It smelled of forgotten food and blood. That house of the Mochis, In Sinaloa, converted into a refuge from the narco king, He taught the viscera with a stark indolence. Blood was under a quilt lying on the floor; The bullets marked the walls as if they were alcayatas from which the paintings and underwear of the women and men who lived there were on the ropes of the clothes or scattered on the ground.
Impressed especially entry. Just before the gate there was a pool of blood and as soon as there was the door there was another, left, in front of the sofas and a great television. In the feather, or I didn't give it to me, thinking that those red spots could be tombs. It hit you, What caused me was that, a kind of slap in which disgusting, A certain chill and astonishment.
They were waters and rain, mixed
Then was the tunnel, After a mirrors and golden closet where you descended by a wooden staircase with bulbs. Below was the gate that opened the Chapo and for which he tried to flee again below where they step on the rest of the men. They were waters and rain, mixed. Despite everything I did not smell of anything that was not moisture.
I went back to the top floor, Merodee for the rooms looking at the routine of the then already dead and prisoners and I returned to the kitchen, down. That's where the smell was stronger, For food rotting, And the image was harder to me. The fridge was thrown and everything inside was shed on the ground. Soldiers told us that it was the hitmen who threw it to hinder her step, But then, In the video that was made public of the assault, We discovered that it was the soldiers who threw everything and took everything out of the cabinets to decipher where the narco had gone. I don't know why but that detail of everything started from their places, That disorder where there was no time to place corpses, It was the most violent. That scattered food was a violent goodbye, It was death.
There was a photo with two young children
And in the midst of all that I noticed that in a kind of central countertop there was a photo with two young children. They should not be more than five or six years old. A boy and a girl. With their faces as a boy and girl, sweet, like all, Without time to understand that his father lived in a dark world in which there is no time for forgives or prayers.
Then, below, separating some swaps spilled on the ground, I discovered a letter. It seemed to me that it was a childish letter and I bent down to observe her. Said the lyrics, In the midst of constant spelling faults, Next to several spoons and what looked like a white man's t -shirt, as follows:
From Melissa to Dad- Hi father, I love you, I miss you. I would like you to join me to spend Christmas together. You are the pope #1. I love you. I really want to see you, I send you many greetings and hugs. God and Mary bless you ».
I read the letter, I photographed her and left the house. It was cold, It was already at night and you had to start writing the chronicle. Out there was nothing that was not the coming and going of some colleagues. Suddenly I looked at the house and it seemed to me that everything was a spectrum.
