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The Pan - You are not alone | AVON

Trigger Warning: Asset Violence

THE PAN

 

I first arrived at that house with them.

Newlyweds, happy and excited for everything to come.

I was as a gift to them.

And for a few years, they were also a gift for me.

I'm not sure how long they’ve known each other before, but I clearly remember the first day I saw them.

It was a Sunday night, when he decided to prepare something special.

Seafood pasta. His signature dish.

She loved it.

Loved it so much that this dish was repeated over and over, several times after that.

Some years, more frequently than others.

That seafood dish and many others.

Always at night, when he got home from work.

The rest of the day, she did everything around the house.

Cleaned, ironed, cooked, washed.

She would never go out.

Only for grocery shopping. Pasta, seafood, and all the rest.

Always with the money he would leave for her on the kitchen counter.

When he forgot to leave the money, she didn’t go shopping.

 

Her days were always peaceful.

At least until then.

 

On a given Friday, she cleaned up the entire kitchen.

Washed the dishes from the night before and also prepared two or three meals, carefully kept in separate pots that were

placed in the fridge.

When everything was finally organized, she packed a small suitcase and left.

I remember hearing something about visiting her mother or sister.

And, even though it was the first time I had heard about them, I was happy to know that she would go out of the house

for a while.

 

A few hours later, he arrived with a grocery bag.

He opened the fridge and found the little pots that had been prepared by his wife; nevertheless, he decided to cook.

He took all the ingredients to the kitchen stove and got ready to prepare the famous seafood pasta. Her favourite dish.

When dinner was ready, the doorbell rang.

He, who was very anxious, smiled broadly. He took a deep breath and welcomed into our apartment, an unknown woman.

They talked for hours: about work, dreams, travelling.

They did a little bit of everything and it wasn’t long before he was on top of her.

The way I saw him with his wife. Or at least used to see a few years before.

 

Friday became Saturday and on Sunday, around lunchtime, she came back.

She went straight to the kitchen, where she found us.

I was on the stove, while he was preparing something to eat.

The water was boiling.

In the sink, some dirty dishes as reminders of that Friday.

In the fridge, those two or three meals she had left, still untouched.

She looked at the sink, opened the fridge and began to cry. In a way I had never seen before.

The look of disappointment that day was different from any other. Different from when he overcooked the food or didn't

take her out.

She confronted him. With a courage I didn't know she had in her.

She threw the dishes on the floor, scattering their pieces all over the kitchen.

She screamed.

Cried.

Demanded to know the truth.

He grabbed her by the arm, with uncontrollable rage in his eyes. He said she didn't have the right to accuse him that

way.

Outraged.

Shame.

Ridiculous.

Incapable of containing his rage, he shoved her against the kitchen counter.

He began to shout.

You're crazy.

Crazy.

Crazy.

He turned to the stove, consumed by an irrational hate.

Grabbed me.

Hot.

Boiling.

With strength as big as his rage, he tossed all the water.

Hot.

Boiling.

After that, I didn't hear any screaming or crying.

She stood there, paralysed on the kitchen floor, while he called for an ambulance. He told them that his wife had

suffered an accident in the kitchen.

It’s been three months since I last saw her. I think she’s still in the hospital.

It’s been three months since he began to cook seafood pasta every Friday.

 

Sometimes, the only witness cannot speak for you.

 

 

 

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