Minerva.

Anyone ever thought being kidnapped was a way of freedom, but for Minerva was, in fact, the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to her. She felt cured and more alive than ever. She knew the truth of all truths.

Contemplating, considering herself from her last toe to her last hair, when she got hindered by her captors, the solitary thing she said was:

‘I am ready.’

The captors, without a trace of soul, continued doing what they've been requested to and, by essentially holding a little black scratch book, she remarks again:

‘Love is accomplished to me, and that is what I will always do: love.' She knew that was the time for Minerva to die and for its energy to arise and transform.

Twenty years after, Levana finds an ancient and rotten little black book. She dusted it off between the pages with distress, opened the primary page cautiously, and saw Minerva's sign:

“Dear journal,

My name is Minerva, and I’m not your owner as you are not mine. We are not owners of anything, not even of our bodies. Ownership is non-existent.

I have lost the counts, and I don’t have the foggiest idea what year or day, or month is, yet until further notice, what is essential is that you are with me at this current second to tell my story.

From the time I chose that having sex with men would be my job, I promised myself I would never go any further from doing what I needed to do and stuck to that for long; it always worked for me. However, this time, it was extraordinary.

I was 22 years old when Martin halted his car and asked me for a night out with him. He used to trigger me hard with his laugh, evil spirit laugh, could not confide in it, and maybe I should have followed that feeling from the first second I noticed. Since I accepted his proposal, my life would change upside down. Anyhow, I would not have the opportunity of cultivating my connection with the universe and be a saver of my spiritually immersed, drenched soul. Anyway, I knew he had a lot of money to throw, but his greatness was what made me fall in love with him. He knew he was exceptional, and he would always be there to remind me how special I was every time and then.

He would always convey that damn yellow handbag over and over every time we go out. He never left it at home. He always used to be very protective over that bag. I was not curious about what was inside. However, once I asked him what was so important about it, he only replied, ‘No more than a few important papers from work that I wanna keep safe.' The company wouldn’t like it if it falls into the wrong hands. I trusted him all along, never wanted to be involved in his work, I was not interested. Besides, I never knew what his company was about. As long as he would give my monthly payment, that was the only lone arrangement we had when he proposed my marriage. He didn’t want me to be with other men for money, of course. He had all the money I needed, and I was the only woman he needed.

The first two years, everything went like honey pouring from a spoon, smooth, soft, slow, brilliant, and as love is, delicious and delightful. But, as you know, there is always a 'but' right? Well, this ‘but’ gets bigger and bigger, as the popcorn does, but if you live it on the fire too long, it will certainly be burnt, and that's precisely what happened. That yellow bag I talked to you about was my destiny all along and through the action of me pleasing my curiosity got me to the point I am now, in this cave placed in nowhere and everywhere.

One evening while Martin was asleep, I walked to the safe; I had no failure to put his secret phrase after knowing him for so long. I could see a big bullet and the gun's body. I wasn’t interested in that gun even though it impressed me. He didn't appear to be a man that would convey a weapon. Yet, only next to it, it was the well-known yellow bag that I've had seen for such a long time, so often. For an instant, a remembered my days wandering and drawing conclusions from what I would find inside. It was the moment to finally know what it was that he was protecting so much. Under my influence of doubts and millions of different thoughts simultaneously, I take the bag and open it with exited hands. I could see two things, one folder with some papers and an empty small black notebook, when I noticed you for the first time, my dear diary. I looked inside the folder and read the papers, and they were official documents of the purchase of a house located in Cuba, just near Guantamo’s Naval. This house's price was nothing more and nothing less than $20,000. We never talked about Cuba, or I ever thought, nor in this earth or universe; that would be what I would find in that weird yellow bag. The most strange part of this story is that the house was under my name.

One day I woke up with a scrambled house from top to bottom; Martin had broken practically everything. I was desperately crying, shaking, and not knowing what to do; the first thing that happened in my mind was safe. I thought Martin was looking for that. He realizes that I took it, and he doesn’t know where I hid it. I wanted explanations. The time has had arrived for him to tell me. Why all those secrets? Why is my full name written in some purchased house documents in Cuba? I ask with fury and rage. As he never answered, saying everything was a secret, I could not know or they will kill us. I don’t know who he was talking about, but I didn’t care. ‘ I am here to do everything I need to know what’s going on, I thought. Holding motionless the gun I once thought would never touch. ‘Stay still, or I kill you,’ I said. Two minutes later, I got killed by that man. Afterward, I just heard silence, a silence of fear of losing another loved person in my hands.

When I arrived in Cuba, I could see myself living there forever. Warm weather, the kindest residents, beautiful classic cars, history all over their streets and buildings, and attractive men would treat me like a queen. With the little money I had in Cuba, I could accomplish more than I expected. Before doing any holidays or exploring the beautiful island, I knew what I had to do as the very first thing. For only 100 CUC, I took a taxi directly to the address I had in the documents in Havana.

There I was, in Guantanamo, a little but beautiful town toward the end of the west of the island. With a 20.000 dollars owned house, a grinned all over my face, and a murdered man inside me. I got to the house, and it was a classic Spanish house. One of the neighbors disclosed to me all about its history. It’s incredibly unique how friendly Cubans are. Back in the 19 century, a big Galician sugar producer made it. He used to enslave his people to work on his land. He was a famous man around there.

The house was elegant, surrounded by coconut trees and beautiful plants with colorful flowers, a modest graveyard with a modest pool full of dust and leaves. Since anyone had not been living there for a long time, it needed some maintenance. I would say it was hiding it from the town, but pretty near the American Naval, and since I have heard awful tales about it, I needed to remain away as much as possible. My pretensions from the first moment were to sell it and get the money to escape somewhere far away in a paradisiac beach where anyone could ever find me. A central tiring cleaning is done all around the house, the pool, the surroundings for a few days.

Finally, after promoting alongside the internet, I could eventually sell the house; I never thought someone from Cuba could buy something for such a significant amount of money. He even handled the cash all in cash and in American dollars, better for me, and I didn’t have to pass through the exchange's big interests. So, there I was, with 20.000 dollars cash, that unexpectedly came into my existence without requesting it. I had a big run, though, due to the reasons that money-house appeared.

During my last night in that house, while I was sleeping, two-man came into my room, and they kidnapped me, superimposed on me, blindfolded me, limited my options, tiding my hands backward, and from that moment onwards, I would never see the sun again. Since then, I have witnessed a lot of suffering. They ask me the same questions over and over every day, an answer of which I never knew, nor will I, nor will I ever know. I've always told the same story, but they never believed me. After all, they are not that bad people, by giving me your golden sheets, where I can bury my story and my truth.

In the beginning, I thought that I would drive wholly crazy and that I would die. No sunlight again, or ice cream or even smelling the perfume of roses, swimming in the rich waters of Thailand or Vietnam, or being able to visit Cuba as I wanted, or breathing fresh air and lying down with my naked feet on the sand. Most importantly, I would never know what my future would look like if I had not killed my husband and kept myself in the unknown. I thought, and I thought through everything in my mind. Why was it the house so close to the Naval for some reason? Was there a reason? Did he know my family? Was he a secret agent executing a mysterious plan? The answers that they wanted me to give were the appropriate answers, but I never had the answers that I thought life would give me but never did. Still, they will not give back my house, husband, and life. I was not going to have them back.

When I started seeking my truth, I first wondered the why of all of my miseries. I realized the perception of myself to the world was the only real thing I could notice above everything else, but this time I am aware of it, and now I can learn more every day. It was always pending everything, and everyone around me would not help me much. All those miseries came from all of the self-worth I was giving to the body I am destined to live for good, or maybe the avarice for big money that took me to the point I am now.

I had been in captivity for years already. Everything because of a curse that followed me from when I was born. Perhaps the cursed that every human existence has followed. I never imagined my nemesis had been my ego. The one that's feeding itself from fears and insecurities, leading your life without asking permission. That is why I decided to get rid of the unholy, so the path for my spiritual self can be open and connected within the universe through this cave.

Just greatness and gratitude my words and actions can express to this cave, to the light that comes in through the little cavities formed between the rocks up there somewhere, to the floor that holds me straight and assures me that I am alive, to every day only meals I measured, to the breath that comes and goes inside and out clear and pure, to the strength and good energy I keep within myself and to the universe that evolves in me as I evolve along with it.

I forgive myself for killing my husband, and I accept the consequences of the illusion of life. Nonetheless, I am free of the illusion.