Last party

    Does a void occupy anything? If so, it occupied John's mind. And then, between one trace of thought and another he could have some will. The problem is that so much emptiness took away any opportunity to care about something. His will was to kill in the other who had already died in himself. 

    There was a neighborhood near the city center where parties lasted into the early hours. John would take his car and go to the door of the club at times when few people were leaving and offer a lift for any woman. After some "no" he always got a "yes, thank you". John would ask the destination and follow the right path to reach him. The person in the passenger seat even exchanged ideas with that kind-hearted man who was going to make his night better. A few feet before the destination, John would stop the car, look sweetly to the right, and suddenly, without the victim knowing where was from, he drew a knife and struck the air with no definite target.

    This time he hit the rib. Then he smiled and got out of the car. He turned and opened the door for the victim to come down. He says "come down" and the person in front of him even tries, but fear makes the pain and disability greater. Then John grabs the girl and throws her to the floor. In the face of despair - a truly remarkable and beautiful feeling - John smiles again. Breaking the silence his voice echoes in the streets without life:

_You have 1 minute to get to your house.

     John lights a cigarette and touches into the car. While each drag seems to get sweeter, to its victim every centimeter seems to be more impossible to reach. Six drags and a half meters later, John walks slowly. The victim, in turn, swallows some air with a few drops of illusion to speed up as if it is not too late. John takes the woman by the hair, smells the conditioner mingling with the smell of dread, smiles as he had not smiled before and sticking another throat that did not even have time to scream for the last time.

    John moves on. What he did is routine; It's part of a world that impoverishes faster than him blows. John goes back behind the wheel and his mind goes back resemble those streets. The stillness will last many hours until he miss killing again. Until then he returns to his home to later devote himself to work in the NGO that rescues young people from prostitution. After all, each one helps the world as can.

Medusa

    If fear materialized, it would surely be Medusa. No, this is not Greek mythology, but anyone who hears about it thinks it's myth and those who know it have their eyes petrified literally for minutes.

    Medusa is small and has about 5,000 inhabitants and each of them was generated and raised without ever leaving it definitely. The city seemed like an isolated part of the world where our definition of civilization means absolutely nothing. People were dressed in white symbolizing mourning when they lost a war; when they lost someone important they would throw their bodies into the sea and choose a close relative to be thrown into company. No one got married; To preserve the citizens of Medusa, a draw was made to define a couple and to raise a baby. The draw was made annually and, if the baby did not survive, the parents were thrown into a volcano just 7 km away. Everyone knew that life was not a special thing; it was just a consequence.

    The city had no mayor or any responsible authority. Everyone followed the culture that was passed from father to son. What was hereditary was also the color of the eyes: yellow. There is no record of anyone born there who does not have this color in their eyes. Besides that, they were all different. It was not enough the strange way of the inhabitants of Medusa, even the trees were strange. 

    I would say everything was unusual. The mist covered the entrance to the city which, by the way, was really isolated; all inhabited cities were at least 1,700 km away. The trees I quoted surrounded all the triangle-shaped houses; all very tall and old; some with no leaves or signs of life, but even the dead trees gave another signal; one that said "I saw everything, I know everything." It was automatic and seemed telepathic such a message.

Another detail is that there was rust on almost everything even if it wasn't made of iron or a nearby chemical element. The volcano, which was the only noisy neighbor, made the place a little cozy compared to the freezing breeze that a distant ocean brought. No one listened to music there nor even knew of the existence of any musical instrument. People are speechless but because they wanted to, and it was only known because they gave evidence that they listened very well to any sound, since no one ever said anything. Even so, they had their own language. Writing and reading were a priority. They could write about anything but Medusa. 

    Although it seems that so many singular things were provided with some kind of unknown belief to us, they had no god; they simply didn't believe in anything. Such silence of voice was filled with the deafening noise of air that, while keeping people alive, also shouted in his ears "Why do you insist on breathing?" So everyone sighed tirelessly instead of just breathing in and out. When at times someone finally ran out, he threw himself into the sea willingly thinking he had long since died. 

    Another country sent reporters and onlookers to investigate their lives. So today is a happy day; it's war day! Everyone leaves home, but most only watch those who come out with more powerful battle tanks and weapons than ours because of the extended manufacturing and testing time. Medusa's army members are chosen without discretion; Those who want to fight go, those who don't want just stay and follow their lives until they discover that it was better to go than to stay and stare into the abyss.

    I didn't go, I came. I am the millionth reporter who wanted to know more about the darkest place on earth and, for the first time, they allowed anyone to write about Medusa; so that could be the last time they want try. Certainly, this is the last time I write.

Revenge is 1200 degrees

    It was 4:25 pm. My mother had not come home from work yet. Every day this "not coming" covered my life with fear. Today, everything has crossed the line. Even this fear. 

    He, my mother's husband; loving, devoted, hardworking husband; it was my real nightmare. Every day he would come in at four o'clock, take a shower, and on purpose, without bothering with a towel, would walk in my bedroom door and flaunt his insanity so well concealed by mechanical qualities. I confess what creativity he had a lot. Each day was a dance, a staging, an attempt, a different monstrosity. I never told my mom. She was so happy when she arrived and her eyes met his. I - and anyone who saw it - could believe in his unshakable love. My mother had already suffered too much.  I know she didn't want the same thing to happen to me, but she was 42 and I was 16; I had not suffered even 1/4 of what life had in store for me. If I wasn't strong now, I couldn't do it later. 

    Returning to this fateful day - this date that would best be filled with the day of the dead - he was different. I never paid attention to him, kept me in bed with my eyes fixed on the book, but today he demanded that I look into his. 

_Look in my eyes, Catherine.

   I looked. I looked and got lost. They glowed like a murderer admiring the bullet hole that he fired himself. It was an unhealthy glare that proved that the look was really capable of speaking because it said "this time there is no way out".

_You don't like it or their owner, do you?

   I was silent. The answer was too obvious. I just wanted to say that "disliking" was too little. Yet the fear had paralyzed me.

_Are not going to say anything? So will do!

   At that moment he came at me with hatred, pulled me by the hair and slammed my head into the mirror of the dresser that broke and cut my forehead. I got dizzy but didn't faint. Not at that moment. I was still able to hear him say:

_You are not Mommy's treasure, you are rubbish and what I want to give you no one else will give you with pleasure.

   He started tearing at my clothes as I thrashed in vain. Until everything got dark.

   Suddenly nothing made sense anymore. I was in a hospital bed alone in a room that was too bright. If it had a trace of hope in me unitl 4 pm that day would be gone. Perhaps instead there had been born a twinge of willingness to commit suicide. And then, as I decided which method to use, my mother appeared in front of me. She was crying with the way that who need to disguise that is desolate to give us strength but it can only give the impression that the world is falling apart. 

_Are you alright? - She asked.

_Do not know. How did I get here? He managed?

_I would never let! I arrived in time to grab your dad's baseball bat and hit him in the head.

_So he died?

    Her expression that apparently couldn't possibly be more tragic simply changed to utter despair. She shook her head many times before finally speaking.

_Dying would be fair. If life were fair you wouldn't be here.

   Then I understood that I shouldn't regret keeping it a secret. If I hadn't been through this now, any nonsense would later shake me. From then on a new stage began for both me and my mother; that gained more strength with each disappointment. She was who I wanted to be. So I forgot everything after all, could be worse. Life was giving us a second chance and I couldn't turn it down. We moved out, I finished high school, started work, and met Joe.

     I was 18 years old. He went to buy car parts at the shop I worked for. 

     I was a saleswoman but I was leaving for lunch. Then, as if fate wanted to show that it exists, the moment he turned to leave the counter, he bumped into me.

_Be more careful, idiot - I said. Life had given me common sense but the price to pay was to lose a good deal of patience.

_Sorry, I did not see.

    He asked my number for someone else who worked with me. He called me the next day, we met, we started dating, and then it was over. That simple. Fate just wanted to play a little, maybe found me distracted.

    Joe was very fond of me, so much so that he didn't do what I wanted. And what I wanted? Ropes, candles, handcuffs, pain. I had not experienced this with anyone; I was a virgin, but in my almost absent dreams and fantasies, this has always happened. With him I felt I could open myself but what I heard was:

_You are crazy, I can not give you that kind of love, I bet you don't even know if you like me, you is so sick that must not know what love is.

    It was time to follow the example of whom I admired most and to swallow that feeling of defeat along with my pride. Alright, I was capable. I "would" be able...

    My mother died the same day. She was hit by an uncontrolled bus on a deserted avenue where only she passed on the street. Destiny? Well, if it was I'd like to curse it. It had no such right. Losing someone you don't know well was bearable, but losing your foundation, your roof, your air, how did it think I was going to breathe? I found myself in that hospital bed again, thinking of suicide; on ropes, knives, height, pain. Then I threw myself on the floor and started to cry. 2 hours was enough to carry 2 years of hope. The void is left.  

    I followed my life. People looked at me like if I couldn't stand in such circumstances, but I didn't feel anything anymore, so I stayed. I had to understand the reason for being in this world. I did not accept that we had to value so much something that forces us not to care so much to be fine. 

    I needed the tenor and didn't have the direction so I stayed where I was. I went back to work; the house was left for me so I adopted a dog and every day when I came back I had a new life to deceive me. In a few months the feeling of being untouched filled me. I decided to go to bars and clubs. I met many "interesting" people who soon became "unbearable" due to insane memories and monstrous wills. Maybe I had to accept that everyone had an inner monster. What would be mine? When would it surface revealing my true self? I didn't think even I could be fooling myself. Then I remembered that I didn't know myself; I had long been stuck with this urge to move on as if I needed to be stronger than everyone and not as much as they were.  So I avoided thinking about my real motives for doing what I did. It all came at once in my mind. It was too much to bear. It was too much to forget. I started to drink a lot and every day. I only knew what it was like to smile in those minutes when everything goes round and you laugh so you don't cry. The rest of the time, I would fall in the corners and cry not to lie laugh.

    Yesterday I got a call from my ex-stepfather saying that only now had he learned of my mother's death and that he wanted to give me some cash help. Yeah... When we don't know where else to stick her head to get away, it gives you a tug of hair to make you get up. 

_ Fine, I'll give you my address, come at 16hs and we'll talk.

   This time there was no destiny, tragedy or mistake that could write my story; I was going to write and it would be bloody. 

    At 3:59 pm I heard a knock on the door. I opened it, and with difficulty disguising the disgust I felt as I looked at this man, I asked him to come in. 

He sat at the kitchen table, I offered a coffee and he took it. I do not. I just sat down, looked into his eyes for the first time and waited for the "coffee" to take effect. In a few moments he was intoxicated. Then he shouted:

_What did you do, you bitch?

_Nothing yet.

   Just then I drank something. I had held me until there to better appreciate this moment. A dose of absinthe was enough to imagine that this would be my happy ending fairy tale. I went up to the monster and, holding his head that could barely hold his neck, said:

_My mother could not but I can not be my mother. That's why I'm still here.

  So I dragged the man into the microwave, put his head in and pushing it so he wouldn't escape, turned on the timer. When the microwave burned and there was a crackle, I began to smile. But that was not my happy ending yet. I drank a much higher dose, sighed, and with the largest and sharpest knife I found, I pierced my stomach. 

Pain album

   Iris revealed pictures in her dark room; in the room that used to be her bedroom suite. Today, around so many scattered photographs, it was the first time in years that she had felt anything different, she felt the owner of her work, whereas before her boyfriend Leo was in charge of that service and she was the photographer. Now she was doing both. The boyfriend was gone but the expenses remained and could not afford an assistant. Now she was doing both. Her boyfriend was gone, but expenses remained and she couldn't afford an assistant.

    Whatever the reason, Iris was distressed. The makeshift room didn't look right, neither did the lighting and the smiles and looks around her much less. She just wanted to sleep and forget she had life, but that fuel we had fed over the years had fervently accumulated in her happy years with Leo, and though it was burning faster with loneliness, it still seemed to make Iris resist for longer years. 3 hours later, Iris was able to rest and lie down, closed her eyes and within minutes was at her childhood tree house. She came in, sat on the floor, and then a little girl appeared who apparently wanted to play. She had flashy blue eyes, blond hair, and a dress that says "I have a mother who wants them to know I have it." Iris was a child too. They were both about five years old and started dancing and playing until the house fell completely and before Iris could think of what had happened, Iris woke up. At first she found the event perfectly normal for a dream and then went back to sleep. However, when she woke up again without having a dream, the little girl came to mind. Nothing could upset her more than the room she was about to return to.

    The days passed and instead of the usual visit Iris and accommodate her to her new life, what came with her was the constant idea of ​​running away. Who or what she didn't know, and how she didn't know where to, tried to ignore the idea. Since everything must have an explanation, in the days that followed, Iris began to understand the reason for his distress. In her early hours revealing photos she remembered that a few days before the death of Leo, he had revealed photos to a couple who lost their daughter in a school bus accident. She looked at the pictures only once and couldn't remember the girl's features but there was one feature she couldn't forget: those bright, big blue eyes. Then he recalled that copies had been left in case anyone else wanted the girl's last happy moments a day before her birthday.

    Iris had no trouble finding the copies, and when she looked into the girl's eyes she had the impression that it had moved. Then he dropped the photographs on the floor. As she called herself a fool and laughed at herself, she bent to pick them up and saw a white figure pass quickly. She looked up and saw nothing. She turned his eyes to the fallen photos and then noticed that in one of them the girl was simply missing. She went into the kitchen, opened a bottle of red wine, and when she had finished the last drop, slept hunched over the table right there. Woke up 6 hours later. It was your client. She didn't remember but the envelope with the credit card bill beside her left arm reminded her. So she did his best to disguise the hangover and photographed her. As he was leading the girl to the door he heard a childish laugh and then a question:

_Do you have children?

   Iris awakens to reality and thinks "she heard too" and replies:

_No, it must be on TV. It is on.

    It wasn't, of course. So she said goodbye and went to look for the girl in the little house. She knew it was crazy but as sure that the girl was there. Iris needed to know why. She looked in every corner and nothing. Then she went back to the dark room where she stayed a few more hours. After she showered, ate, and went to sleep. Her head ached, and now the illumination of the dark room drew her in so she left the door open as she had no work to finish.

    She dreamed again of the blue-eyed girl. Iris was in her bed and looked her current age. But the girl looked even younger with a huge smile on her face. She reached for Iris but she couldn't move so the girl frowned and looked sulky. Suddenly gone. Iris remained in bed for a long time and nothing happened until she realized she wasn't dreaming. She went into the kitchen, found no other bottle of wine, then began to cry. When she was out of breath she decided to go back to bed where she remained awake, motionless until the sun rose. When that happened, she went looking for the girl's parents. She still had their number phone, so it was easy. She told them what was happening desperately without paying attention to what she was saying was absurd. She was expelled from there by father as if she wanted to play with their pain. As Iris left crying, the girl's mother said without understanding:

_What did you do? We are also seeing our girl everywhere. She's not freaking out and joking and  you knows it!

_It's best for her to think it's not real. Maybe she'll stop haunting this poor woman.

_You know it will not solve. People are pure energy. Photographs are only so real because they capture some of that energy. And when they try to keep a dead person alive, that's what happens!

_And you knew that when you asked to reveal the photos, didn't you?

   Yes, she did. Her silence was the answer.

    Iris came home calmer after meeting a friend along the way who paid 3 beers. She decided to post some ads on the internet to attract services. She needed to be busy with anything. Her cell phone was running low on battery power so she plugged it in and lay on the nearby couch. She was entertained when her cell phone warned that the power plug had been unplugged, looked at the power plug and saw that it really was. Iris lost control.

_You can stop playing, girlie. I don't know what you want from me but if you can tell me and go away I appreciate it.

 Laughter was heard.

_What the hell! I need to work. I need to keep my life. It's not my fault if you lost your life.

    Then only the energy of her house ran out and she screamed. Soon after another scream was heard and its owner appeared before Iris with eyes blazing blue.

_I can not disappear. I can't go my way and it's your and your boyfriend's fault!

_I was not the one who revealed your photos. And surely you went to him!

_Yes but you helped him; you photographed and continued with this work. Don't pretend to be innocent.

_But what's so bad about that? It's just my job.

_ Leave the beauty of life to the living, the dead do not need it.

_ Okay, I promise I will not photograph or reveal photos of the dead. I swear!

_Of course not!

   Then the girl reached out her right hand and stared into Iris's eyes. These began to burn. The woman screamed in pain and the girl laughed. When she learned that Iris couldn't regain her sight even if she had a lot of money, she stopped and disappeared. No one saw it but she reappeared in the missing photograph. Iris knew that was her end. That fuel that burned deep in his soul was sold out by the fiery look of that little girl. She knew she was never going to pick up scenery, tear, smile, or some look again, and without even having the strength to use her brain normally, she couldn't find a way out of it. Then she remembered the bottle that was in the trash can, crawled over to it and with the help of touch found it. She broke it on the floor and with the largest piece of glass cut her throat. They would say it was just another weak person who couldn't stand the hardships of life, because they didn't know what had happened, but even knowing it, who could blame a little girl who, even though his life was stolen by an irresponsible driver pulped a woman's life and still tried to give her a new way of seeing the world?

Apogee

    An old story of love and madness, which I tell to remind her. Not that it was necessary because she is unforgettable. She wanted such an impossible fate, and I pretended to agree to make her smile. And it was the most beautiful smile in the world. I liked her presence, her way of seeing the world, in a way that was sometimes even sick that could make his ears bleed at her opinion. What she wanted are things that will never happen because more people like her would be needed, which is impossible again. All the words spoken by those lips will never be spoken by any other being, nor can they be described by me. It is really ineffable. Her mesmerizing beauty could not be reproduced either by photography, she was almost unreal. Quite singular, she was quiet too, and I never saw her talk for more than a minute with anyone but me. It was like I was special. Like I was your translator. Too bad until today I didn't discover your language. One day, seized by fury, she appeared in front of me in a red satin nightgown. It could be the most beautiful apparition. I was lying in the grass of a huge garden, cultivated in the back of my house, watching the stars when I heard her say, "Finish my life." After observing that beautiful piece of art that spoke to me, I noticed that she was holding a revolver. I can't tell if I was scared or not. The sparkle in his gaze was so similar to the sky that I had just looked. It took a few minutes for me to realize what was going on. Maybe because she always made me think I was in a dream. I think she got scared for me because she said “Didn't you hear me? Finish my life.” I got up and hugged her. She started to cry. Not that I'm sadistic, but your lament was beautiful. I dare say it was perfect. I managed to whisper, “Why?” And she with difficulty replied, “Because I can't do that. I just found that I need you for everything, even to cease to exist. If you do, I will go in peace. Even happy. Please do it. I can't stand this useless life anymore.” When I heard that, even my insensitive heart seemed to scream in pain. She was my goddess. I never loved anything or anyone more than her. It was suffocating to hear every word spoken so painfully. Worse, I knew the reason for your suffering. I felt it too. However, she didn't know how to be cynical, didn't hide her anger when she saw she was unique. Yes, even she knew that. For her, being different was distressing. Which is understandable to someone who will never be understood. It will happen to me. I will be judged forever in the worst way. I will never be forgiven. But it is not for forgiveness that I hope. It's just a sleepless night I want. One night where I can dream about that charming woman, watching her smile. Something that doesn't remind me of that tragic night when I was asked to say goodbye to the most perfect being. For if you hadn't asked me to, I'd never shoot your chest and never have to see your scarlet blood mingle with the red satin.

Unexplained fate

    Days go by too slowly when you are in a sanatorium. The clouds outside, the sunshine, the trees, anything remind you of why you came in here. This way, is impossible to make the own madness a memory, so I don't think I'll ever get out of here. I am always arguing with my mistakes, redoing the curves I tried to deflect and slipped into them. I accept the terms that psychiatrists used to keep me here, because even I beg for the explanation of my actions. If there is no destiny, then life is made of unfortunate coincidences.

    I still remember when I loved my wife. I dedicated every second of my life to making her happy. We had a quiet life, it was just us and the stars every night - because during the day we worked. When I say that every second was spent with her, it is no exaggeration, I simply saw her image and her name in everything, as if she were my shadow. They said I had gone mad, but it wasn't true yet. Everything got out of hand when instead of silent kisses and hugs, we had fights that woke up the neighbors. She was cheating on me. I was sure, and instead of continuing the fights with which I only gained excuses, I started to follow her.  I simply set my work aside to know what was going on with my life. She was my life. It took 5 days for me to be sure of the betrayal. After parking, she entered a beautiful house without a wall like all the others in a neighborhood far away from ours. I was in my car, given by my father who always told me that if divorce had taught him anything, it is that the soulmate is only to destroy you and take your place back in the world. It made sense. In less than a minute everything that brought me the certainty that Eliza was my soulmate came to light. Like she was a piece of me but had only room in the world for one of us. At that moment I felt that she was destroying me, I was not going to die physically but it seemed that inside I was already dead. I don't even know how my mind went from sweet and in love to the killer, I just know that all my thoughts suddenly vanished with hatred. I got out of the car, walked into the house through the front door that didn't even bother to lock, perhaps because the desire was greater than the fear. And as I entered, I could see what I was thinking. The moans that came from the room spread throughout the house the desire that 1 month ago Eliza didn't show for me. I did not cry. Hate was still greater than anything. I took advantage that they were totally immersed in the pleasure to find a sharp knife in the kitchen. It wouldn't be such a bad death after all. I headed for the bedroom, knocked on the door and waited. I imagined the pleasure fading into fear and confusion. I knew Eliza would come to open the door with her protective spirit. So it happened and when she turned to the right, her frightened eyes met mine for 2 seconds before losing their sparkle as I stuck the knife into her chest. I ran out with the murder weapon in my hand, got into the car, drove home, buried the knife, took a shower, and sat on the bed. I began to think of what I fled to not see: the lover's face. What would it be like? Why did her attract her? Why didn't I want to see? I thought about returning that home but would be too suspicious. I waited 24 hours after Eliza's death and went to the police station to report that she was missing. My mother for first wanted to play her motherly role and went to my house to keep me company at this difficult time. 

    My house was no longer the same, I could still see Eliza everywhere, but I knew it was unreal images. I wasn't sure if my conscience was heavy or I missed the easy life that illusion provides. My mother didn't question me for not wanting to see the news or for not being desperate. About 15 days ago she had heard about our fights. At our third dinner together, she told me that the delegate had called to let them know they found Eliza's body buried in a madwoman's house, as subtly as she could. I cried. She sure thought it was pain, but it was joy. It seems that the mistress was not very intelligent. Now it would be even harder to prove she was innocent. 

    The next day I went to the police station very early. They told me that they had not yet found the murder weapon but that the housewife had confessed the same without mentioning her motives and was already awaiting trial. I could not believe it. I cried again, this time with relief, and once again I was sure no one knew it wasn't pain.

    My mother insisted on staying with me for a few more days. Damn days! Sometimes she would go to my room when I was already sleeping and all of them would hear me call Eliza and say something about a knife. During the day, she caught me talking to myself, hugging the air. What brought me to this place where I am now is that I said I was going to visit the "killer" with a tangle of flowers that I myself picked - or stole - in my neighbor's garden. I tried to explain to 3 psychiatrists that it wasn't true that she saw Eliza around the house and didn't call for her in dreams, but the truth seemed to be even more terrifying.

    When I was at the police station last time, I saw this killer, I knew her name was Lia. At some point, I said I was going to the bathroom but I went to see her in your temporary cell. I approached, she had her head down, I asked "Why?" and without understanding, she raised her head and asked if she knew me. As soon as his eyes drifted toward mine, I had no answer to any questions. I left. However, her image replaced every memory of Eliza, and if I screamed her name in dreams, it was trying to say, "Don't be with Eliza." I remember my dream. It was the same every night. I repeated what I did the day I killed her, but instead of running, I reached out to Lia and said, "Don't stay with Eliza, I'll hide your body with this knife and it's just you and me." Needless to say, I accept being called crazy, but obviously I'm not alone. In addition to so many other strangers, I see Lia sunbathing in the garden every day. Lia had consultations with psychiatrists right after trying to kill herself hanged on a sheet in jail and saying she just wanted to get rid of me. Unfortunately for her, there are only 1 sanatorium in the city and soon they sent her here.

    The first time I saw her here - out of my visions - I asked her again "Why?". It seems that this time she understood, because she told me "Because fate wanted it that way". I dare not question anything else, by the way, nor do I need to. I live in a place where everything is allowed. And if I am mad, the least of my peculiarities is to subject myself to fate; something beyond a word that exists but cannot be medicated. Each afternoon walking alongside Lia is a step further into the abyss of madness. Not to mention that many times at night, I hear my father's phrase echoing in the dark. Now I understand that despite being a fact, this destruction is the best thing in my limited life. After all, I've already taken my soulmate out of the way, why not let the space be filled for the cause of your absence?

The last night

_I swear! This is my biggest secret!

    As a young woman screamed those words like, "Help me please," hundreds of needles pierced her thighs in a sort of torture machine.

_You're lying! - Said an old man with crow eyes. He didn't blink as he watched his prey despair. 

    Everything was noisy and irrational in that shed blackened by the ashes of any given day, for every day is a day to say goodbye to something. This time what burned and flamed was the desire to wake up. And woke up!

    Frightened like a lost child, Oliver woke up from a nightmare whose theme was the same but never repeated.

_At least it was light torture and it lasted a little - he said as he headed for the kitchen to drink water.

    Oliver lived alone in a townhouse, was 32 but with the feeling that adolescence was coming. Since these nightmares disturb him - 5 years ago - Oliver doesn't know what being mature means. Do therapy twice a week with the best psychologist the money can afford and take all sorts of sleeping pills. Today your mind sleeps when your eyes are open and work with the passion of an alchemist when those eyes close. Oliver quit his job, stopped seeing anyone who could ask. At least his days were pure quiet.

    What do you do when you wake up? Get up quickly? Do you think about life? Do you take care of yourself? Well, Oliver thank. He is not grateful for his life; for what he see around him, much less for what he feel; he thank for being able to wake up, for escaping the old man who does not torture only those in that machine. Waking up to Oliver had magic.

    Another 32 days passed. Oliver is different. It was 32 more types of torture that damn machine proved to have. Does it never end? He barely blinked. He looked like an inner decaying zombie. If he had friends and family, it would be like having nothing, for they would surely interned him; leaving him at the mercy of that old man. Oliver was staring at the living room wall, sitting on the floor with a cup of coffee that was not even tasted beside; the perfect image to symbolize distress. Suddenly, among empty thoughts that don't weigh on Earth, Oliver decides to think about his problem. His psychologist was full of such trouble. Neither did he have more patience to wait for confession than it hurts him. They would no longer see each other; that was right for Oliver, but what wasn't that he continued to procrastinate. If his problem could materialize, he would no doubt see that old man in front of him, look deep into his eyes, and kill him as quickly as possible so that it would not take a minute longer than it had to last. However this could not happen so Oliver sought someone to face.

    Here comes a new phase; Oliver was willing to forget the nightmares and live. He started going to bars and clubs to meet women. He treated them with care and attention, made them fall in love and confess their secrets in bed. When they counted they looked like hypnosis, and each time that happened the nightmare tortures became lighter. So Oliver could not stop; that was what he should do until the nightmares no longer bothered him. It will be? Oliver felt it was half hope. As for the other half, this one was distressed by the daytime problems that now arose. Oliver no longer knew what peace was; the stillness of his empty mind had been stolen so that absurd secrets would fall into place. It was unbearable, exhausting, frustrating, overwhelming! The secret of 29 women who once looked beautiful and charming and now turned out to be the worst kind. 29 damn secrets in a mind that tried to hear the hope that was now just a noise. 29 reasons to give up on life. Oliver decided to go to sleep. His nightmares were more beautiful than reality.

    Upon waking Oliver could not stop thinking about the last torture he witnessed sleeping. It had been truly cruel. One person confessed faster than anyone when saw that a peaked steel bar wrapped in a cutting wire would cross his neck. The old man was not satisfied. He hadn't even started to play with her! Activated the system that heated the chair to 80 degrees. The woman screamed for 3 minutes that she swore the only secret was what she had said - something banal. The old man looked at her with your raven eyes. Those eyes that make you somehow closer to death. Looking into those eyes there is no light to illuminate the tunnel, there is no truth other than that you will die. These were the eyes that watched with pleasure as the iron bar entered and destroyed the neck of the writhing woman who was ardently living her last seconds of life. Burning in the fire of memory ardently the will to thank. Better to think about torture for no reason than the secrets he knew. 

    Oliver could already be compared to the moon of so many phases! Another had begun. He hated women, had murderous desires, and in order not to commit any greater madness decided to go out with men. It had been 45 days since senseless torture had been repeated. Every night a woman told a trite secret, every day the old man had crow eyes and every day death came empty. He thought again that he had no other way but to seek secrets that deserved to be condemned. 

    One of his lovers once told him that his biggest secret was to love him. It was too much for him! He couldn't stand it. After all he did, being an accomplice to a sick and bloodthirsty old man! No, he could not accept. He punched the man to faint him, dragged him into the yard and buried him alive. In her mind a voice said "Look who's looking like me!" It was the old man's voice. Damn old man! It was official; Oliver went crazy. 

   Madness disturbs but also calms. As much as nothing made sense, whatever, he didn't even remember what was sense. Men were no longer attracted to him because they are afraid of what they cannot understand. So Oliver returned to solitude. "Better this way" would say time and time again throughout the day wandering the townhouse. At night men confessed all kinds of secrets; from the banal to the most amazing. By day he was a lunatic who did not feel and did not care and by night a helpless bystander who suffers more than the protagonist of the horror series.

    Tonight Oliver was the protagonist. He was at the torture machine confessing "I've always liked that. I've learned to appreciate every scream, every look of despair. All these pretentious and damn people deserve every needle, every cut in their skin, every drop of blood spilled. I always wanted to be you." The old man disappears with a look of misunderstanding, Oliver wakes up. Tonight Oliver knew more than he needed to know. Raven's eyes were on the balcony. A soulless body walked over, climbed onto the roof, and threw itself. Madness disturbs but also calms. As much as nothing made sense, whatever, he didn't even remember what it felt like, what it felt like. Men were no longer attracted to him because they are afraid of what they cannot understand. So Oliver returned to solitude. "Better this way" would say time and time again throughout the day wandering the townhouse. At night men confessed all kinds of secrets; from the banal to the most amazing. By day he was a lunatic who did not feel and did not care and by night a helpless bystander who suffers more than the protagonist of the horror series.

   Tonight Oliver was the protagonist. He was at the torture machine confessing "I've always liked that. I've learned to appreciate every scream, every look of despair. All these pretentious and damn people deserve every needle, every cut in their skin, every drop of blood spilled. I always wanted to be you." " The old man disappears with a look of misunderstanding, Oliver wakes up. Tonight Oliver knew more than he needed to know. Raven's eyes were on the balcony. A soulless body walked over, climbed onto the roof, and flopped backwards. The fall was fatal, but as it fell, the crow would fly and look at him with eyes that said "this was the last night."