Leoteca - Parte de Smartick

Eduardo no soportaba su vida en la ciudad. El ambiente en su nuevo instituto era hostil. Sus compañeros se comportaban de forma agresiva. Tanto las chicas como los chicos se miraban desafiantes y se provocaban continuamente. Y los fines de semana eran peores. Su padre le encerraba en el siniestro sótano y le obligaba a transformarse. Y Eduardo detestaba transformarse. El dolor era insoportable. Empezaba con aquellas atroces sacudidas en el estómago. Y a partir de ahí, empeoraba: era como si la fiera que albergaba en su interior no pudiera esperar a tomar control sobre su cuerpo y se abriera paso a zarpazos. El chico sentía cómo le rasgaba la carne y los nervios, cómo le descoyuntaba los huesos, hasta que algo estallaba en su cabeza. Sólo entonces alcanzaba una inquietante paz.

The two children stopped to look around. That silence did not augur well. A few seconds passed and there was a loud crack. Someone, or something, had snapped a stick. The two friends turned pale. If it was an animal, it must be huge. Their hearts pounded against their chests. Another stick was heard to break. This time a lot closer. Whatever it was, it was coming closer, and it was approaching quickly. One of the children turned on the torch and shone it ahead. They could make out a giant sized silhouette hidden among the undergrowth, shying from the light, an enormous monkey-like species. The children started to move backwards, step by step, not turning their backs, trembling with fear, when a terrifying roar raged through the quiet of the night. Since that day, every first night of summer waxing moon, year after year, the boys of the village ventured into the woods together so that the creature, who they had nicknamed the Bichogordo, could give them a fright. It became a ritual which made the boys feel grown up and able to confront their fears. However, precisely the year that marked the thirtieth anniversary of the start of this tradition, something unexpected and violent happened in the woods that tore the calm of the village to shreds and had all of its inhabitants with their hearts in their mouths. An event that was to change the life of a ten-year-old boy for ever, a lad who, according to his father, let his mind wander too much. A boy whose name was Matías.

Habíamos viajado hasta el pequeño pueblo de Clayton para que mi padre tomara las muestras de ADN y averiguara si aquella mujer, Aurora K., era la ?madre de mi padre?. La biológica. Y remarco lo de la ?madre de mi padre? porque, para mí, aquella mujer nunca sería mi abuela. Mi abuela era la otra, la de toda la vida, la que montaba multitudinarias partidas de cartas con mis primos, la que me hacía empanadillas de pollo para mi cumpleaños, la que nos contaba aquellas asombrosas historias sobre la vida en Turenia antes de la guerra? Y ninguna prueba de ADN iba a cambiar eso. No me importaba que su sangre no corriera por mis venas, ni la del abuelo, ni la de mis primos. Ellos eran mi familia. Yo era y sería siempre una Pekar. Pero me temo que me estoy liando? Mi padre no se cansa de repetirme que las historias hay que explicarlas desde el principio. Y esta historia es demasiado extraordinaria, así que la empezaré de nuevo. Desde el principio?