The Monster of Vista Hermosa One of the most tragic cases…
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The Monster of Vista Hermosa
One of the most tragic cases I had to investigate during my university social service occurred in an apartment in Vista Hermosa. It involved a seventy-year-old lady who lived with a special-needs son of about... thirty or forty years old. I don't remember well. Sometimes I think it was a horrifying dream. I only know that the case deeply disturbed the authorities at the nursing home and sparked social criticism over the way these people live in economically hostile environments.
Have you ever volunteered at the nursing home or... in Public Safety? The university sent us for our social service to care for the elderly living in the asylum, and I'll be honest with you, Gerardo. I had never felt such sadness in my life. Those old folks... many of them have no one. Some are so locked inside themselves that they barely speak. Some look at you when you walk in and tell the elderly person next to them: “See? My grandchildren did come to see me.” Forgive me, it's just that I get sad every time I remember all those old people. Whenever I came back from those shifts, I would hug my grandmother and promise her she would never end up in a place like that.
Doña Martha didn't live in the nursing home, but she received elderly benefits. Oh god, she looked so much like my grandmother that it brings tears to my eyes. Except she was too skinny, as if she would break if I held her hand too tightly. It was my job to bring the hygiene kits to her apartment; I remember she lived in the Blocks behind San Francisco, in a yellow building... or a blue one. I didn't like going there, it gave me the creeps... She lived alone with a mentally ill man. Well, I mean... he was her son, whose brain hadn't fully developed. But still, I tear up out of pure rage because he abused her. She never told me because, I don't know, it seemed he was the only family she had left. But she lived in abject poverty, and the neighbors could hear the sick man's screams as if they were slaughtering a pig. They were animalistic bellows and grotesque groans rattling the walls and doors. Oh, I would see that delicate, tiny little lady standing in front of that big-bellied monster with his tiny head and murderous glare.
Once, when I brought her a cleaning kit, she invited me in for a little cup of coffee to talk for a bit. She told me that he, Mauricio, hadn't been born that way, or something... That it was a hex her mother-in-law had put on her so she would lose the baby in her womb, because she didn't want her being with her son. And that the baby vomited inside the womb and swallowed the fluid, so the doctors had to resuscitate him. But he wasn't crazy, according to her. I brought her adult diapers for him because he didn't know how to use the bathroom. And he ate—he ate so much... He constantly had to have a piece of bread in his hand while watching TV or pacing restlessly around the small room, his eyes bulging, lowing like a cow. He was highly hyperactive, but you couldn't strike up a conversation with him because he could barely think. He only knew how to say: “food,” his clothes bursting open over his bloated belly and his fat arms slamming against the walls when the old lady didn't hurry up with lunch. She barely ate, because she ate very slowly, and that animal would swallow his own plate in seconds just to snatch hers away. He was always hungry, and his rotted teeth gave him the look of a fat Freddy Krueger.
Martha told me she had an older daughter. She told me this when I carried the gas cylinder upstairs for her, because she couldn't lift heavy weights and the retarded man never listened to her. This daughter, Coral, was killed... Yes, Gerardo. Apparently, she was studying nursing, and during her clinical rotations, a madman broke into the hospital and stabbed her repeatedly. She was the only one on duty that night because she loved her vocation. It was a horrible accident where many were injured. She was a healthy girl who took care of her mother and knew how to calm Mauricio down, but she left Doña Martha alone, locked away with the monster in an apartment that everyone ignored. That apartment was full of photos of her: her birth, her graduation, her birthdays, her... successes and failures. And the reminder of her death on the front page of \*El Progreso\* newspaper, alongside a prayer to José Gregorio Hernández.
Once, I brought her the food bag from the nursing home. I arrived to the sound of screams echoing all the way down to the first floor. It sounded like they were bathing a pig; the slamming against the walls and furniture didn't seem to worry anyone else in the entire building but me. In fact, a woman walked right past me with a grocery bag, and all she did was wrinkle her nose in disgust.
When the old lady opened the door, I saw her... she had been beaten. She had bruises and scratches on her arms and... it looked like she had been slapped hard enough to split her lip. Mauricio was restless because they had nothing to eat, and he was standing behind the old lady, swatting at her and knocking the framed photos of Coral off the walls. A rage welled up inside me that I couldn't contain. I couldn't control myself, Gerardo. Really, I lost control and threw myself at that fat-bellied monster. I grabbed him by the arms and pulled him away from the old lady. But he was incredibly heavy—I think about thirty kilos heavier than me. And he shrieked so loudly my ears hurt. How could that malnourished old lady stand a chance against a sick man weighing nearly a hundred kilos? I forced him onto the sofa while he shook and thrashed, and the old lady cried, begging me to leave, saying I was going to hurt him. So I looked at her, grit my teeth, and left the apartment. Wasn't she aware that he could kill her?
I only went back one more time, at the very end of my social service. It was when the neighbors started complaining about the smell coming from the apartment and called the nursing home for someone to check on them. A female classmate and I went, and we met the building landlord, who had a spare key to Martha's apartment. The neighbors said they hadn't heard the mentally ill man's screams for a week. Just silence, and an intensifying stench that was starting to become unbearable. We opened the door, and what we found... God. How horrific. The apartment was a complete ruin and smelled so foul that the neighbors on that floor fled the building. It smelled like a dead animal, but thicker and more rancid, like moldy coffee. Mauricio was on the sofa, choked to death after a seizure because he hadn't received his medication, and what stained his shirt wasn't just dirt... and his hands—oh god, his hands were covered in filth. All of Coral's pictures were scattered across the floor, bloodied by broken glass, and the furniture was overturned from the sick man's outbursts when he couldn't satisfy his hunger. It seems Martha was the only one who knew how to give him his pills; he swallowed his tongue during a seizure and died right there: fat and filthy, his mouth smeared with the remains of... And the old lady—I didn't get a good look at her, thank goodness... because that would have destroyed me. My classmate found her in the kitchen and let out a scream that made me want to run out of the building. I rushed over to her and only saw the old lady's feet stretched out. He ate her, he ate her! We ran down the stairs, and I held my friend while she threw up. Then the landlord called the nursing home director and the police to recover the bodies. They didn't let anyone see what was left of the old lady. I didn't want to see it either. Just looking at the hands and clothes of that collapsed, retarded man, I imagined what had happened. My classmate didn't want to tell me the condition she found Martha in, either.
I went home with a knot in my stomach. I remember I couldn't eat meat for a week, dreaming that Mauricio was chasing me down the apartment stairs. I couldn't keep caring for the elderly because I saw my grandmother in them. I'm not that strong after all... I couldn't go on shaving their heads and helping them use the bathroom. They signed my paperwork, and I finished my degree as best I could. I haven't wanted to visit the nursing home again either, but I invite you to go... and see the stories behind these old folks. Many of them have lost hope. What about you? Have you lost hope?
​
#entertainment
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One of the most tragic cases I had to investigate during my university social service occurred in an apartment in Vista Hermosa. It involved a seventy-year-old lady who lived with a special-needs son of about... thirty or forty years old. I don't remember well. Sometimes I think it was a horrifying dream. I only know that the case deeply disturbed the authorities at the nursing home and sparked social criticism over the way these people live in economically hostile environments.
Have you ever volunteered at the nursing home or... in Public Safety? The university sent us for our social service to care for the elderly living in the asylum, and I'll be honest with you, Gerardo. I had never felt such sadness in my life. Those old folks... many of them have no one. Some are so locked inside themselves that they barely speak. Some look at you when you walk in and tell the elderly person next to them: “See? My grandchildren did come to see me.” Forgive me, it's just that I get sad every time I remember all those old people. Whenever I came back from those shifts, I would hug my grandmother and promise her she would never end up in a place like that.
Doña Martha didn't live in the nursing home, but she received elderly benefits. Oh god, she looked so much like my grandmother that it brings tears to my eyes. Except she was too skinny, as if she would break if I held her hand too tightly. It was my job to bring the hygiene kits to her apartment; I remember she lived in the Blocks behind San Francisco, in a yellow building... or a blue one. I didn't like going there, it gave me the creeps... She lived alone with a mentally ill man. Well, I mean... he was her son, whose brain hadn't fully developed. But still, I tear up out of pure rage because he abused her. She never told me because, I don't know, it seemed he was the only family she had left. But she lived in abject poverty, and the neighbors could hear the sick man's screams as if they were slaughtering a pig. They were animalistic bellows and grotesque groans rattling the walls and doors. Oh, I would see that delicate, tiny little lady standing in front of that big-bellied monster with his tiny head and murderous glare.
Once, when I brought her a cleaning kit, she invited me in for a little cup of coffee to talk for a bit. She told me that he, Mauricio, hadn't been born that way, or something... That it was a hex her mother-in-law had put on her so she would lose the baby in her womb, because she didn't want her being with her son. And that the baby vomited inside the womb and swallowed the fluid, so the doctors had to resuscitate him. But he wasn't crazy, according to her. I brought her adult diapers for him because he didn't know how to use the bathroom. And he ate—he ate so much... He constantly had to have a piece of bread in his hand while watching TV or pacing restlessly around the small room, his eyes bulging, lowing like a cow. He was highly hyperactive, but you couldn't strike up a conversation with him because he could barely think. He only knew how to say: “food,” his clothes bursting open over his bloated belly and his fat arms slamming against the walls when the old lady didn't hurry up with lunch. She barely ate, because she ate very slowly, and that animal would swallow his own plate in seconds just to snatch hers away. He was always hungry, and his rotted teeth gave him the look of a fat Freddy Krueger.
Martha told me she had an older daughter. She told me this when I carried the gas cylinder upstairs for her, because she couldn't lift heavy weights and the retarded man never listened to her. This daughter, Coral, was killed... Yes, Gerardo. Apparently, she was studying nursing, and during her clinical rotations, a madman broke into the hospital and stabbed her repeatedly. She was the only one on duty that night because she loved her vocation. It was a horrible accident where many were injured. She was a healthy girl who took care of her mother and knew how to calm Mauricio down, but she left Doña Martha alone, locked away with the monster in an apartment that everyone ignored. That apartment was full of photos of her: her birth, her graduation, her birthdays, her... successes and failures. And the reminder of her death on the front page of \*El Progreso\* newspaper, alongside a prayer to José Gregorio Hernández.
Once, I brought her the food bag from the nursing home. I arrived to the sound of screams echoing all the way down to the first floor. It sounded like they were bathing a pig; the slamming against the walls and furniture didn't seem to worry anyone else in the entire building but me. In fact, a woman walked right past me with a grocery bag, and all she did was wrinkle her nose in disgust.
When the old lady opened the door, I saw her... she had been beaten. She had bruises and scratches on her arms and... it looked like she had been slapped hard enough to split her lip. Mauricio was restless because they had nothing to eat, and he was standing behind the old lady, swatting at her and knocking the framed photos of Coral off the walls. A rage welled up inside me that I couldn't contain. I couldn't control myself, Gerardo. Really, I lost control and threw myself at that fat-bellied monster. I grabbed him by the arms and pulled him away from the old lady. But he was incredibly heavy—I think about thirty kilos heavier than me. And he shrieked so loudly my ears hurt. How could that malnourished old lady stand a chance against a sick man weighing nearly a hundred kilos? I forced him onto the sofa while he shook and thrashed, and the old lady cried, begging me to leave, saying I was going to hurt him. So I looked at her, grit my teeth, and left the apartment. Wasn't she aware that he could kill her?
I only went back one more time, at the very end of my social service. It was when the neighbors started complaining about the smell coming from the apartment and called the nursing home for someone to check on them. A female classmate and I went, and we met the building landlord, who had a spare key to Martha's apartment. The neighbors said they hadn't heard the mentally ill man's screams for a week. Just silence, and an intensifying stench that was starting to become unbearable. We opened the door, and what we found... God. How horrific. The apartment was a complete ruin and smelled so foul that the neighbors on that floor fled the building. It smelled like a dead animal, but thicker and more rancid, like moldy coffee. Mauricio was on the sofa, choked to death after a seizure because he hadn't received his medication, and what stained his shirt wasn't just dirt... and his hands—oh god, his hands were covered in filth. All of Coral's pictures were scattered across the floor, bloodied by broken glass, and the furniture was overturned from the sick man's outbursts when he couldn't satisfy his hunger. It seems Martha was the only one who knew how to give him his pills; he swallowed his tongue during a seizure and died right there: fat and filthy, his mouth smeared with the remains of... And the old lady—I didn't get a good look at her, thank goodness... because that would have destroyed me. My classmate found her in the kitchen and let out a scream that made me want to run out of the building. I rushed over to her and only saw the old lady's feet stretched out. He ate her, he ate her! We ran down the stairs, and I held my friend while she threw up. Then the landlord called the nursing home director and the police to recover the bodies. They didn't let anyone see what was left of the old lady. I didn't want to see it either. Just looking at the hands and clothes of that collapsed, retarded man, I imagined what had happened. My classmate didn't want to tell me the condition she found Martha in, either.
I went home with a knot in my stomach. I remember I couldn't eat meat for a week, dreaming that Mauricio was chasing me down the apartment stairs. I couldn't keep caring for the elderly because I saw my grandmother in them. I'm not that strong after all... I couldn't go on shaving their heads and helping them use the bathroom. They signed my paperwork, and I finished my degree as best I could. I haven't wanted to visit the nursing home again either, but I invite you to go... and see the stories behind these old folks. Many of them have lost hope. What about you? Have you lost hope?
​
#entertainment
source
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