Road to Silva

INT. MENTAL HEALTH OFFICE – 11TH FLOOR – DAY

Inside a white, fifteen-story building, a pale-skinned man with black hair and dark eyes sits anxiously behind his desk. His name is Rubén. Dressed in a white shirt, black tie, and black pants, he nervously taps a pencil, glancing toward the door over and over. First day.

The office is modest: a brown couch pushed against one wall, a navy-blue armchair beside it, and a plain desk set away from the furniture with papers and a notebook on top.

The door suddenly swings open. No knock. A woman in her 40s walks in—white skin, heavily applied makeup, gray-streaked blonde hair, wearing a blue blouse and a black skirt. Her name is Becca.

She walks straight to the couch and drops herself down without a word. Rubén stands, awkward, and takes the seat in the armchair next to her.

“Welcome,” he says cautiously. “I’m Rubén Madrid.”

She tilts her head. “And what about my good morning?”

He fumbles. “I’m... I’m sorry, that wasn’t my intention.”

“How sweet. Just excuses.” She folds her arms. “Let’s cut the crap. Name’s Becca Lima. I heard you people offer free services here?”

“Yes, of course. We’re here for anyone who needs support.”

“Oh, I know that. I’m not mentally retarded.”

He flinches. “We don’t use that term.”

“Oh no? What do you call it then?”

He hesitates, searching for gentler words. “We support people. We listen. We’re here for anyone who needs to be heard.”

She smirks. “So... that’s your new term for retarded. Got it.”

He tries to steer the conversation forward, but she’s already on a new path.

“I want to make money.”

“Sorry?”

“I’m sick of people. Sick of this place. This office. Your goose face. And the damn life I drag behind me.”

Rubén shifts in his chair and runs a hand through his hair.

“Yesterday I went shopping,” she continues. “Well—if you can call three limes and a packet of detergent shopping. I told the guy behind the counter to put it on my tab. Didn’t have cash. He gave me a full sermon before saying yes. Apparently I’m a bad payer. Says I owe him money.”

“You owe him?” Rubén asks.

“That’s none of your damn business.”

He falls silent, caught off guard.

“So I leave the shop, go home, and start washing my half-used clothes.”

“Half-used?”

“They stink by noon. You think I’m gonna wear ’em again? I’m clean. Got a good nose.”

Rubén tries to process it all.

“And while I was washing—yeah, I was naked—”

“Please,” he interrupts. “No need for detail if it wasn’t appropriate.”

“Appropriate? Honey, I’m always appropriate for my clients. They say my boobs reach my back and my ass could pull a carriage.”

He reaches for his pen again but can’t keep up.

“I finish washing, hang the clothes out to dry, start cooking—then someone knocks on the door. I open it. Boom—a nun. Telling me about God before I even blink. Sweet woman. Kind. But twitchy. No patience.”

“Wait,” Rubén says slowly, “you opened the door... naked?”

“Don’t be stupid. I had my Tombolina dress. Of course I was naked.”

He goes quiet, nods, surrendering.

“The nun tells me about this place. Says you offer help. Said you’d help with things I need. But now I only see you. So, I’m confused. Are you also here for help?”

He hesitates. “Ma’am...”

“‘Ma’am’ is my mother.”

“Sorry. Miss.”

“Too friendly. My clients call me that before they pay.”

He clears his throat. “So... you’re in sex worker?”

“Wow. Took you long enough. Thought you’d mistake me for a gynecologist. Yes, I’m a whore.”

“I’d prefer a less... crude term.”

“Whatever. Are you gonna help me?”

“Yes. But I need to understand how.”

She leans forward slightly. “You and that nun need mental help. She said this place helps people for free. Big white building. Same color.”

He blinks. “Sounds like... this building.”

“You’re kidding. Do you offer help for... the slow ones too?”

He tries to respond, but she barrels ahead.

“Now it makes sense. That idiot nun—I told her I needed help and she sent me to mental health!”

She bursts into laughter.

“That’s correct,” Rubén says softly. “This is a mental health office.”

Suddenly, Becca grabs her chest. She stands, panicked.

“Oh my God. A client might’ve seen me walk in here. My reputation is ruined. People are going to think I’m crazy. Think I’m garbage. That I’m nothing.”

Tears well up. She starts crying. Rubén watches, stunned.

She wipes her face quickly, pulling herself together like nothing happened.

“But I’ll deny it. she hisses. “They won’t call me impure. I refuse to be labeled some gutter creature.”

She glares at the walls. “This building should burn. Ruins serious people’s reputations. You and everyone here—you’re all trash.”

She stands tall, venom in her voice. “I won’t waste my spit on you. I need it for my syphilis test.”

She reaches the door and turns one last time.

“But go ahead. Walk out there. Tell them you met Becca "The Tornado". Everyone who knows me, will have something to say.”

She opens the door and slams it behind her.

Rubén doesn’t move. He just stares at the door. Stunned. Speechless