It wasn't my lucky day
The testimony, the fiction, the auto fiction
Sitting on a bench, facing a line of slot machines, I mindlessly inserted tokens into the slot machine, a faint smile on my face. I didn't smile often because my teeth were crooked, as Bruno often reminded me. I was naturally shy and had chosen my addictions like adopting a dog, reflecting my solitary and taciturn nature. Gambling was one of them, followed closely by alcohol.
That evening, neither I nor anyone else left as winners, and the small casino in Saint Gilles closed its doors at 2 a.m. as scheduled, without champagne or Maloya music. It wasn't my lucky day. My pockets were empty, and the bank card left at home wouldn't have saved me from drowning. I was already in debt, it was the nineteenth of the month.
Staggering, I made my way towards the car parked nearby in the market square. It was only about two kilometers on a wide avenue lined with bougainvillea to reach the house. If you listened closely, you could even hear the rustling of the wind in the filaos, the calm ocean of the lagoon nearby. I wasn't at much risk. On this island, there were no lurking beasts or nocturnal animals to run over. Few nocturnal pedestrians, and even then, I was drunk but not blind. I thought the real challenge would be climbing the creaky wooden stairs without waking up my man, risking a thorough interrogation or even a beating. But once again, I was a loser, far from imagining what would come next.
Our Creole house was modest, small inside but with a decent-sized garden in the front, allowing us to enjoy the pleasant Reunion Island evenings. There were still some renovations to be done. When the shed was finished, we would finally be able to store the various tools scattered outside near the entrance. Bruno let me choose the exterior colors. I painted the door blue, the color of the sky. It's a shame you can't see it from the street. It's hidden behind a Mauritian awning, sheltered from the elements. I chose an emerald green for the window frame next to it. It overlooks the only room on the ground floor. Bruno tells me the color is emerald blue, but the paint can says green. I can read, after all. But I didn't say anything.
I parked the old Peugeot 309 on the side of the road and closed the door gently. The fragrance of blooming frangipani tickled my nostrils. I crossed the sleeping garden with still unsteady steps, and when I reached the bend in the wooden curtain, a slight fear gripped me. There was light in the main room. I quickly glanced through the window; the TV was off, and I didn't see any movement. Part of the couch was hidden behind an exotic wooden console; I wasn't sure if Bruno was there. Empty cans were scattered on the coffee table, yesterday's and today's. He could have fallen asleep on the three-seater couch, tired of waiting for me but ready to receive me.
Feeling less reassured, I headed towards the entrance and was shocked to see the door ajar. A beam of light escaped, the only thing visible in the darkness. A moonless night, not a breath of wind. An immediate drop in alcohol-induced concentration. The keys trembled slightly in my hands, my breathing quickened. I had told him to lock the door behind me. I placed a hand on the doorknob and pulled it enough to stick my head in when a loud, sharp noise pierced through me. Just there, a breath away, outside, on the other side of the door, a toolbox tripped over.
Like in a Chinese puzzle game, the visual information gathered during my survey of the interior of the house was finally processed, and I realized familiar objects were missing. My tote bag left on the desk, the laptop, the small wooden box containing passports and a gold bracelet. My heart raced. In the toolbox, readily available to the burglar, were a hammer, screwdriver, and wrench. Things that could maim or bleed me. A rancid smell overwhelmed me, a mixture of scared bodies' sweat. The figure lurking in the shadows was also afraid. We were both predator and prey, and he was waiting for me to make a decision. I could avoid the fight, close the door behind me without haste, and exit my body as I did when Bruno got angry. Or I could, with a violent gesture, pivot on my heels, defy the shadow of the thief, and... Too indecisive, as always, too slow, I was taken by surprise.
Paralyzed, caught between the gentle violence inside and outside, a draft pushed me, and my head hit the door frame. I dropped my keys. A figure escaped. I only saw a shadow, my bag swaying in the night, anchored on the strong shoulder of the fugitive. My body swaying, I allowed myself to slide along the corridor wall. A plaster wall that caught the fabric, exposing and scratching the lower back. I put my hand to my forehead, a slight scrape, a few drops of blood, nothing much.
Upstairs, I heard the floor creaking. It wasn't yet dawn. The damp fragrance of twilight wouldn't be long. With it, the first rays of the sun rising behind the mountains. From here, I wouldn't see anything. Bruno's heavy footsteps on the landing. I heard him grumble, clumsily searching for the stair switch. He would descend the steps one by one and probably call my name. Once, twice. I could evade the fight, leave, and close the door behind me without haste. No one believed that anymore, not even me. So, as if reciting a lesson, I would beg, apologize for everything, for waking him up, for being robbed, for being afraid, for crying. For losing once again.