathomable blackness that seemed to devour any glimmer of light or hope.
The narrow, winding streets were crowded with people dressed in tattered clothes, their faces marked by relentless cold and chronic despair. The houses, small and fragile like houses of cards, stood as silent witnesses to the daily struggle for survival; their improvised, cracked walls bore the deep scars of a precarious existence on the brink of collapse.