They told me that I died one autumn night. Lying in the empty bathtub, at that
rented noisy apartment, while the water ran through my dressed up body. It was
warm water, though. And my jeans, the shoes and shirt were all soaked.
There were no signs of violence, there were no marks on the skin.
Just an empty wine glass and an almost full bottle on the marble floor.
Carménère vine of course, my favorite.
I did not get intoxicated, they said. There was no suicide note, either. They did
not find traces of drugs that I might had ingested before, not even some kind of
substance to stop my existence and my heartbeats. Nothing.
The rest of the house was tidy, clean, composed.
A pile of books awaiting to be read on the nightstand near my bed, with a bottle
of hand cream, oil-free, that absorbs quickly.
Some jazz music echoed from the living room while my life escaped through the
pores of my skin, gnawed by time and incomprehension.
When the autopsy finally took place, it’s rumored that the heart found was a
handful of malformed ashes that failed to breathe, the night I died.
Jimena is a film and television screenwriter, storyteller and poet who settled in Los Angeles since 2015 after spending more than 13 years living in Madrid. She studied Literature at the Facultad de Humanidades y Ciencias de la Educación in Montevideo and at the Universidad Complutense of Madrid, where she obtained her diploma in Advanced Studies in Ancient Christianity (PhD); she also studied Journalism, Communication and Marketing, and a screenwriting specialization at CES Audiovisual School of Madrid. Filmmaker by NYFA (New York Film Academy) in LA city. She has worked for different companies in Communication and Marketing area.
Jimena has published her stories in different countries like Spain, Argentina, Mexico, Uruguay and the U.S. At present, she collaborates as a journalist/writer for film and photography magazines, and continues with her creative writing.