[Click acá para ir a la parte 1/6]
[Click acá para ir a la parte 2/6]
[Click acá para ir a la parte 3/6]
15
The implications of what Gale is suggesting settle quietly around the room. You can see the reaction
playing out on people"s faces. The expressions range from pleasure to distress, from sorrow to satisfaction.
"The majority of the workers are citizens from Two," says Beetee neutrally.
"So what?" says Gale. "We"ll never be able to trust them again."
"They should at least have a chance to surrender," says Lyme.
"Well, that"s a luxury we weren"t given when they fire-bombed Twelve, but you"re all so much cozier with the
Capitol here," says Gale. By the look on Lyme"s face, I think she might shoot him, or at least take a swing. She"d
probably have the upper hand, too, with all her training. But her anger only seems to infuriate him and he yells,
"We watched children burn to death and there was nothing we could do!"
I have to close my eyes a minute, as the image rips through me. It has the desired effect. I want everyone in
that mountain dead. Am about to say so. But then...I"m also a girl from District 12. Not President Snow. I can"t
help it. I can"t condemn someone to the death he"s suggesting. "Gale," I say, taking his arm and trying to speak in
a reasonable tone. "The Nut"s an old mine. It"d be like causing a massive coal mining accident." Surely the
words are enough to make anyone from 12 think twice about the plan.
"But not so quick as the one that killed our fathers," he retorts. "Is that everyone"s problem? That our
enemies might have a few hours to reflect on the fact that they"re dying, instead of just being blown to bits?"
Back in the old days, when we were nothing more than a couple of kids hunting outside of 12, Gale said
things like this and worse. But then they were just words. Here, put into practice, they become deeds that can
never be reversed.
"You don"t know how those District Two people ended up in the Nut," I say. "They may have been coerced.
They may be held against their will. Some are our own spies. Will you kill them, too?"
"I would sacrifice a few, yes, to take out the rest of them," he replies. "And if I were a spy in there, I"d say,
"Bring on the avalanches!""
I know he"s telling the truth. That Gale would sacrifice his life in this way for the cause--no one doubts it.
Perhaps we"d all do the same if we were the spies and given the choice. I guess I would. But it"s a coldhearted
decision to make for other people and those who love them.
"You said we had two choices," Boggs tells him. "To trap them or to flush them out. I say we try to avalanche
the mountain but leave the train tunnel alone. People can escape into the square, where we"ll be waiting for
them.""
Heavily armed, I hope," says Gale. "You can be sure they"ll be."
"Heavily armed. We"ll take them prisoner," agrees Boggs.
"Let"s bring Thirteen into the loop now," Beetee suggests. "Let President Coin weigh in."
"She"ll want to block the tunnel," says Gale with conviction.
"Yes, most likely. But you know, Peeta did have a point in his propos. About the dangers of killing ourselves
off. I"ve been playing with some numbers. Factoring in the casualties and the wounded and...I think it"s at least
worth a conversation," says Beetee.
Only a handful of people are invited to be part of that conversation. Gale and I are released with the rest. I
take him hunting so he can blow off some steam, but he"s not talking about it. Probably too angry with me for
countering him.
The call does happen, a decision is made, and by evening I"m suited up in my Mockingjay outfit, with my
bow slung over my shoulder and an earpiece that connects me to Haymitch in 13--just in case a good
opportunity for a propo arises. We wait on the roof of the Justice Building with a clear view of our target.
Our hoverplanes are initially ignored by the commanders in the Nut, because in the past they"ve been little
more trouble than flies buzzing around a honeypot. But after two rounds of bombings in the higher elevations of
the mountain, the planes have their attention. By the time the Capitol"s antiaircraft weapons begin to fire, it"s
already too late.
Gale"s plan exceeds anyone"s expectations. Beetee was right about being unable to control the avalanches
once they"d been set in motion. The mountainsides are naturally unstable, but weakened by the explosions, they
once they"d been set in motion. The mountainsides are naturally unstable, but weakened by the explosions, they
seem almost fluid. Whole sections of the Nut collapse before our eyes, obliterating any sign that human beings
have ever set foot on the place. We stand speechless, tiny and insignificant, as waves of stone thunder down the
mountain. Burying the entrances under tons of rock. Raising a cloud of dirt and debris that blackens the sky.
Turning the Nut into a tomb.
I imagine the hell inside the mountain. Sirens wailing. Lights flickering into darkness. Stone dust choking
the air. The shrieks of panicked, trapped beings stumbling madly for a way out, only to find the entrances, the
launchpad, the ventilation shafts themselves clogged with earth and rock trying to force its way in. Live wires
flung free, fires breaking out, rubble making a familiar path a maze. People slamming, shoving, scrambling like
ants as the hill presses in, threatening to crush their fragile shells.
"Katniss?" Haymitch"s voice is in my earpiece. I try to answer back and find both of my hands are clamped
tightly over my mouth. "Katniss!"
On the day my father died, the sirens went off during my school lunch. No one waited for dismissal, or was
expected to. The response to a mine accident was something outside the control of even the Capitol. I ran to
Prim"s class. I still remember her, tiny at seven, very pale, but sitting straight up with her hands folded on her
desk. Waiting for me to collect her as I"d promised I would if the sirens ever sounded. She sprang out of her seat,
grabbed my coat sleeve, and we wove through the streams of people pouring out onto the streets to pool at the
main entrance of the mine. We found our mother clenching the rope that had been hastily strung to keep the
crowd back. In retrospect, I guess I should have known there was a problem right then. Because why were we
looking for her, when the reverse should have been true?
The elevators were screeching, burning up and down their cables as they vomited smoke-blackened
miners into the light of day. With each group came cries of relief, relatives diving under the rope to lead off their
husbands, wives, children, parents, siblings. We stood in the freezing air as the afternoon turned overcast, a light
snow dusted the earth. The elevators moved more slowly now and disgorged fewer beings. I knelt on the ground
and pressed my hands into the cinders, wanting so badly to pull my father free. If there"s a more helpless feeling
than trying to reach someone you love who"s trapped underground, I don"t know it. The wounded. The bodies.
The waiting through the night. Blankets put around your shoulders by strangers. A mug of something hot that you
don"t drink. And then finally, at dawn, the grieved expression on the face of the mine captain that could only mean
one thing.
What did we just do?
"Katniss! Are you there?" Haymitch is probably making plans to have me fitted for a head shackle at this
very moment.
I drop my hands. "Yes."
"Get inside. Just in case the Capitol tries to retaliate with what"s left of its air force," he instructs.
"Yes," I repeat. Everyone on the roof, except for the soldiers manning the machine guns, begin to make
their way inside. As I descend the stairs, I can"t help brushing my fingers along the unblemished white marble
walls. So cold and beautiful. Even in the Capitol, there"s nothing to match the magnificence of this old building.
But there is no give to the surface--only my flesh yields, my warmth taken. Stone conquers people every time.
I sit at the base of one of the gigantic pillars in the great entrance hall. Through the doors I can see the
white expanse of marble that leads to the steps on the square. I remember how sick I was the day Peeta and I
accepted congratulations there for winning the Games. Worn down by the Victory Tour, failing in my attempt to
calm the districts, facing the memories of Clove and Cato, particularly Cato"s gruesome, slow death by mutts.
Boggs crouches down beside me, his skin pale in the shadows. "We didn"t bomb the train tunnel, you
know. Some of them will probably get out."
"And then we"ll shoot them when they show their faces?" I ask.
"Only if we have to," he answers.
"We could send in trains ourselves. Help evacuate the wounded," I say.
"No. It was decided to leave the tunnel in their hands. That way they can use all the tracks to bring people
out," says Boggs. "Besides, it will give us time to get the rest of our soldiers to the square."
A few hours ago, the square was a no-man"s-land, the front line of the fight between the rebels and the
Peacekeepers. When Coin gave approval for Gale"s plan, the rebels launched a heated attack and drove the
Capitol forces back several blocks so that we would control the train station in the event that the Nut fell. Well, it"s
fallen. The reality has sunk in. Any survivors will escape to the square. I can hear the gunfire starting again, as the
Peacekeepers are no doubt trying to fight their way in to rescue their comrades. Our own soldiers are being
brought in to counter this.
"You"re cold," says Boggs. "I"ll see if I can find a blanket." He goes before I can protest. I don"t want a
blanket, even if the marble continues to leech my body heat.
"Katniss," says Haymitch in my ear.
"Still here," I answer.
"Interesting turn of events with Peeta this afternoon. Thought you"d want to know," he says. Interesting isn"t
good. It isn"t better. But I don"t really have any choice but to listen. "We showed him that clip of you singing "The
Hanging Tree." It was never aired, so the Capitol couldn"t use it when he was being hijacked. He says he
recognized the song."
For a moment, my heart skips a beat. Then I realize it"s just more tracker jacker serum confusion. "He
couldn"t, Haymitch. He never heard me sing that song."
"Not you. Your father. He heard him singing it one day when he came to trade at the bakery. Peeta was
small, probably six or seven, but he remembered it because he was specially listening to see if the birds
stopped singing," says Haymitch. "Guess they did."
Six or seven. That would have been before my mother banned the song. Maybe even right around the time I
was learning it. "Was I there, too?"
"Don"t think so. No mention of you anyway. But it"s the first connection to you that hasn"t triggered some
mental meltdown," says Haymitch. "It"s something, at least, Katniss."
My father. He seems to be everywhere today. Dying in the mine. Singing his way into Peeta"s muddled
consciousness. Flickering in the look Boggs gives me as he protectively wraps the blanket around my shoulders.
I miss him so badly it hurts.
The gunfire"s really picking up outside. Gale hurries by with a group of rebels, eagerly headed for the battle.
I don"t petition to join the fighters, not that they would let me. I have no stomach for it anyway, no heat in my blood.
I wish Peeta was here--the old Peeta--because he would be able to articulate why it is so wrong to be
exchanging fire when people, any people, are trying to claw their way out of the mountain. Or is my own history
making me too sensitive? Aren"t we at war? Isn"t this just another way to kill our enemies?
Night falls quickly. Huge, bright spotlights are turned on, illuminating the square. Every bulb must be burning
at full wattage inside the train station as well. Even from my position across the square, I can see clearly through
the plate-glass front of the long, narrow building. It would be impossible to miss the arrival of a train, or even a
single person. But hours pass and no one comes. With each minute, it becomes harder to imagine that anyone
survived the assault on the Nut.
It"s well after midnight when Cressida comes to attach a special microphone to my costume. "What"s this
for?" I ask.
Haymitch"s voice comes on to explain. "I know you"re not going to like this, but we need you to make a
speech."
"A speech?" I say, immediately feeling queasy.
"I"ll feed it to you, line by line," he assures me. "You"ll just have to repeat what I say. Look, there"s no sign of
life from that mountain. We"ve won, but the fighting"s continuing. So we thought if you went out on the steps of the
Justice Building and laid it out--told everybody that the Nut"s defeated, that the Capitol"s presence in District Two
is finished--you might be able to get the rest of their forces to surrender."
I peer at the darkness beyond the square. "I can"t even see their forces."
"That"s what the mike"s for," he says. "You"ll be broadcast, both your voice through their emergency audio
system, and your image wherever people have access to a screen."
I know there are a couple of huge screens here on the square. I saw them on the Victory Tour. It might work,
if I were good at this sort of thing. Which I"m not. They tried to feed me lines in those early experiments with the
propos, too, and it was a flop.
"You could save a lot of lives, Katniss," Haymitch says finally.
"All right. I"ll give it a try," I tell him.
It"s strange standing outside at the top of the stairs, fully costumed, brightly lit, but with no visible audience
to deliver my speech to. Like I"m doing a show for the moon.
"Let"s make this quick," says Haymitch. "You"re too exposed."
My television crew, positioned out in the square with special cameras, indicates that they"re ready. I tell
Haymitch to go ahead, then click on my mike and listen carefully to him dictate the first line of the speech. A huge
image of me lights up one of the screens over the square as I begin. "People of District Two, this is Katniss
Everdeen speaking to you from the steps of your Justice Building, where--"
The pair of trains comes screeching into the train station side by side. As the doors slide open, people
tumble out in a cloud of smoke they"ve brought from the Nut. They must have had at least an inkling of what would
await them at the square, because you can see them trying to act evasively. Most of them flatten on the floor, and
a spray of bullets inside the station takes out the lights. They"ve come armed, as Gale predicted, but they"ve
come wounded as well. The moans can be heard in the otherwise silent night air.
Someone kills the lights on the stairs, leaving me in the protection of shadow. A flame blooms inside the
station--one of the trains must actually be on fire--and a thick, black smoke billows against the windows. Left with
no choice, the people begin to push out into the square, choking but defiantly waving their guns. My eyes dart
around the rooftops that ring the square. Every one of them has been fortified with rebel-manned machine gun
nests. Moonlight glints off oiled barrels.
A young man staggers out from the station, one hand pressed against a bloody cloth at his cheek, the other
dragging a gun. When he trips and falls to his face, I see the scorch marks down the back of his shirt, the red
flesh beneath. And suddenly, he"s just another burn victim from a mine accident.
My feet fly down the steps and I take off running for him. "Stop!" I yell at the rebels. "Hold your fire!" The
words echo around the square and beyond as the mike amplifies my voice. "Stop!" I"m nearing the young man,
reaching down to help him, when he drags himself up to his knees and trains his gun on my head.
I instinctively back up a few steps, raise my bow over my head to show my intention was harmless. Now
that he has both hands on his gun, I notice the ragged hole in his cheek where something--falling stone maybe--
punctured the flesh. He smells of burning things, hair and meat and fuel. His eyes are crazed with pain and fear.
"Freeze," Haymitch"s voice whispers in my ear. I follow his order, realizing that this is what all of District 2,
all of Panem maybe, must be seeing at the moment. The Mockingjay at the mercy of a man with nothing to lose.
His garbled speech is barely comprehensible. "Give me one reason I shouldn"t shoot you."
The rest of the world recedes. There"s only me looking into the wretched eyes of the man from the Nut who
asks for one reason. Surely I should be able to come up with thousands. But the words that make it to my lips are
"I can"t."
Logically, the next thing that should happen is the man pulling the trigger. But he"s perplexed, trying to make
sense of my words. I experience my own confusion as I realize what I"ve said is entirely true, and the noble
impulse that carried me across the square is replaced by despair. "I can"t. That"s the problem, isn"t it?" I lower my
bow. "We blew up your mine. You burned my district to the ground. We"ve got every reason to kill each other. So
do it. Make the Capitol happy. I"m done killing their slaves for them." I drop my bow on the ground and give it a
nudge with my boot. It slides across the stone and comes to rest at his knees.
"I"m not their slave," the man mutters.
"I am," I say. "That"s why I killed Cato...and he killed Thresh...and he killed Clove...and she tried to kill me. It
just goes around and around, and who wins? Not us. Not the districts. Always the Capitol. But I"m tired of being a
piece in their Games."
Peeta. On the rooftop the night before our first Hunger Games. He understood it all before we"d even set
foot in the arena. I hope he"s watching now, that he remembers that night as it happened, and maybe forgives me
when I die.
"Keep talking. Tell them about watching the mountain go down," Haymitch insists.
"When I saw that mountain fall tonight, I thought...they"ve done it again. Got me to kill you--the people in the
districts. But why did I do it? District Twelve and District Two have no fight except the one the Capitol gave us."
The young man blinks at me uncomprehendingly. I sink on my knees before him, my voice low and urgent. "And
why are you fighting with the rebels on the rooftops? With Lyme, who was your victor? With people who were
your neighbors, maybe even your family?"
"I don"t know," says the man. But he doesn"t take his gun off me.
I rise and turn slowly in a circle, addressing the machine guns. "And you up there? I come from a mining
town. Since when do miners condemn other miners to that kind of death, and then stand by to kill whoever
manages to crawl from the rubble?"
"Who is the enemy?" whispers Haymitch.
"These people"--I indicate the wounded bodies on the square--"are not your enemy!" I whip back around to
the train station. "The rebels are not your enemy! We all have one enemy, and it"s the Capitol! This is our chance
to put an end to their power, but we need every district person to do it!"
The cameras are tight on me as I reach out my hands to the man, to the wounded, to the reluctant rebels
across Panem. "Please! Join us!"
My words hang in the air. I look to the screen, hoping to see them recording some wave of reconciliation
going through the crowd.
Instead I watch myself get shot on television.
16
"Always."
In the twilight of morphling, Peeta whispers the word and I go searching for him. It"s a gauzy, violet-tinted
world, with no hard edges, and many places to hide. I push through cloud banks, follow faint tracks, catch the
scent of cinnamon, of dill. Once I feel his hand on my cheek and try to trap it, but it dissolves like mist through my
fingers. When I finally begin to surface into the sterile hospital room in 13, I remember. I was under the influence of
sleep syrup. My heel had been injured after I"d climbed out on a branch over the electric fence and dropped back
into 12. Peeta had put me to bed and I had asked him to stay with me as I was drifting off. He had whispered
something I couldn"t quite catch. But some part of my brain had trapped his single word of reply and let it swim
up through my dreams to taunt me now. "Always."
Morphling dulls the extremes of all emotions, so instead of a stab of sorrow, I merely feel emptiness. A
hollow of dead brush where flowers used to bloom. Unfortunately, there"s not enough of the drug left in my veins
for me to ignore the pain in the left side of my body. That"s where the bullet hit. My hands fumble over the thick
bandages encasing my ribs and I wonder what I"m still doing here.
It wasn"t him, the man kneeling before me on the square, the burned one from the Nut. He didn"t pull the
trigger. It was someone farther back in the crowd. There was less a sense of penetration than the feeling that I"d
been struck with a sledgehammer. Everything after the moment of impact is confusion riddled with gunfire. I try to
sit up, but the only thing I manage is a moan.
The white curtain that divides my bed from the next patient"s whips back, and Johanna Mason stares down
at me. At first I feel threatened, because she attacked me in the arena. I have to remind myself that she did it to
save my life. It was part of the rebel plot. But still, that doesn"t mean she doesn"t despise me. Maybe her
treatment of me was all an act for the Capitol?
"I"m alive," I say rustily.
"No kidding, brainless." Johanna walks over and plunks down on my bed, sending spikes of pain shooting
across my chest. When she grins at my discomfort, I know we"re not in for some warm reunion scene. "Still a little
sore?" With an expert hand, she quickly detaches the morphling drip from my arm and plugs it into a socket
taped into the crook of her own. "They started cutting back my supply a few days ago. Afraid I"m going to turn into
one of those freaks from Six. I"ve had to borrow from you when the coast was clear. Didn"t think you"d mind."
Mind? How can I mind when she was almost tortured to death by Snow after the Quarter Quell? I have no
right to mind, and she knows it.
Johanna sighs as the morphling enters her bloodstream. "Maybe they were onto something in Six. Drug
yourself out and paint flowers on your body. Not such a bad life. Seemed happier than the rest of us, anyway."
In the weeks since I left 13, she"s gained some weight back. A soft down of hair has sprouted on her
shaved head, helping to hide some of the scars. But if she"s siphoning off my morphling, she"s struggling.
"They"ve got this head doctor who comes around every day. Supposed to be helping me recover. Like
some guy who"s spent his life in this rabbit warren"s going to fix me up. Complete idiot. At least twenty times a
session he reminds me that I"m totally safe." I manage a smile. It"s a truly stupid thing to say, especially to a victor.
As if such a state of being ever existed, anywhere, for anyone. "How about you, Mockingjay? You feel totally
safe?"
"Oh, yeah. Right up until I got shot," I say.
"Please. That bullet never even touched you. Cinna saw to that," she says.
I think of the layers of protective armor in my Mockingjay outfit. But the pain came from somewhere.
"Broken ribs?"
"Not even. Bruised pretty good. The impact ruptured your spleen. They couldn"t repair it." She gives a
dismissive wave of her hand. "Don"t worry, you don"t need one. And if you did, they"d find you one, wouldn"t they?
It"s everybody"s job to keep you alive."
"Is that why you hate me?" I ask.
"Partly," she admits. "Jealousy is certainly involved. I also think you"re a little hard to swallow. With your
tacky romantic drama and your defender-of-the-helpless act. Only it isn"t an act, which makes you more
unbearable. Please feel free to take this personally."
"You should have been the Mockingjay. No one would"ve had to feed you lines," I say.
"True. But no one likes me," she tells me.
"They trusted you, though. To get me out," I remind her. "And they"re afraid of you."
"Here, maybe. In the Capitol, you"re the one they"re scared of now." Gale appears in the doorway, and
Johanna neatly unhooks herself and reattaches me to the morphling drip. "Your cousin"s not afraid of me," she
says confidentially. She scoots off my bed and crosses to the door, nudging Gale"s leg with her hip as she
passes him. "Are you, gorgeous?" We can hear her laughter as she disappears down the hall.
I raise my eyebrows at him as he takes my hand. "Terrified," he mouths. I laugh, but it turns into a wince.
"Easy." He strokes my face as the pain ebbs. "You"ve got to stop running straight into trouble."
"I know. But someone blew up a mountain," I answer.
Instead of pulling back, he leans in closer, searching my face. "You think I"m heartless."
"I know you"re not. But I won"t tell you it"s okay," I say.
Now he draws back, almost impatiently. "Katniss, what difference is there, really, between crushing our
enemy in a mine or blowing them out of the sky with one of Beetee"s arrows? The result is the same."
"I don"t know. We were under attack in Eight, for one thing. The hospital was under attack," I say.
"Yes, and those hoverplanes came from District Two," he says. "So, by taking them out, we prevented
further attacks."
"But that kind of thinking...you could turn it into an argument for killing anyone at any time. You could justify
sending kids into the Hunger Games to prevent the districts from getting out of line," I say.
"I don"t buy that," he tells me.
"I do," I reply. "It must be those trips to the arena."
"Fine. We know how to disagree," he says. "We always have. Maybe it"s good. Between you and me,
we"ve got District Two now."
"Really?" For a moment a feeling of triumph flares up inside me. Then I think about the people on the
square. "Was there fighting after I was shot?"
"Not much. The workers from the Nut turned on the Capitol soldiers. The rebels just sat by and watched,"
he says. "Actually, the whole country just sat by and watched."
"Well, that"s what they do best," I say.
You"d think that losing a major organ would entitle you to lie around a few weeks, but for some reason, my
doctors want me up and moving almost immediately. Even with the morphling, the internal pain"s severe the first
few days, but then it slacks off considerably. The soreness from the bruised ribs, however, promises to hang on
for a while. I begin to resent Johanna dipping into my morphling supply, but I still let her take whatever she likes.
Rumors of my death have been running rampant, so they send in the team to film me in my hospital bed. I
show off my stitches and impressive bruising and congratulate the districts on their successful battle for unity.
Then I warn the Capitol to expect us soon.
As part of my rehabilitation, I take short walks aboveground each day. One afternoon, Plutarch joins me
and gives me an update on our current situation. Now that District 2 has allied with us, the rebels are taking a
breather from the war to regroup. Fortifying supply lines, seeing to the wounded, reorganizing their troops. The
Capitol, like 13 during the Dark Days, finds itself completely cut off from outside help as it holds the threat of
nuclear attack over its enemies. Unlike 13, the Capitol is not in a position to reinvent itself and become selfsufficient.
"Oh, the city might be able to scrape along for a while," says Plutarch. "Certainly, there are emergency
supplies stockpiled. But the significant difference between Thirteen and the Capitol are the expectations of the
populace. Thirteen was used to hardship, whereas in the Capitol, all they"ve known is Panem et Circenses."
"What"s that?" I recognize Panem, of course, but the rest is nonsense.
"It"s a saying from thousands of years ago, written in a language called Latin about a place called Rome,"
he explains. "Panem et Circenses translates into "Bread and Circuses." The writer was saying that in return for
full bellies and entertainment, his people had given up their political responsibilities and therefore their power."
I think about the Capitol. The excess of food. And the ultimate entertainment. The Hunger Games. "So
that"s what the districts are for. To provide the bread and circuses."
"Yes. And as long as that kept rolling in, the Capitol could control its little empire. Right now, it can provide
neither, at least at the standard the people are accustomed to," says Plutarch. "We have the food and I"m about
to orchestrate an entertainment propo that"s sure to be popular. After all, everybody loves a wedding."
I freeze in my tracks, sick at the idea of what he"s suggesting. Somehow staging some perverse wedding
between Peeta and me. I haven"t been able to face that one-way glass since I"ve been back and, at my own
request, only get updates about Peeta"s condition from Haymitch. He speaks very little about it. Different
techniques are being tried. There will never truly be a way to cure him. And now they want me to marry Peeta for
a propo?
Plutarch rushes to reassure me. "Oh, no, Katniss. Not your wedding. Finnick and Annie"s. All you need to
do is show up and pretend to be happy for them."
"That"s one of the few things I won"t have to pretend, Plutarch," I tell him.
The next few days bring a flurry of activity as the event is planned. The differe
Fuente: este post proviene de Dormite,Pía, donde puedes consultar el contenido original.
¿Vulnera este post tus derechos? Pincha aquí.
Creado: