Maria Magdalena the

I once saw a girl named Maria Magdalena in what I thought was a meaningless

summer afternoon where not even the wind felt like it was worth blowing. My parents weren’t

home, and I decided to take a very unusual stroll around the neighborhood, waiting for

something, anything to happen. I can only remember the quite vivid demonstration of

eternal damnation in hell as the sun caused my pale skin to turn crimson. Is it because the

blood is beginning to boil inside your body that your skin turns red when sunburnt? As one

does when boiling, I started to scurry around in search for the protection of a solid wall. The

house nearest was my first choice, and I rested on the shadow of the house’s second floor roof,

in front of a window that I assumed to be locked. As I was lamenting my stupid desire to

walk in plain summer, a girl’s voice came from the window in a soft, motherly tone.

“Are you alright? Do you want me to bring you a canteen?” I could barely see the girl

through the window due to the reflection of the sunlight, and she also covered most of her

face with the curtain. What I could see, however, was the girl’s beautiful black doe eyes. I

could not take my eyes from hers, while the sweat dripped through my hair. I was so smitten

that I forgot to even answer, and she must’ve got scared, because she shrieked and hid her

whole face with the curtain. I suddenly snapped back to unbearable heat and stupidity, as I

tried to defuse the situation.

“Yes! Please bring me a… canteen?” My eyebrows raised, my face locking itself into

an expression of perpetual confusion. Why not bring me a water bottle, like a normal person?

I wondered why she would bring the water in a canteen, which meant I couldn’t see the water

and see whether there was something inside or if it even was water. What was she scheming?
Is this some elaborate trap, where the man drops his guard near the young woman and she

takes advantage? Suddenly, her black doe eyes became the dark eyes of a femme fatale within

a moment. Describing the situation now, I think that the unbearable heat must have kicked

in my survival instincts from my time in the Sahara Desert two hundred thousand years ago,

but the possibility of a drug or poison being placed in the water seemed like a true possibility

at the time. “Why not bring me a bottle of water instead?”

She showed her dark eyes again slowly, and they seemed almost harsher this time. She

looked away from my eyes, clearing her throat. “I can’t fit a water bottle through the hole in

the window, but I have a smaller canteen that I think will fit through. But don’t worry, it’s

still sanitary.” She spoke assertively, her eyes darting to mine as she awaited my reply. She

had now shown her mouth to reveal a nice, albeit clearly fake smile.

At this point, I didn’t know what to think. Her fake smile didn’t alarm me to malice,

more like a lack of practice. She seemed honest, and her black eyes had been transformed due

to the presence of her nose and mouth, definitely for the better. I think she had sensed some

hesitation and distrust from me in my previous question, and tried to seem assertive in order

to alleviate my fears. However, her comment about the sanitation of the canteen caused a

great pit to form in my stomach, and I was afraid that I was being played the fool. I could

not ask her to drink it before me, because if she was just being helpful, I’d seem like a

distrustful boy who cannot even trust the word of a woman. I had started to believe that

murder was the only possible explanation for planting the poison. I decided to at least learn

the name of my murderer, to damn her to take a stroll in the neighborhood as I did and then

be betrayed by an inconspicuous child. “First of all, what’s your name?”

 “Magdalena.” She said, progressively louder every syllable. “Maria Magdalena.” She

said softly, almost embarrassed. Try as I might, I could not picture a woman with that name

as a dastardly villain, but perhaps a kind, wealthy but humble woman, an honest witness. A

name like Catalina would have sufficed for the riveting plot of the motion picture that I was

producing in my mind, but not Magdalena. “And yours?” She asked while I remained

dumbfounded. Why was she asking me my name if she would kill me? Does it get her off on

the fact that her victims are people and she is taking away their personhood? Maybe I should

write a screenplay or something.

I hesitated. “Mateo.” I lied to her, as that was the only form of revenge I could muster

up at that moment. That damned Catalina, I thought, robbing an honorable woman’s name!

I was actually the one who had robbed an honorable man’s name that same moment, but the

hypocrisy was lost on me that day. “I will bring you the canteen now with refreshing cold

water, is that alright?” Magdalena asked concisely and gently. She spoke with great care and

politeness, clearly not the essence of a name-taker. I had lost myself completely. My blood

boiled from an overwhelming heat within, and I was effectively going mad.

“Alright.” Nothing was alright. The sweat was dripping even more, the stupidity had

perhaps gone to levels never seen before, not even Lucifer himself could emit the heat one

feels in the psychological fires of imminent death, and the afternoon vengefully struck me

with all it had for my past criticism. I looked through the window, but she had already gone.

I pressed my forehead against the window, my eyes closed and gasping for air, wondering

what to do. My parents would be proud of my alertness, I thought, but would probably scold

me for succumbing to peer pressure.

 She came back with the canteen in hand, this time her whole figure revealed as she

smiled halfheartedly, in what I interpreted at the time as a threat from the femme fatale

persona. “Well, Mateo,” Her smile faded, “here’s your water. I’m terribly sorry I couldn’t let

you in, but the door is locked and I don’t have the key.” She pushed the window enough for a

space to open up that fit the canteen almost perfectly. I, now a young death row inmate

named Mateo to be boiled alive by the lethal Catalina, grabbed the canteen slowly. I

wondered to myself, when does the saying ‘Hell hath frozen over’ apply? Why can’t the wind

blow so unbearably cold that I no longer need to drink this? If she was truly the honest Maria

Magdalena, why doesn’t she see the agony in my skin?

The canteen was already open, all that was left for me was to drink it. Yes, I only had

to drink it. I half-expected it to be boiling hot. As you can imagine, thinking you’re going to

drink poison willingly is perhaps the most confounding thing one can do. Time speeds up and

your otherwise reliable body strength completely falters, and the body starts reverberating,

as if it is waiting to shut down and this is the final thunderous drum solo to an otherwise

repetitive musical performance. It was perhaps the most violence I have ever experienced in

one moment. I could no longer bear a second more of this terrible suffering. I resolved to

drink the poison and be done with it all.

And I did. I drank the whole canteen bottoms-up. “Does it taste good? Refreshing?”

The honest, soft Maria Magdalena asked, waiting for my reaction. It is possible she said

something before, but I had disappeared in the world for a time. It probably was not more

than a few seconds. “Yes. Thank you, Maria.” I gave her the canteen back and I looked

around after that, to find the way home and then never come out again. “No problem! Hope

to see you around, Mateo.” I sincerely hope to never see you around, Catalina.