The next day, when Rosalita and I went to milk the cows, I immediately noticed one of them lying on its side. I approached the animal to check if it was sick. But the animal wasn't breathing. I touched its nostrils—they were cold, and the air around it didn't move. The animal didn't even react. It was cold and stiff. It was dead.
"What happened there, son?" the woman asked.
"Our cow died, senora!"
Rosalita approached, covering her mouth, staring with wide eyes at the dead animal lying on its side. There were supposedly seven more, but that one dead cow seemed to us both—I saw in her eyes what I was thinking—a big problem. Because immediately, less milk. Less food, and less money, because we didn't drink it all ourselves—the rest was sold. There wouldn't be any meat from it either, because they wouldn't take the carcass at the slaughterhouse, and besides, the cow was young, and who knew what could have caused it to die. Maybe she ate something poisonous—but it could just as easily have been a disease. So it was scary to even eat such meat. Not to mention that the rest of the cows could have been infected, and others might have started dying. So I called a few peasants, and we dragged the cattle out into the field and burned them there. Leaving them just like that, somewhere out of the way, was impossible—flies or predators would have flocked to them and attacked the other cows. Burying them was also impossible—they would have rotted, and the disease would have seeped into the soil. Then we would have caught the disease ourselves, from the well water.
We somehow got over that cow, and life went on. We milked the remaining cows, went with them to the pasture. Sometimes with Hector, sometimes alone—depending on how he felt, and more often, whether Rosalita allowed it or not. From time to time, I saw Julia—that terrifying, perpetually angry child. Once she sat down and we talked for a while, then left when she felt it was appropriate; another time she walked down the road I was sitting next to, paying me no attention. I'd seen her chasing through the woods. It wasn't that I liked her. She was just an enigmatic kid. Very enigmatic. And we had enough in common that Jorge got under both of our skins, and only we knew what really happened to him. No, I wasn't afraid she'd spill the beans. She wasn't just some ordinary kid who would blurt out whatever she heard to the first person she met. I never saw her talk to anyone but me. She knew people thought she was a freak, and she clearly didn't like them. She probably only talked to her parents, and they—I noticed—weren't exactly crying over Jorge either. It was good.
The peace was shattered by the death of another cow. Worse still, I was the first to find her again. It was in the pasture. I'd gone into the bushes to relieve myself when I heard a terrifying moo. When I finished, I turned and returned to the meadow to find the cows terrified, scattering across the field. I circled them, waving a stick, slapping their backs to get them back—and that's when I saw the fallen cow. Hooves stiffly extended. Its snout wide open, its blue tongue protruding. Its eyes rolled upwards, the whites of its eyes bloodshot. The animal wasn't breathing. Its belly was sunken, and its skin was hanging over its ribs.
"Damn it, what's wrong?"
This seemed strange to me, as I'd led healthy, well-fed cows to the pasture. But oh well, a dead cow is a dead cow. I had to herd the remaining cattle from the pasture into the barn—they weren't safe here. Of course, they weren't happy that I'd chased them away from their food barely past noon, but they were also terrified enough to cause no trouble.
"What happened?" Hector asked, seeing me behind a line of trembling cows. "Why are you home so early?
" "Another cow died, senor!"
The old man glanced at the other six I was leading to the barn, then at me. He frowned.
"Where's that one?" he asked.
"In the pasture, where she died.
" "Let's go," he ordered. "Call the neighbors and get a can of gasoline.
"
The next day, I was awakened by a terrible pain in my lower back. Naturally, as soon as I opened my eyes, I sat up—and then a searing pain pinned me back to the bed. I groaned pitifully and lay there, limp and stiff.
"What happened, child?" Rosalita asked, alarmed. She leaned over me and looked at me with concern.
"My back," I groaned. "I can't move.
" "Lie down, lie down, I'll bring you food in a moment.
Well, as a woman would—feed first." I was dying of pain, and instead of treating me, she went to make me breakfast.
She brought me cornbread and brewed some herbs. Before I started eating, I drank the hot tea in one gulp. After breakfast, Rosalita decided it would be better if I lay down in Hector's bed. She called the old man from the yard to help me up.
"What happened?" he asked.
"His back hurts, he can't move. We have to move him to your bed so he's more comfortable, because this hard bed won't cure his back pain.
" "My bed? Doesn't that mean my back?"
"Don't complain, old man! The kid's suffering, so come help me!"
Together they took me under their shoulders. They were both smaller than me, so I easily put one arm around Rosalita and the other around Hector, and I hung a little on them. I hobbled, supported by them, to Hector's bed. I slipped under the covers and lay there, stretched out like a string, afraid to move lest the pain—already overwhelming—intensify.
I lay there all day, and at night I couldn't sleep until late. A terrible stabbing pain kept waking me. I don't know when I finally fell asleep, or if sleep had come, or if I simply collapsed from the pain.
***
When I woke up, I was exhausted, weak, and my head hurt. Strangely enough, the pain seemed to have eased. For a moment I lay still, thinking it was just an illusion, and the throbbing would return with double the force if I so much as moved. My back ached a little, but that might have been because I'd been lying on it all day and all night. But when I tried to get up, I felt nothing but stiffness and a slight feeling of weakness.
Rosalita looked at me in horror.
"What are you doing, child? Lie down again.
" "When I feel better," I replied, spreading my arms.
"You think so. Lie down before you come back.
" "Senor, I really feel fine!
" "I won't allow it.
" "I want to go to the pasture today.
" "No way!
" "At least I'll milk the cows! I'm dying of boredom in this bed!
" "I forbid it! You're not going into the barn!
" "Why?!
" "Because it's all your fault! Before you arrived, there was peace!" she exclaimed in one breath. I looked at her, stunned. She covered her mouth with her hand, surprised by what she'd said. I knew she couldn't have known I'd killed Jorge. And now she was blaming me for that, as well as for the cows dying.
"What?!" I asked.
"Nothing! Nothing!" "I didn't say anything!" she shouted, flustered.
She bustled around the room, trying to occupy herself while pretending I wasn't there.
"I'll go milk the cows in the meantime," I suggested.
"No, no, no, no, no! Sit! Sit here!" she commanded, like she was telling a dog. She started backing away, constantly gesturing for me to sit and stay still. She left and ran to the barn.
I stood up, put on my shoes, and followed her. My back no longer hurt, and I could walk quite normally. I went outside and headed for the barn. I wanted to show Rosalita that I was fine and could work.
Then, halfway there, I felt the pain again—more intense than before. It was like someone had driven a thick, hot metal rod into my back. I collapsed to the ground; I couldn't move, and the pain tightened my throat. I lay there until Rosalita finished milking the cows and left the barn.
"Oh my God!" she cried, seeing me on the ground in a clumsy pose. "What did I tell you? What did I tell you, I ask you! Don't get out of bed! What have you done? You've learned a lesson that a woman should listen to what she tells you!"
***
I didn't listen to her anyway. I didn't do it to spite her—it just happened that way. It was the middle of the night, and I couldn't sleep again. The pain wasn't as excruciating, but still, from time to time, a painful sting between my vertebrae would drive away sleep for good. So I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. In the moonlight streaming in through the window, my vision improved. I could also clearly hear the buzzing of a mosquito, and Hector's snoring was driving me crazy.
When a strange, piercing sound reached me from outside, I jumped out of bed. I listened, ruffling my brows. The grinding—or whistling; I couldn't tell—didn't repeat itself. Instead, I heard quite clearly a terrifying, wild moo—long, blood-curdling. Then silence again. And the same screeching sound.
I jumped out of bed, pulled on my pants and boots, and quietly slipped out of the house, so as not to wake Hector or Rosalita. Although if his snoring didn't wake her or him, nothing probably would. Smiling to myself at the thought, I slipped out the door and closed it behind me as quietly as I could. I padded quietly to the barn.
The padlock was broken. Not cut; it was simply lying on the ground, as if Rosalita or Hector had forgotten to lock it. The door was slightly ajar. I slipped inside. And I was stunned.
Another dead cow. I had no doubt about it. It wasn't the first dead cow, so there was no point in hoping the cow lying on its side was alive. But that wasn't the only reason I knew it was dead. And it wasn't accidental. She didn't die of disease or old age. Someone had expertly gutted her and skinned her head. The skin on her belly was simply hanging, and the animal's snout was a gleam of bare flesh; the eyeball and tongue were missing. There were numerous triangular cuts all over her body.
"Oh my..." I whispered to myself. I covered my mouth with my hand, feeling like vomiting, and turned away from the horrific sight. I couldn't imagine what kind of psychopath could have done such a thing. I don't think it was anyone from the countryside. Someone had carved the animal like... like a surgeon. Expert, precise cuts—all straight lines. And no blood. This was done by a psychopath with a medical degree—not ordinary people!
When I turned my back on this nightmare, I saw something before me that stunned me even more. A large candle was burning in the corner—in its light, I glimpsed a disemboweled cow. I walked closer and noticed something lying next to it: a bowl and a cloth. I picked up the bowl. It was wet—splattered with the liquid it held. Lifting it with just my fingers, I noticed that the one I'd used to pick up the bowl from the ground was filthy, streaked with sticky, clotting blood. I shouldn't be disgusted by blood—I'd seen it so many times, had stained my hands with it so many times. And yet, it shocked me. I dropped the bowl on the ground, and gore spilled across the floor.
I wanted to grab a small cloth lying nearby and wipe, even if only briefly, my bloody hand with it. I reached for it—and then I saw an ominous glint. I grabbed the cloth by the horn and raised it to my eyes. What flashed was a pin, stuck into the cloth. And the cloth itself... It was carved. But it wasn't some kind of pattern—a wave or a zigzag. No. The cloth was shaped like a person. And it also had eyes drawn on it. The pin pierced its body.
My eyes widened at the sight. I tried to comprehend what I was seeing. First a cow, now this. Blood and a doll with a pin. It crossed my mind that this doll might have been Julia's toy. Macabre... Somehow, it fit her. But blood? No, that didn't look like her. A cow? Certainly not—where would such a child do such a thing? Impossible. No, it couldn't be Julia.
I held the rag in my hand and tried to understand. The doll was pierced by a pin. I grabbed the head of the pin and pulled it out.
The pain in my back—mild, but still nagging—went away as if by accident.
My jaw dropped and hung limp, and I stared, dumbfounded, from the doll to the pin. I jabbed the rag where her butt would have been. And I jumped, feeling something like a kick in the ass from nowhere.
"Oh fuck..." I groaned.
Then I realized what had happened. My aching back and complete paralysis—it was from that. But who? Julia? No. Why? So who? Someone who had a grudge against me. But I wasn't hurting anyone, I wasn't offending anyone. Unless someone had made something up. But what kind of thing would it have to be for someone to do something like that to me? I... Fuck! Cows! The barn! Everything's clear! I wasn't supposed to go into the barn! Why? Because apparently it was all my fault! Ha! So the fucking bitch immobilized me to keep me from getting in there. And to keep me from finding the shrine and the doll. And when I got up and wanted to go with her, she quickly ran over and adjusted my pin so I couldn't... Fuck!
I felt my insides boil. Standing over the bloody altar, in the candlelight, I pondered revenge. How to kill her? Strangle her? Too easy. Stab her with a pin? Too long. I'll burn this place down, damn it! Let them roast!
I planned to go get some gasoline, douse the house, then set it on fire and watch it burn, with them inside.
I threw the needle into the corner and, in disgust, threw the rag into the candle flame.
First, a wave of heat hit me.
Before I could break out in sweat, I caught fire. My hand smoldered, spreading to my torso and spreading across my skin. I roared in pain as the fire burned through my skin beneath my clothes and began to consume me. I lay on the ground, in cow dung, trying to extinguish the flames that were eating me alive. Fuck, it hurt! It wouldn't go out. I was burning—every inch of my body. The stench of burning hair. The stench of roasted human flesh, dripping with blood. Pain, unspeakable pain!
I collapsed into the hay. Darkness came, and the long-awaited coolness.
***
"The barn's burned down! What are we going to do now?"
"Maybe it's for the best?" Rosalita said. "Maybe that's what the spirits wanted.
" "To deprive us of our livelihood?" Hector pouted.
"Sacrifices. Sacrifices of blood and fire.
" "So they had to burn down our barn right away?
" "At least you have all the cows. Be happy. The spirits made sure you forgot to lock the barn, and the cows crawled out as soon as the fire started.
" "Well, I have the cows, but where am I going to keep them now?" Hector meowed. "And if one more dies, I'll go crazy.
" "The spirits are already appeased, the cows will be fine.
" "Couldn't they have burned something else so I could hide the cattle?
" "Don't argue with the spirits' will, or you'll see, you'll start vomiting worms or something.
" "I'm sick of these spirits already!
" "You're blaspheming!
" "Maybe! But why didn't the spirits like that boy?
" "He was evil!
" "What the hell, evil? He helped wherever he could."
"But he was evil! The spirits know! You don't know a damn thing, you idiot! Only what he told you. Who knows if he lied?
" "I feel sorry for him! I liked him! And now he's disappeared somewhere.
" "The spirits probably possessed him, led him into the forest, and did what had to be done."
I heard Rosalind and Hector's voices, saying the most stupid things I'd ever heard. For a moment I thought I was dreaming—but no, it was real, and I was lying on the ground, aching, and something was pressing down on me. I felt the stench of burning and the heat. I tried to get up. Something was on top of me, and I couldn't get up.
"Hector, something's moving under those boards! Go get the pitchfork!
" "They're in the barn..."
I recognized the wood by the sound it made as the burnt boards banged together as I desperately tried to dig myself out. I lay in the burned ruins and ashes of a barn, my skin itching like crazy.
I got up and stood to my feet.
"Oh my! Zombies!" Rosalita exclaimed.
"What zombies, stupid? Zombies are in voodoo," Hector scoffed.
"Yeah," the woman agreed.
"Exactly, and we're followers of Santeria...
" "Palo Mayombe.
" "And I thought Santeria...
" "No, no, no, we abandoned Santeria because it was too mild a form of faith.
" "Aha," Hector muttered. "But then what is it?
" "I'm telling you, zombies!
" "But zombies don't rise from the ashes!
" "How?
" "I don't know! But not from the ashes!"
I was blinded, my eyes hurt, and I couldn't see them. I moved blindly, my arms outstretched in front of me.
"I'll kill you!" I gasped.
I crawled blindly, following the sound of their footsteps. They ran away from me, elbow to elbow. But when they separated, I went after one of them.
And then, from behind, the other one hit me across the head.
"Chop his head off!" Rosalita screamed as I fell to the ground.
I had the presence of mind to roll away, but I still expected to be hit by the axe.
Bang! Bang-bang!
The axe blade dug into the ground a few inches from me. I heard a dull thud. Then two more—heavier. Like bodies falling.
“Are you okay?
” “What?” I asked. Everything that had been happening around me since I woke up under the ruins of the barn was so abstract, absurd, and happening so fast that I was completely confused—and I hadn’t expected to even ask if I was okay. What? Who? Where? How?”
“Are you okay?”
I rubbed my eyes and opened them. I blinked for a moment until, in the darkness, I spotted a little girl in a white dress, clearly visible in the middle of the night.
“Julia?
” “Who?” the little, perpetually pissed-off seven-year-old snorted.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Hector and Rosalita wanted to chop your head off.”
I looked at the two bodies lying nearby.
"I shot them," she added.
"You?" I stared at her. "How? With what?
" "I found a gun in the bushes yesterday. "
She proudly showed me the massive, chrome gun.
"And you didn't shoot it all at once when you found it?
" "No, I wanted to save it for a special occasion. And look what happened!
" "But...! Hey, what are you doing outside at this hour anyway?
" "I went out because of the noise. I wanted to see what happened.
" "And you weren't scared?
" "With that in your hand? No," she laughed, raising the gun.
There was a long moment of silence. I stared at the corpses of the two Gomez brothers in silence. I ruffled my brows.
"Crazy..." I muttered.
"They?" she asked mockingly.
"They wanted to cut my head off! And before that, they stuck a needle into me. I mean, into a doll—but I felt it."
"Voodoo," she laughed.
"They said it wasn't.
" "Palo mayombe? Santeria?
" "The former."
"Half of us do it. The rest don't believe in anything.
" "Well, I was a bit surprised that there wasn't a cross in any of the houses. I'd think everyone in the countryside believed in God and said their prayers ten times a day.
" "There's no God," Julia shrugged. "At least not here. That's why they start messing around with voodoo. But those stupid shepherds don't know anything about what they're doing. They think that if there's blood and a rag with a needle stuck in it, it's voodoo, and if there's a bit of chicken guts, it's Palo Mayombe. Or they don't know anything at all.
" "What made them think those cows died because of me?"
"Because they're superstitious shepherds. Someone had to be to blame, and you were there." They filled in the rest themselves. "The spirits don't like him, that's why the cows are dying," and stuff like that.
"But it wasn't me.
" "I know.
" "But, damn it, what was it?" What am I seeing there…
"Chupacabra," Julia replied curtly.
"What?
" "Chupacabra. It kills animals, sucks blood, eats guts, and skins them like a ruler.
" "What the hell is that?
" "I don't know. I've seen the bastard twice: once on a cow, once I glimpsed him in the forest. But this is nothing like anything. A dragon or something? It has spikes, revs like a motorbike, and screams like a lunatic," she explained. "But I'll get the bastard.
" "I'm getting the hell out of here, no need," I said.
"I'm staying.
" "With this bunch of psychopaths?
" "They're my family," she shrugged.
"Besides, you just killed two people.
" "No one will find out, just like no one found out about Jorge. You'll go right away, and in the morning, when they find the bodies, they'll know you killed them," she said seriously. "No one's stupid enough to suspect a seven-year-old girl of that."
I chuckled to myself. The little girl was funny—in a strange, macabre way, but still.
I found money at the Gomez house, and the keys to the van. I grabbed all the cornbread they had. Julia filled the well. I dipped the canteen in the water and, when it was full, capped it. I took another sip from the bucket, using my hand, then quickly washed my face. I filled the tank with all the gas I could find—and I was ready to go.
"Hey, kid. Hang in there.
" "Don't call me 'little kid' or I'll shoot you in the knee," she grumbled. "And without a thank you? I saved your life."
I rolled up my sleeve and looked at the reddened tattoo, then showed it to her.
"I have three more," I smiled, shrugging.
"Didn't you have a four there before?"
"I did.
" "Great!" she said, raising her eyebrows. "But I'm still going to get a skull.
" "Hi, crazy girl! Time for me to go.
" "Hi!"
I left shortly before dawn. I passed a few cows from our burned-out barn, scattered throughout the village.
***
I had a wagon, a full tank, a hefty wad of cash—and no idea what to do next. I was driving south—with no particular destination, no intention of stopping anywhere. I drove nonstop all day, without stopping, without slowing down. I didn't feel tired. I didn't feel hungry. I didn't feel thirsty. All I felt was anger. Fury and bitterness boiling and seething inside me. It grew within me with every passing moment, like a cauldron. I didn't resist it; I didn't escape with my thoughts to something pleasant. Nothing of the sort occurred to me, anyway. I reveled in that anger, focused on it, fueled it, delighted in adding fuel to the fire. I needed a break from the peace I'd imposed on myself for the past month. Because peace had failed me—I'd tried to live an ordinary life, and it had gotten me nowhere! First I was run over, then cursed, burned alive, and finally, they almost cut my head off! Because I wanted to be an ordinary person. But I got over it. I wanted to be myself again. I wanted to be able to react normally again when something went wrong or someone pissed me off. To get angry, to curse, to punch me in the face.
I suddenly felt a burning need to simply get drunk. I
was myself again.
I was passing a town. I slowed down—not because it was a town or because it was getting dark. It's just that it's harder to find a decent dive at full throttle, and even harder to brake and stop at full throttle without having to turn around.
"How do you drive, you idiot?"
I stopped at the crosswalk—but only to elbow the guy so he'd do a somersault and keep going. I felt much better. I missed it.
I finally stopped at a bar a little outside of town. I stuffed the wad of money I'd taken from the Gomez family into my pocket and went to get drunk.
The bar was empty, except for the bartender—a balding, graying man with a mustache. He must have been startled when I walked in, because his eyes widened at me. It was late, and I looked like a bear with an acacia thorn up my butt. But when I sat down on the bar stool and asked for a shot of tequila, he calmed down. He poured a small shot and offered it to me, scraping it across the counter, along with salt and a lemon slice. I looked at the shot; I fixed it with utter concentration, as if trying to lift it by force of will. I grabbed the narrow stem and quickly lifted and tilted it. The alcohol filled my throat with a living flame and slid down to my stomach, burning my guts. I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head, letting out a rasping "ahh"—like any man does when he's in pain but knows he has to endure it. I put down my glass with a clatter and gave the bartender a pointed look. He poured some. He pushed the lemon and salt closer. But I firmly pushed them away—I was going to get drunk and have a hangover. I drained the glass and set it firmly on the counter. The bartender didn't even have to look at me. Without a word, he handed me another glass. Then four more followed in a steady succession, until after the last one, I doubted there was anything in the last glass, because I didn't taste anything. To test it, I took another. I didn't taste it. The next one, too.
"Life sucks," I said, a bit slurred. "Don't you think so?
" "Mhm," the bartender agreed, polishing the counter with a dirty cloth.
"I agree with you one hundred percent!" I declared, holding up a finger. "You can't trust anyone in this world anymore! You have friends from childhood, you grow up with them, you do everything together, and then one day—a knife in the back." They'd sell a man for a penny.
"Mhm...
" "You can't trust a woman at all anymore! She'll like you, she'll let you grope her, drool all over her, even take her home because she wants you to fuck her—and what? And she won't do it without a condom! And I ask her—if she doesn't want my kid, why is she trying to get me into bed, the slut?
" "Mhm..." the bartender muttered, pouring me a shot.
"It's scary to approach a stranger. No one's going to shake your hand for free. If he approaches you, it means he wants something. And he'll set you up so badly that you wake up with your hand in a chamber pot full of his shit. No matter how innocent he looks, he'll do something to you, sooner or later. Grandma will stab you, and the gap-toothed old man will chop your head off with an axe for some delusional crime. The neighbor will run you over."
"Mhm...
" "Nobody's who they seem! Who would have expected Grandpa to be chasing me with an axe? What! The cell thug, who everyone beat up for nothing, or no reason at all, will jump at you and gut you, even if you haven't done anything to him.
" "Mhm...
" "Only a little kid can save you. But whatever, she's no kid either! Nothing in this world is as it seems, damn it.
" "Mmmhmm..."
I glared at him. I felt like they were ignoring me. They weren't listening. Neither the one on the left nor the one on the right. I wanted to punch each of them in the face, but when I raised my hand, they both offered me a shot. And I liked them again. I even started to... like them. They were pretty and they handed me round after round, and I slid pesos across the counter with a flourish. The only people I had any kind of fair deal with. For money—but hey, tequila is a national treasure, and you shouldn't give away treasures for free.
Then it got dark. I lost count of the shots—I was drinking, but I couldn't even see—and I think I stopped talking. But then it was light again, and the bartender—surprised—handed me another shot. There was only one, and I think it was ugly—but he poured, so I liked it. A lot. It surprised me—we'd only known each other for such a short time, but I felt some immortal, eternal bond. As if we'd known each other for years. I knew he—the only one in the world who understood and sympathized with me. I told him. I told him he was my best friend. And he—my best and only friend—poured me. I was moved. I splashed, tears welling in my eyes. I felt he was someone I could tell my whole life to. I could tell him my adventures. If I told him I'd had to beat Claudia, Jorge, and John Fries and his wife—I believed he'd understand. I wanted to tell him, without shame, how my father had beaten me.
"With an iron cord! He hit a six-year-old with a cord, the bastard!"
No one knew about it. Childhood friends were ashamed to tell. Girls? No. Only him. And when I burst into tears, he—as befits a best friend—poured me another shot, and another, and another, until I lost count, lost the thread, lost...
***
My head was pounding. My brain pressed against my skull, and my skull pressed against my brain. And that was all I felt, and through my eyelids, squeezed shut in pain, I saw nothing. I was a ball of suffering. My brain ached—the rest of me seemed to disappear altogether. I lay there for several minutes before I began to make connections. Slowly, the facts sank in. So I lay on the ground, on my stomach, face down, the coarse gravel biting into my cheeks. I shivered as I felt the cold. I was numb and could barely move. I didn't even want to get up, because the slightest movement would make my head hurt. But I had to—get up and find a warm corner, and there, in peace, nurse my hangover. Not on the ground. So I tensed and summoned all my strength. On stiff legs, supporting myself with numb hands, I managed to stand up and rub my eyes. My vision was blurry. It was bright, but everything was blurry, and when I moved my head, the images in front of my eyes would blur and then blur together. I stood still for a moment, hoping the world would stop spinning so I could figure out where I was. My head was pounding, and my eyes were bulging, pushed out of their sockets by my swollen brain.
I saw... a building. I focused on it, and slowly, either remembering or realizing it was a pub. I began to walk slowly, on wooden legs, toward it, trying to remember where I had come from in the bushes on the opposite side of the gravel road.
The pub door opened with a terrible creak that made me wince. A graying, balding, fat man with a mustache stood there. He saw me and seemed about to say something, but his mouth fell open. His eyes widened as I approached. Finally, he stammered,
"You... you... you're dead...
" "What?
" "You're dead..." he repeated, his lips trembling. He paled.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" I winced.
Only then did I feel the familiar burning sensation on my shoulder. Instinctively, I pulled up my sleeve and checked. If I'd died along the way—though I don't know when—I'd have a number two on my shoulder.
But there wasn't a number two.
Stranger still, it wasn't a number three either .
My aching, reddened arm was adorned with a slightly blurred number one.
"Oh my!
It was like a bucket of ice water. When I entered the pub, I had three lives. And then I found myself in the bushes by the road—and I only had one.
" "You son of a bitch!" I roared, grabbing the fat man by his rags. "You drank me to death, you bastard! Twice! You pounded me without restraint, just to make more money! You lousy scum!"
I kneed him in the gut. As he slumped to the ground, I adjusted his shoe.
"And it's not enough...! "
Kick.
" "...you got me drunk...! "
Kick.
" "...then...!
" Kick.
" "...you fucked me...
Kick.
" "...in a broken face!" Into the bushes.
Kick .
" "Like a dirty rag!
" Kick.
I left him because my leg was hurting. I dragged him inside, into the bar, so he wouldn't be lying there covered in blood and bruises. I grabbed a bottle of Jose Cuervo from the shelf and poured it all over him, drenching him from top to bottom. Then I grabbed a chair and smashed the entire large shelf of alcohol with it. It fell on the first impact, taking dozens of bottles with it. They shattered, exploding into glass, and the white and gold tequilas—Cuervo, Sauza, Olmeca—mixed with the regular mezcals and spilled in a huge puddle across the wooden floor.
The place caught fire beautifully. Because that's how it goes; bars sometimes burn down—just like that; easily, quickly, and effectively
.
I had one life. The inflamed tattoo on my right shoulder painfully reminded me of that. One life. On the one hand, I was probably being a bit dramatic. One life—that's all anyone had. There were no second chances, and you have to make the most of this one. Mine was so much worse because I was given so many chances—but I didn't get shit from them. I could have used each one wisely—and I did waste some; but damn, I tried! And I couldn't even be a miserable shepherd—everything went to hell! And now I only had one chance left—the same as anyone else. But eight had gone up in smoke. Eight lives—some lucky guy, someone with a brain would have made good use of them. I hadn't succeeded. And now that one seemed so insignificant. A fraction. I felt the way people might feel when they've just been told they only have a few days to live. Maybe a month, maybe a day. That's how long my eighth life had been. The last might be even shorter. The thought haunted me. I felt as if I were already dying, slowly, piece by piece; as if some disease were consuming my body. I sweated and trembled—like someone terminally ill. I even began to think like someone dying—feverishly, anxiously, fearing that every second might be the last. What do people do in such situations? Some break down. They shoot themselves in the head, hang themselves—taking their own lives before the disease does. No, I wasn't going to do that. Others, in the short time they had left, act with redoubled force until pain immobilized them. They were settling unfinished business. They were saying goodbye to loved ones and friends. But I didn't love anyone.
Dying people often forgive their enemies on the verge of death. They want to die with a pure heart.
Not me. I wanted to send my people one by one to the sand.
With this resolve, I turned onto the road to San Sebastian, which I later planned to retrace to Ayauicalo. To settle some unfinished business and meet up with a few old friends one last time.
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