That’s My Name

What the hell just happened? I was in the damn park, and now I'm here, in the living room of some house I've never stepped foot in before. But come on, it's not like I just woke up or anything. I was simply at La Langosta Park and now, bam, here I am, sitting on a couch that clearly costs way more than all the sexual services my mother has ever been paid for in her entire life. Actually, now that I think about it for a few seconds, this couch probably costs more than everything my mother has made and will ever make until the day she retires from the streets, from selling her body, until the day old age forces her to close her legs for good, because by then, no one will be willing to use what she's got down there, not even for free.

I get up and look around. Only the lamps are on, and I can't deny this place looks pretty damn nice. I still have my earbuds in. I take them out and shove them into the pocket of my Nike pants. I don't feel anyone's presence. I'm this close to calling out, "Hello? Anyone home? Is anybody here?" like those dumbasses in horror movies, the ones who end up hacked to pieces in a pool of blood. But screw that. I keep quiet. I start wondering if maybe I'm dead. And obviously, I think about not thinking at all and just getting the hell out of this fucking house; but of course, I know I won't. My curiosity is way too big and I couldn't care less about the consequences. To hell with that saying about curiosity killing the cat.

I sit back down on the couch. Then I hear a voice behind me. A woman's voice. A pretty sexy one, actually. She says:

"Good thing you chose not to run."

I turn my head, but there's no one there. The voice comes again:

"Let's talk."

This time, I turn my head forward. And of course, the woman behind the voice is none other than the girl of my dreams. Holy shit. She's the most captivating being I've ever laid eyes on. She's sitting in one of the armchairs, right in front of the couch I'm on. She's wearing a dress that looks insane on her. She's pretty young. I don't think she's much older than me. But then again, her face says something else: she might wear a young face, but there's something timeless in her eyes, like someone who's been around long enough to know exactly how the world spins. She tells me:

"I already know the answer, but I want to hear it from you. Why did you name me Agnes in that book you're writing?"

"Where am I?" I ask.

"That's a question for later. First you need to figure out who you are."

"What I want is to know who you are."

"You already know. I'm Agnes."

"Agnes is a made-up character. She's just a dream."

"Do I not seem real to you?"

"You tell me. Am I dead?"

"No, of course not. You were for a while before being reborn as a human. But you came back, and I found you. And now it's finally time for us to be together again. I've waited so long to have you back."

"Are you a demon?"

"No. Demons are ugly. I'm way too gorgeous for that."

"None of this makes sense."

"That's because you're not thinking deep enough. The depth you need is beyond the limits of the prison that is your mind. In short, you're still thinking like a filthy, stupid human. But don't worry, my love, we'll fix that soon."

"Why do you call me 'my love'?"

"Because that's what you are to me."

"I've never seen you before in my life."

"What you're living and remembering now is just a piece of the whole. And tonight, I'll help you remember the rest."

"Do you still want me to tell you why I called you Agnes in my novel?"

"Of course. Come on, tell me what I already know."

"I dreamed of you. You whispered things in my ear I couldn't understand, and I kept repeating your name: Agnes, Agnes, Agnes. I even woke up saying it. Well, I didn't wake up on my own. Nené woke me. She thought I was having a nightmare."

"A lot of nicknames sound weird in this country where fate decided you should be born. Irene becomes Nené. Oriana is Nana. Gustavo turns into Guti. And Fabrizio? He's not Fabri. He's Zico."

Fabrizio. That's my name. Then Agnes says:

"Do you like that name, my love? I adore it. I think you should keep it."

"Keep it? What the hell are you saying?"

"I'm just saying that's not the name I knew you by."

"Come on, tell me the truth. I'm dead, aren't I?"

"I already told you you're not."

"Don't lie to me. Stop playing with me. Tell me how I died. Was it an accident?"

"You're not dead. But yes, soon you will be. Don't freak out, though, it'll only be for a brief moment. Then you'll be reborn."

I know exactly what this girl is. I've been in denial, refusing to believe something like her could be real, but the evidence is screaming. And yet, what comes out of my mouth next is a question, not a statement:

"Are you a fucking vampire?"

"I am," she says. "Of course I am."

I let out a deep breath. I'm not afraid. I've been confused as hell by all of this, sure, but I haven't felt fear. And now I'm completely sure this isn't a dream. I'm sure I'm not dead. So I ask:

"Who am I, Agnes?"

"Now that is a real question, my love. You are my creator."