What have you done, honey?” I'm in front of a newspaper again to breathe, with a separate view. Torture passed me through the testimonies. It still happens to me. “The facts of the process documents describe sexual violence that lasted more than three years and started in 1998 when the victim was 13 years old.”

Some vibrations seem to originate in a deep layer of the brain. They have memory, and they're no more tender for that, the opposite: a machine that we know is still working has caught it underneath, in everybody's view, in Gernika, and if it isn't, it's now happening to another one. Because society is ready to happen. And our arms don't come to protect them all. And we get lost through the dark spirals, each in our house.

He called his house and felt that the victim had no choice but to go. He ripped his will, he had a slave. He was a thirteen-year-old, thirty-eight-year-old, not three years old now, no, it's a stolen life. And they decided that it didn't work, that that life wasn't worth, and that of the aggressor, yes, a classic man of two loins.

But actually “look what you’ve done, honey.” Every woman who speaks has a mirror in society: we each know how and where we see ourselves if we dare to look. With the horror he has told, he has not actually counted a lost battle of centuries, as my body has felt in the first blow. My body is not prepared to identify heroes. We've forced him to be that, hero. Our calvary will save us. He has regained the will, he is not a slave, they matter his years of life, of course he is a person, of course he has power. See if it doesn't have to be more. Hero. To see if in war we give him a stronger rearguard. “Thank you, honey, at your disposal.”