Mother Ceres Watches
In the empty gymnasium, the lights already turned off for the night, only the Silencers still patrolled.
But she was there.
No one saw her face — no one ever did.
Only the shadow projected high above in the gallery, the majestic, inhuman form of the one who always watches, even when no one believes they are being watched.
Down below, each went their own way:
Theo, carrying in his chest the decision to become a madman — and a half — to tame his wolf.
Dark, with the crumpled medal in his pocket, a trophy of barely contained chaos.
Mother Ceres did not move.
Only a low sound to herself — perhaps a sigh, perhaps a restrained laugh:
Mother Ceres — My boys... they finally understood. They only bloom in the mud.
For an instant, her shadow seemed to expand and contract, like a deep sigh.
And then, silence.
Nothing remained in the gymnasium:
Neither shadow, nor sound.
Deep in their souls, both felt that sensation as they left:
She saw.
She approved.
She feeds them, even when it hurts.
And in silence, she thought:
Mother Ceres — Only this way... only this way will they be worthy of me.
The Victory and the Shadow
The team returned from the field, soaked in sweat and tense silence.
In Oplan's tiled corridor, the crowd's screams still echoed.
In the locker room, the temporary medals hung loosely against their chests.
Theo sat on the bench, breathing heavily, torn between the relief of victory and the terror of what was coming.
He held the towel with both hands as if it were a shield.
Dark, on the other side, leaned against the locker, wearing a crooked smile, the crumpled medal from the previous game hanging from an improvised cord.
— So, prince... got your little goal — Dark said, spitting on the floor. — But don't forget: Mother doesn't raise ungrateful children. Everything she gives, she can take away.
The silence of the others was sepulchral.
The Silencers standing by the door reinforced the feeling: the celebration was over.
Even Dark took a step back when the men approached Theo.
One of them pointed:
— You. Tomorrow, correction.
Theo lowered his head, feeling a knot in his throat.
He did not fight.
He did not beg.
He bit his lip until he tasted blood.
Ana & Daime: The End That Already Happened
A fine rain fell over the school's side courtyard, in a corner the camera never showed.
Daime was there, sitting in his wheelchair, a cigarette between his deformed fingers and a worn blanket over his legs.
Ana, newly arrived from the armored train from Oplan, walked slowly — hesitant, but steady enough for him to notice.
He looked at her from the corner of his eye, blew out smoke, and remarked with that same cruel humor as always:
— Fuck, I thought you were coming to pull the plug on me. But no... you're still there, looking at me like I'm a torn poster of what once was. And congratulations on the victory.
Ana did not answer immediately.
She lowered her eyes, took a deep breath, and whispered:
— I still love you, Daime.
He laughed.
Laughed loudly, uncontrollably, slapping his useless thigh.
— You love me. Hah. Of course you do. Even I love myself when I forget what I am.
But it's over, Ana.
It ended when Mother decided I was going to be a lab rat, not a man.
It ended when I started shitting in a diaper.
When my fucking dick became a decoration.
He leaned forward, his gaze sharp:
— Pity isn't lust, Ana. Pity isn't love. You should get yourself a taste for four-wheeled men, because this is what I am now.
[He slams his hand against the wheelchair.]
But I'm not even good enough to set Plaza D on fire.
Ana closed her eyes, trying to hold back her tears.
Daime snorted, exhausted, and laughed again — a laugh now sad, but still mocking.
— I only laugh because it's all I have left.
Mother took everything from me, Ana.
My leg, my future, my fucking everything.
But she didn't take my sense of humor.
And she never will.
Not even if they shove me down a sewer.
Ana opened her eyes and looked at him.
He continued, calmer:
— I'm jealous of them, okay?
Theo.
Ceres.
Young, beautiful, desired, adored.
I see that kid with you and think...
Jesus fucking Christ, he never talked back to me, even when I deserved it.
And he doesn't pity me.
That's why I like him.
That's why I respect him.
He sighed deeply and looked Ana in the eyes:
— But I can't stand it when you pity me, Ana.
I can't stand it.
So do me a favor?
Turn around.
Go live.
Leave me here, laughing at the jokes only I understand.
Because if you don't let go of me...
I'll let go of you.
And honestly, I already did a year ago.
You're the one who didn't notice.
Ana wiped her tears with the sleeve of her coat.
She said nothing.
She only touched his hand lightly and slowly walked away — leaving him there, alone, but whole inside his own sarcasm.
He lit another cigarette and murmured to no one:
— Mother took everything from me.
But she'll never take my filthy mouth.
And he laughed.
Again.
Like someone laughing so he wouldn't die completely.
Ana held his hand one last time, already standing, ready to leave — but she couldn't.
She looked at him, her voice breaking:
— ...even so, I love you.
Daime's face, previously nothing but mocking, now twisted.
Not in contempt — but in a sad, helpless, visceral rage.
He pulled her hand hard and spat the words into the air:
— Go fuck yourself right in the middle of your fucking eye, Ana!
She did not retreat.
She did not return his anger.
She simply let his hand slowly slip from hers.
A tear fell to the ground, silently.
He let out a bitter laugh, without looking at her:
— That's right.
Go live, for fuck's sake.
Don't look back.
Ana turned her back and left.
Walking slowly beneath the fine rain.
Daime remained there.
The cigarette trembling between his fingers.
His mouth still trembling with rage.
His eyes wet, fixed on the darkness.
He murmured, only to himself:
— Even so... me too.
And he took a deep drag, as though trying to kill his longing with nicotine.
Ana left the shed without looking back, her eyes fixed on nothing.
The fine drizzle of Ceres ran cold down the back of her neck, soaking her blouse against her body.
Each step weighed more than the one before, as though the concrete ground wanted to suck her down.
She walked aimlessly for several minutes, crossing the empty courtyard, hearing in the distance the hiss of the railways and the growl of diesel engines.
Inside her chest, a hole burned.
His voice still echoed, violent, disgusting, but true:
— Go fuck yourself right in the middle of your fucking eye...
She stopped near one of the corridor pillars, leaned against the cold wall, and let out a muffled sob.
She bit her fist to keep from screaming.
She cried from rage, shame, love, longing —
all at once.
He did not want pity.
He had never wanted anything from her beyond desire, struggle, and truth.
And she, without realizing it, had given him exactly what he hated:
Compassion.
In her pocket, she still carried the black wristband he used to wear during games, before the accident.
She squeezed it tightly, as though she could bring the whole Daime back — smiling, the same one who used to make her laugh on the bench.
But it was useless.
When she finally raised her eyes to the starless sky, she took a deep breath:
— Son of a bitch... you still have me. — she murmured, swallowing her hurt.
She stepped away from the pillar, walking back toward the girls' dormitory — her legs trembling, but her head held high.
There was no longer adolescent love in her heart.
It was a scar.
The gate slammed shut behind her.
And silence returned to fill the shed.
Daime remained motionless in his wheelchair, staring at the dirty wall ahead.
His face was still contorted, his jaw clenched.
But his fingers trembled slightly over the wheels.
He took a deep breath and let out a hoarse, humorless laugh:
— That's right, for fuck's sake. Go away. — he said, almost in a whisper. — You don't deserve this... this fucking place.
He ran a hand over his face, covering his eyes.
Pressed his temples until they hurt.
And there, alone, the laughter broke.
A horrible sound came out, a half-sob strangled in his throat, like someone swallowing glass.
For a moment, he let himself be consumed by envy:
her youth,
her lightness,
that fucking Theo.
For a moment, he remembered the time when she laughed at him during training, as if nothing could ever go wrong.
For a moment, he wished he had never woken up from that stretcher.
Then he wiped his tears with the sleeve of his jacket and muttered:
— Enough, for fuck's sake. Enough.
And he looked upward with a crooked smile, still wet.
— Mother Ceres isn't going to see me crying.
Not a chance.
He pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket, lit it with a trembling hand, and took a deep drag.
He stayed there, watching the smoke rise and disappear into the roof —
trying to laugh again.
As he always did.
That night, Daime took a long time to lie down.
The wheelchair was against the wall.
But he, restless, dragged himself to the mattress on the floor of the shack.
He smoked one cigarette after another while the streetlamp carved his face into shadow and smoke.
His hands gripped the sheet.
His muscles tense, as though he were still on the field.
As though he were still a god for an hour and a half.
He closed his eyes.
And there he was again:
Arcadia.
The enemy field.
The black stands, like a courtroom filled with masked executioners.
The metallic anthem of Mother Ceres being booed, spat upon, torn apart by the crowd.
And him?
Laughing.
Laughing loudly like a demon.
Number 8 pasted across his back.
The veins bulging in his neck.
The hatred of others was nourishment.
The chorus of insults, music.
There, he was immoral.
There, he was Mother Ceres fucking Arcadia before the entire world.
Every pass he made was a finger up their ass.
Every dribble, a slap across the face.
And when he scored the first goal, he spat toward the stands as though spitting into the enemy's food and rubbing shit into their tablecloth.
But Daime wanted more.
He wanted to do the unthinkable:
tell Mother Ceres herself to go fuck herself before her own judges.
That's why he didn't back down.
That's why he didn't slow down.
In that murderous counterattack, he was not a son of Mother Ceres.
He was greater than her.
The crowd roared.
The enemy supporters howled.
And at the peak, when he felt the two Arcadians drive their double marking into him like iron stakes, he thought:
“They're going to have to split me in half to stop me.”
And they almost did.
He heard the crack of his own spine.
The dull sound of his body being crushed.
The ball rolled out.
The crown fell.
The theater was over.
He woke days later in a cold bed, feeling shit run inside a diaper.
He was no longer God.
He was nothing.
And now, a year later, the memory burned like a bad orgasm.
He hated that Ana still looked at him with pity.
He hated Theo for being too humble to return his hatred.
He hated Mother Ceres for not envying him.
And he hated even more that he could not stop laughing at his own misery.
He took a deep drag and threw the cigarette butt against the wall.
And murmured alone, almost like a filthy prayer:
— I was your God for an hour and a half, Mother Ceres... and you didn't even blink.
He spat on the floor and smiled, his teeth yellow and bitter:
— But I know you liked it, you bitch.
He lay down, smoke still rising from his chest, his eyes open in the darkness.
Mother Ceres watched the game from above, from the special boxes.
Or perhaps she wasn't even watching.
Perhaps she had known from the beginning that they would win.
Or perhaps she was in every mouth shouting from the stands.
In every hungry eye following the ball.
She was the entire city.
And the entire city was hers.
Daime ran across the field like a freed animal, a god with blood in his veins, a rebellious and beautiful son who spat in the face of courts and laughed at the judges.
And Mother Ceres laughed too.
Oh, how she laughed.
Not because she felt threatened.
But because he was such a... delicious toy.
Unique.
Valuable.
A toy she herself had created, polished, trained, poisoned with ambition, and released into the arena like a starving lion.
And when he did the impossible, when he dodged death, when he spat in the face of the enemy stands, Ceres felt that sweet warmth of the envy surrounding her:
“We don't have this.
Only she has it.
Only she creates children like this.”
She loved it.
She loved being hated.
She loved being feared.
She loved having her children envied by the rest of the world — by the brutal freedom of never having to beg for anything.
Ceres was rich.
She was fertile.
She was abundant.
She had gold in the state banks, wheat in the fields, fruit in the orchards.
She had rats, dogs, and cats well-fed even in the alleys.
Not even Ceres's garbage was garbage:
it fed the hungry of other cities.
And she knew it:
no enemy would dare attack her head-on.
Because their coffers depended on her womb as well.
She had everything.
And she wanted more.
They could call her a bitch.
An oppressive machine.
Mother.
Monster.
She cared little.
As long as they never forgot her.
The instant Daime was brought down —
the second his legs buckled —
the exact moment the entire city fell silent —
Mother Ceres merely tilted her head and murmured, satisfied:
— Toys break.
But they're still my toys.
And when she heard his muffled scream, sprawled across the grass, she felt an almost... erotic pang.
He still hated her.
Still spat at her.
And that meant he still loved her.
Even now, crippled.
Mother Ceres felt no jealousy toward Daime.
No anger.
No remorse.
She merely smiled.
Softly.
With her illuminated skyscrapers reflecting in his tears.
And in the final silence of the match, before the sirens came to take him away, she whispered into every mind:
— I am you.
You are mine.
And you never, ever will forget me.
The hospital ceiling was so white it hurt.
As white as the courts.
As white as the clean uniform before the mud of the field.
As white as her conscience, high above — invisible and inevitable.
Daime blinked slowly, trying to ignore the pain in his legs —
but it was impossible.
The pain was a reminder that he was still hers.
Even now.
Under the drugs.
With his spine shattered.
With his body ruined.
With all his dignity pissed into a diaper.
She still owned him.
And that was what he hated.
Not the games.
Never the games.
He loved the games.
Loved the dirty grass.
The ball sliding.
The hatred of others.
The sensation of being alive for an hour and a half.
Of being immortal on that oval field of synthetic grass.
He loved the sound of the boos, the insults — because they were for him.
Because they proved he existed.
What he hated...
was being only a toy.
Her favorite toy.
The rare jewel she displayed to her enemies with a mocking smile.
The ornament she used to say:
— I have one. You don't. And I take very good care of what belongs to me.
Daime took a deep breath.
And laughed.
A hoarse, bitter laugh, almost voiceless.
Because he loved her too.
And that made him want to vomit.
He loved the city.
Loved Mother.
Loved the sensation of being hers — even knowing that no heart beat inside her chest.
And that if one did, it would be only the heart of her devoured children.
The blood flowing through her veins was everyone's blood.
His too.
Ana's.
Theo's.
Every child eating nutritious scraps from the garbage.
Every fat cat in every alley.
Every old man holding gold in the state agencies.
It was the blood of everyone she had ever crushed —
and no one had ever truly dared to hate her.
Not even him.
Because deep down, even now, crippled in a cold bed, he still dreamed of seeing her smile at him.
Even if only to say:
— I always knew you wouldn't last, my toy.
And he still dreamed of answering:
— Fuck you. At least I made you remember my name.
That was it.
Mother Ceres triumphed in the heavens, in hell —
and still managed to destroy limbo.
And him?
He was just another idiot son, trapped by the umbilical cord, praying for an affection that would never come.
And laughing alone in the dark, because it was the only thing he had left.
The voice was cold.
Soft.
Enormous.
As though it came from the walls, the ceiling, the IV tubes.
As though it were the warm breath of the city itself bending over him — all white, all clean, all filled with white, well-fed teeth:
— I remember your name, Daime.
— I will always remember.
He closed his eyes, but it made no difference.
Mother Ceres was there, as she had always been.
Sitting on her throne, like an iron Madonna, with that tiny smile of someone who had already won the game before the whistle.
The voice continued:
— Do you know why?
— Because you were fun.
— Unique.
— The toy no one else could have.
He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted the metallic tang of blood.
But the voice did not disappear:
— You were the toy I took such care of, so that you would shine in their eyes.
— And how they hated you for being mine.
— How they envied you.
And there was a certain pleasure in those syllables:
— The toy no one dared touch, no one dreamed of having, no one dared complain about not having.
— Because I made you seem impossible.
Daime felt rage boiling beneath his skin, but she whispered more softly, like someone caressing a dog:
— I liked the taste you left in my mouth.
— The power you gave me without realizing it.
The pause was long.
Cruel.
And finally she said:
— And now you've broken.
A dry laugh echoed through the empty hospital.
Only he could hear it.
A satisfied laugh, laden with cynical melancholy:
— Now no one has you.
— Not even me.
— But I... at least I had you.
And all the others?
— They never will.
— Not even the pleasure of hating me for having you.
— Not even the relief of watching you crush them.
And then the voice grew lower, almost maternal —
but it was only poison:
— It was the only way to defeat them without war.
— And still gloat with class.
— I felt the weight of every knot in their throats, one by one.
— And it was delicious.
Daime opened his eyes and laughed again, alone in the darkness of the room.
He laughed so he wouldn't cry.
He laughed because she was still winning, even there.
Even now.
He laughed because the only thing he had left was to be remembered by her.
Like a rare toy.
Broken.
But hers.