EscalationI drove to Puerto del Rosario with Blur playing loud through the car speakers, refusing to give in to thoughts of the Baraso family and the horrors that had taken place in my house. At the laundromat in Avenida Juan de Bethencourt, I sat and waited for the wash cycle and then the dry cycle. I could have wandered up the street or crossed the road to visit the café opposite for a coffee, but instead, I tuned in to the steady drone of the machines, the heavy scent of washing powder and the brightly lit, industrial vibe. I lost myself to a shop full of appliances. There was something soothing about the normalcy, the domesticity, the basic humanity of washing clothes that I latched onto. Anything, so as not to have to think through Gloria's divulgences.
With my clothes and sheets fol
