El Enano

El Enano

by Keila Pinto

There is no such thing as being content in life. There is no person in this world who has felt fulfillment. Violet, in her short 16 years of life, recognizes that she, too, will face this fate. She thought it would be unfair, to die not having lived satisfied, to die not having enjoyed, to die without having actually lived. Violet considered herself to be someone with some meaning in life, since she believed in God. She thought that it would be worse to think that we were purely made out of coincidence, with no purpose, and no meaning. It gave her some comfort to think that it all wasn’t just an accident. However, this “meaning” or “purpose” was unknown to her. As she stared outside her window, she pondered, whether she would find her purpose. Whether she would just live life, by just getting through it and not actually finding her meaning. Outside her window, she could see how the leaves fell from the trees.

It was the middle of fall, her favorite season. The reddish leaves fell quite slowly, like when a feather falls, so slow, and swaying, almost like it’s dizzy, until it finally falls to the floor. The wind blew ever so slightly, rustling the leaves, like a very gentle hand petting a dog. Her favorite hobby was staring outside the window. Even on road trips, she was so fascinated by what she would see outside the car window. It gave her time to think about life and so on.

“Violet?” her mom asked.

“Hmm?” she answered.

“I’ve been calling you for the past 5 minutes. Come, I need your help.”

As Violet headed towards the kitchen, she could see her mom on top of the kitchen table, hanging up a painting, “Pass me that hammer” she ordered. Violet handed her the hammer. Her mom nailed the painting to the wall. Violet’s house was what most would call disorganized. The living room, having papers everywhere, dishes everywhere, an unfinished puzzle and puzzle pieces on the living room table, 2 medium sized couches, with balls of yarn all over it, not to mention her mother’s room, having makeup and skincare products

cover all the vanity. And that wasn’t even all the makeup they owned; it was just the half of it. Violet and her mother lived alone. Her mother would normally clean everything. With all the mess in their house, you would think they never cleaned, yet it was quite the opposite. Violet’s mother would spend hours cleaning and cleaning, but the mess would always come back within a day. It wasn’t all Violet’s fault, though some of it was. It was safe to say that their home looked like a madhouse. Violet gazed at her mom, watching her proceed to cleaning the kitchen table.

Violet’s mother was short, with short black hair. Her mom looked young but was in her 40s. She had big beetle-like brown eyes, and very thin lips. Her mom was quite racially ambiguous. Some assumed she was Arabian, others Columbian, and others Ecuadorian. In reality, she was just plain Mexican. Violet had long light brown hair, her mother’s eyes, her mother’s shortness, and her mother’s wits. They were the same, yet different. Violet’s mother was extremely patient, while Violet’s patience had a limit. Violet was easily angered, yet it would take a lot for her mother to be angered. Violet was resentful, her mother forgetful. However, no matter their differences, they were the best of friends.

As Violet stared at her mother, she recalled a fairy tale her father would tell her. It was a story about a dwarf. Not a cute small dwarf, like the ones from Snow White, but an ugly and evil one. Where her father was from was a small little village, but there was so much superstition. The story was a little dark, but basically, the dwarf fell in love with a beautiful human woman. The dwarf could turn invisible, so he used this skill to his advantage, and he would stalk her. On days where he got mad that she could never be with him, he would slam her plates across the wall. He would throw all sorts of things around her house, until there was a big mess. On days where the woman would have dates or male visitors, he would make them think she was a witch, by making things float around her and scaring them off. Eventually, everyone that knew her thought she was either a witch or cursed. Violet believed this wasn’t the true ending. She believed her father had just forgotten it. It would be a rather bland ending, she thought. It didn’t make much sense. But most stories have either a confusing ending or a clear one. Violet always hated confusing endings. She preferred endings that were clear to her. If an ending wasn’t clear it would make her anxious. It would become all she could think about,

consuming her thoughts. Perhaps it was her ego or just her desire to understand and know everything. Whatever it was, she disliked it.

Her mother wiped the sweat off her forehead, looking proudly at her finished job, and scampered joyfully into her bedroom. Violet watched in amusement. Just as she was about to grab some chips from the pantry, she heard a “pit-pat-pit-pat.” It sounded like footsteps. She turned around. “Mom?” She did not answer. Violet shrugged, unbothered. Her mom was a very distracted woman. Sometimes she would not hear when she was called. It had become normal to Violet. Plus, the house was old enough, to be making creaking sounds and whatnot. Their house was one of the oldest houses in the neighborhood. It used to be clean and beautiful when they first moved in. Sadly, their presence seemed to have ruined its glory.

Violet returned to her job of finding the chips. SMASH. Violet turned around. She saw a broken dish on the floor. “Ugh,” Violet muttered. As she proceeded to grab a broom and sweep the pieces, the plate that had broken was her grandmother’s dish. Sometimes her grandmother would come over and give them things as a gift. The dish being one of them. From the corner of her eye, Violet saw something move. Her heart jumped. Terrified, she quickly turned around. She sighed, in relief. It was just her grandmother. “Oh no, the dish I gave you. Oh honey, you’ll cut yourself. Here, let me clean it,” she said with her rough voice as she started taking the broom into her hands and sweeping up the pieces. “Wow, every time I come here, this house seems to be getting worse and worse.” she said judgingly. Violet just chuckled nervously. “I should probably stop bringing stuff. Every time I come it’s either destroyed, broken, or something,” she uttered, this time jokingly instead of judgingly. Her grandma stared at the pieces, distantly, and almost with a hint of sadness. Violet’s grandma was a very emotional woman. She was always either terribly sad, mad or happy. It was rare to see a hint of an emotion on her face. Violet had learned to just not ask. “Anywho, I just came by to leave a few things and leave,” she said cheerfully, the sadness on her face leaving in the blink of an eye. She grabbed some bags and left them on the table.

“Oh, thanks, grandma.”

“No problem, anyways I’ll be heading out. Tell your mom I said

hi.”

“Sure thing.”

Her grandma grabbed her purse, headed out the door, and, with a big slam of the door, she was gone. Violet walked towards the bags her grandma brought and started taking the items out. More dishes. Typical, she thought. She sighed and proceeded to put them away into the cabinets. CRASH. This time, instead of turning around with fear, Violet turned around annoyed. Another broken dish. Typical, she thought once more. As she picked up the pieces with her hands (she was too lazy to sweep the pieces), she noticed a drop of water on the plate. It was blue. It ran down the plate, leaving a glistening blue streak behind. She saw more blue drops across the floor. She looked to where they were leading, to the corner of the kitchen, below the oven. As she looked down, her expression changed to horror. She saw a very short old man, with a pointy hat sitting on the floor. The same glistening blue streak running down his cheek. They were tears. He held a piece of the dish in his small hands. The dish was covered in more tears. He looked at Violet. Violet, too afraid to move, stared back. Violet tried to scream, shout, run, but her body wouldn’t budge. The old dwarf held a picture in another hand. It was a photo of a young woman. As Violet looked closer, she recognized the woman in the picture. It was a picture of her grandmother when she had been young. Suddenly, realization started rushing into Violet. The story, the broken dishes, the constant mess that would never go away in her house. The reason why her grandmother’s things would always break every time her presence was near, and every time her presence had gone. Violet’s fear turned into pure sadness, heartbreak, and sorrow. The ending of a story was finally clear to her. A story she would have rather stayed confused about.