u/Izzy_Ondes

Eu nunca deveria ter ido beber sozinho na Moon Hill.

O lugar é uma colina alta, nas redondezas da cidade. Nas noites de sábado e domingo, se transforma em um ponto para maconha, cerveja quente e pessoas que só querem se encontrar em segredo. Durante a semana, no entanto, está abandonada e sem vida. Apenas o vento seco arrastando poeira e as folhas das árvores farfalhando.

Eu estava lá numa terça-feira porque estava deprimido. Comprei uma garrafa de vinho barata e subi em um crepúsculo frio e sem sentido. Fiquei olhando para a cidade; minha casa era um pequeno ponto de luz entre tantas outras, e eu continuava pensando em como não queria mais voltar lá.

Quando a garrafa ficou vazia, minha visão já estava um pouco embaçada. Foi quando ouvi passos. Olhei para cima e vi uma silhueta feminina se aproximando na luz laranja do crepúsculo. Era ela, meu grande amor: Mary.

Ela estava usando aquelas calças jeans justas e rasgadas que eu adorava, o cabelo preso como sempre, o cheiro de cigarro chegou até mim antes dela. Na mão direita, uma garrafa de Jack Daniel's, nossa bebida favorita. A mesma que costumávamos compartilhar nos bons tempos, antes de tudo desmoronar.

"Você estava me esperando?"

Ela disse isso ao se sentar ao meu lado como se a dolorosa separação nunca tivesse acontecido. A voz dela era suave, mas carregava uma nota estranha, algo inumano, que eu não conseguia explicar.

Eu sempre fui louco por ela, então apenas sorri e respondi, surpreso:

"Mary... que diabos você está fazendo aqui?"

Ela não respondeu. Apenas abriu a garrafa, deu um longo gole e me passou a garrafa. Nós bebemos.

Os primeiros minutos foram um doce sonho. O toque do ombro dela contra o meu, a presença dela, o vento nos refrescando. Então a conversa começou a distorcer.

"Você sempre foi um lixo de pessoa, não foi?" ela disse, rindo baixinho. "Olha para você. Destruído, bebendo veneno, totalmente sozinho."

Confuso, eu respondi: "Vai se danar..."

Ela me deu um leve tapa no rosto. "Você sabe que eu nunca te amei, certo? Ninguém nunca vai te amar... você é um erro. Como uma doença contagiosa. Você nunca serviu para nada e arruinou a vida de todos ao seu redor."

Não havia raiva no tom dela; era quase doce, e a frase piorou: "Sua mãe morreu de tristeza por sua causa."

Essas palavras doeram porque ecoaram as coisas que eu pensava todos os dias. Eu mergulhei em silêncio. Ela passou a mão pelo meu cabelo, aquela afeição falsa, e continuou:

"Sabe o que resolveria tudo? Bem ali na beira. Pule e o mundo fica melhor. Todo esse peso desaparece. Eu até iria com você... de mãos dadas... é só um passo."

Meu coração desacelerou; meus pés ficaram dormentes. Ela falou e eu concordei, porque lá no fundo eu também acreditava que não havia mais saída. Olhei para a borda da colina. A altura era um convite na minha visão embaçada. "Só um passo", ela repetiu, e sua mão segurou a minha.

Foi quando meu celular vibrou no meu bolso. Uma mensagem.

Peguei o telefone, a tela estava um pouco embaçada. Mary: "Idiota, tive um sonho muito estranho sobre você. Você morreu. Estou tremendo até agora. Você está bem?"

Eu li três vezes. A mão segurando o telefone começou a suar frio e tremer.

A Coisa ao meu lado se inclinou e pressionou o rosto contra meu pescoço, com um sussurro quase inaudível: "Ignora isso. Deve ser meu irmão te enchendo o saco."

Mas a mensagem era dela, como ela sempre me chamava de idiota.

Eu respondi com dedos trêmulos: "Liga a câmera. Eu preciso te ver."

A videochamada entrou. Na tela, Mary apareceu com os olhos inchados de sono, o cabelo de qualquer jeito, aquela velha camiseta do Nirvana que eu conhecia tão bem. A luz do abajur em forma de gato atrás dela deixava o quarto acolhedor, seguro.

"Graças a Deus você atendeu," ela murmurou, aliviada. "Eu tive esse sonho horrível. Você estava em um lugar alto e alguém te empurrou. Você caiu e eu acordei gritando... Por que você está nesse lugar escuro? O que é aquela sombra?!"

Não consegui responder. Porque ao lado de Mary, no reflexo da tela, eu vi uma figura. Uma forma feminina, imóvel, vestindo um vestido preto atrás de mim.

Meu corpo todo congelou de medo. Eu não conseguia virar o pescoço. Não conseguia olhar para trás. Apenas meus olhos se moviam, e a imagem no reflexo já havia desaparecido, mas a sensação de perigo permanecia.

"Se algo acontecer... eu não pulei, alguém me empurrou! Eu amo você e sempre vou te amar... me perdoa por tudo..." eu disse para Mary na videochamada, minha voz saindo fraca. Eu desliguei.

As risadas começaram a ecoar pela Moon Hill. A garrafa de Jack Daniel's estava no chão, vazia. Ao meu lado, a presença ainda ocupava o espaço, mesmo que eu não conseguisse mais ver nada.

Quem estava bebendo comigo?

Eu não esperei e não procurei uma resposta. Meu corpo, movido por algum instinto primal de sobrevivência, agiu antes do pensamento. Eu me levantei e corri. Eu corri sem olhar para trás. Meus pés tropeçaram em pedras; eu bati forte em um tronco de árvore, cortando minha testa, mas não parei. Eu apenas corri, colina abaixo, até atingir o asfalto e continuar por muito tempo. Até que, exausto, me joguei no chão, suado e mudo de pânico.

Nunca mais pisei naquela colina. Não consigo ficar perto de pessoas — tenho medo de que elas possam nem ser pessoas.

2011 was the year I stopped being a good person. I was drinking until my vision blurred every night, chasing whatever powders or pills someone handed me, no longer caring if I woke up the next morning. The only reason I was still alive was that my grandmother refused to give up on me. She’d call, leave messages I never returned. Eventually, I just showed up at her house in the countryside because I had nowhere else to go. I think I wanted to disappear somewhere out of the way. She took me in without a word. She always did.

The first thing I noticed, even through the hangover fog, was that I wasn’t welcome anymore. Not by her — she was patient, gentle, the same woman who’d raised me. Something in the house itself felt hostile. It was subtle at first. I’d hear a buzzing in an empty room and find a cluster of flies pressed against the inside of a closed window, dozens of them, fat, black, way too many for such a clean house. My grandmother would shoo them out and mutter a prayer under her breath, something I couldn’t catch. Ants traced lines across the kitchen counter no matter how many times she wiped it down. I killed a scorpion in the hallway one afternoon, yet she didn’t even seem surprised. She just looked at me with this tired, heavy sadness and said, “They follow you.”

I laughed it off. I was an idiot.

The streetlights started acting up whenever I walked anywhere after dark. I’d step under one and it would flicker wildly, stutter, then go black until I was a good ten metres past it. My phone screen would glitch and freeze for no reason. Once, I sat down at her old desktop computer to check my email — the thing had been working fine for her that morning — but the moment I touched the mouse the whole system crashed, screen going staticky, then dead. My grandmother crossed herself. I told her it was probably a power surge. She didn’t answer. She just went to the little altar she kept in the corner of the living room and lit a candle.

The worst night came about three weeks into my stay. I’d been trying to sleep, but my skin felt too tight and my thoughts kept sliding into dark loops I couldn’t pull myself out of. Around two in the morning I gave up and stepped outside to smoke. There was no breeze at all, just a heavy deadness in the air. I lit my cigarette and stared at the dirt road that stretched past her property, at the fields beyond it swallowed by darkness.

That’s when I saw it. A dog. A massive black dog, far out near the tree line, sitting on its haunches like a statue. Even at that distance I could see it wasn’t doing anything dogs do — it wasn’t sniffing, wasn’t scratching, wasn’t looking around. It was just sitting there, facing the house. Facing me. Its eyes caught the moonlight in a way that made my stomach drop, because they didn’t reflect the light. They held it. Two coins of dull yellow, fixed directly on me.

I told myself it was a neighbour’s guard dog, some big breed left out for the night, so I finished my cigarette without breaking eye contact. The dog didn’t move. Not its head, not its tail, not a single muscle. When I went back inside I felt a deep, cold knot form in my gut.

Twenty minutes later I went out again. The dog was still there. Same position. Same yellow eyes. I could feel the weight of its attention across the entire field, like a physical pressure on my skin. I told myself I was being paranoid, went back to bed, and lay there listening to my own pulse for an hour. Then I got up a third time, pulled the door open, and found the dog exactly as before. It hadn’t shifted a single inch. I remember whispering something stupid like “What do you want?” and the dog just stared. I closed the door, locked it. I didn’t sleep at all that night.

A month later my grandmother died. It was sudden — a heart attack in her sleep, the doctors said. I found her in the morning, peaceful and cold. I remember thinking that the house felt different immediately. Emptier, but not in a peaceful way. Like the whole place had finally exhaled after weeks of tension. I couldn’t grieve properly because I was still drowning in my own addictions. I used more after the funeral, not less. I wanted to black out the image of those yellow eyes. I wanted to stop hearing her say “They follow you.”

That’s when the dream started. I’d finally crash after days of being awake, finding myself standing in her house in the dark. Everything was exactly as it had been — the altar, the worn sofa, the smell of coffee and candle wax. Then I’d hear footsteps behind me, soft, deliberate. Then her voice, not angry, not sad, but heavy with something I can only call dread: “Você trouxe o diabo para dentro da minha casa.” You brought the devil into my house. She’d say it again, and again, each time closer, until I felt the draft of her exhale right against my skin. I’d turn around and wake up gasping, drenched in sweat, my pulse racing out of control. Every single time.

Four weeks after she died, I overdosed. I don’t remember much — just a blur of emergency lights, a tube down my throat, the clinical smell of a hospital. They told me later I was technically dead for a little while. When I came to, the first thought I had was of the dog. I don’t know why. But something in me broke open that day, and I knew I had to get clean or I wouldn’t survive the next fall. I went through withdrawal in a fog of nightmares, my grandmother’s voice threading through every feverish hour. I’m still not sure if I pulled myself out or if something finally let go of me. But I started living again, slowly, badly, but living.

I still don’t sleep well. I don’t think I ever will. The dream still comes, though less often now. When it does I wake up with that sentence echoing in my skull and the faint, irrational certainty that if I looked out my window I’d see two yellow points of light in the dark.

A couple of years ago I was driving through the countryside, nowhere near my grandmother’s old place, just taking a back road because the highway was jammed. It was late, maybe two in the morning, and my headlights caught something on the side of the road. A dog. A huge black dog, sitting unmoving, watching the car approach. I slowed down. I don’t know why I didn’t just floor it. The dog’s eyes caught the headlights and held them, that same sickly yellow. I swear the temperature inside the car dropped. I drove past it with my hands shaking, not looking in the rearview mirror. But as the car passed, I heard it. Not from outside. From the back seat, right behind my ear, as clear as if she were sitting there: You brought the devil into my house! I almost drove off the road.

I haven’t taken a country road at night since. And every time I think I’ve finally put it behind me, I’ll wake up at 3 a.m. to the sound of a dog barking somewhere far away, and I’ll lie there frozen, waiting for her voice to start again.

A sus ochenta años, Arthur llevaba en el pecho la dulzura de una vida plena: la risa constante de sus hijos y nietos en el salón, los primeros pasos de su bisnieto en el jardín y el amor cálido de décadas vividas al lado de Marta.

El crepúsculo perfecto de un largo y feliz viaje.

Fue al cruzar el pasillo hacia el dormitorio cuando algo llamó toda su atención: la pared o, más específicamente, el cuadro.

Era un paisaje banal: un campo de girasoles con montañas al fondo, pero había algo que no encajaba. Las flores parecian temblar, como si un viento inexistente las azotara. Las pinceladas se deshacían y se rehacían, oscilando entre lo visible y lo invisible en el mismo pestañeo, como un fallo en la materia misma del mundo.

—¿Qué le pasa a este cuadro, Marta? —preguntó él, con la voz cansada y el pecho oprimido por un malestar súbito.

Marta ni siquiera levantó la mirada del tejido en el sofá.

—¿Qué cuadro, mi amor? Nosotros nunca hemos tenido ningún cuadro.

Arthur dio un paso atrás, con el pánico subiéndole por la garganta. Al mirar a su alrededor, vio la sala entera oscilar. La mesa del comedor, el reloj de péndulo, las paredes: todo se deshacía y se reagrupaba en un ciclo frenético. Se llevó las manos al rostro, pero el horror solo se multiplicó: sus propias manos arrugadas desaparecían y volvían, desvaneciéndose en la transparencia antes de moldear la piel nuevamente.

La certeza lo golpeó como un rayo en un día despejado: nada de aquella vida era real.

Sin querer, Arthur parpadeó.

Abrió los ojos.

La luz era de un blanco cegador.

El olor a alcohol y la sensación de sábanas suaves sobre la piel.

Las máquinas pitaban en un ritmo monótono.

Había un tubo en su garganta, agujas en sus brazos.

Intentó moverse y sintió un cuerpo que no era el suyo: ligero, extraño, sin los dolores de la vejez.

Una voz habló cerca de él: —¡Ha despertado después de dos años en coma! ¡Llama al médico!

¿Dos años?

Las palabras flotaron como cenizas tóxicas del infierno.

Alguien le tomó la mano y él vio, en el reflejo de una ventana oscura, el rostro de un joven de veintidós años.

Cabello oscuro.

Piel tersa.

¡Ojos asustados que eran suyos y no lo eran!

No recordaba nada de allí.

No sabía el nombre de la enfermera, no reconocía a la mujer que lloraba al lado de la cama llamándolo hijo, no tenía idea de dónde quedaba aquel hospital, ni de a quién pertenecía aquel cuerpo.

Su memoria pertenecía a otro lugar.

A otra vida.

La casa.

Marta.

Los girasoles.

Sus hijos, sus nietos y su bisneto.

Recordaba las tantas arrugas que ya no tenía.

El peso de los ochenta años que nunca vivió.

¡El amor de una vida que se esfumó en un abrir y cerrar de ojos!

Los médicos vinieron con términos técnicos y sonrisas animadas.

Hablaron de un milagro.

De una recuperación.

De un joven con toda la vida por delante.

Paulo. Ese era el nombre que le daban, un nombre al que no respondía. Intentó explicarse. Contó lo del cuadro que se deshacía, lo de su esposa tejiendo, lo de su vida y lo de no pertenecer a este mundo.

Pero las palabras no bastaban y la mirada de piedad en los rostros a su alrededor se lo dijo todo: pensaron que era confusión mental, un efecto secundario, un trauma.

Dejó de hablar.

Permaneció en silencio durante días.

Después, semanas.

Los ejercicios de fisioterapia, las sesiones con los psicólogos, las visitas de la familia que decían que era la suya... todo le llegaba como a través de un espejo distorsionado que no mostraba la realidad.

Él no pertenecía a ese cuerpo.

No pertenecía a ese mundo.

Su mundo se había quedado atrás, deshaciéndose como un cuadro que nadie más podía ver.

Por la noche, cuando las luces se apagaban, cerraba los ojos e intentaba desesperadamente, de todas las formas posibles, regresar.

Intentaba recordar el olor al bizcocho de maíz, la textura de la manta tejida, la voz de Marta. Pero todo era en vano.

Los detalles se le escapaban.

Los rostros se convertían en sombras.

Lo único que permanecía era la certeza insoportable de que aquella vida había sido más real que cualquier cosa que le ofrecieran ahora.

Los psiquiatras anotaron en su historial clínico: delirio disociativo, síndrome de falsa memoria, rechazo de identidad. Le dieron medicamentos que le embotaban el pensamiento, pero que no borraban la nostalgia.

Arthur, el verdadero, el que existió durante ochenta años, comenzó a crecer desde el interior del joven de veintidós.

Un joven con alma de viejo que ya no sabía quién era.

Que lloraba por una esposa que nunca existió.

Que miraba sus manos jóvenes e intentaba engañar desesperadamente a la vista para poder verlas desaparecer, regresar y desaparecer de nuevo, en un parpadeo infinito, y así volver a casa.

Nadie entendía por qué a veces sonreía, a solas en su habitación.

Ni por qué, cierta noche, se levantó, caminó hasta la ventana de la habitación, en el cuarto piso, y miró hacia el cielo sin estrellas, murmurando: —¿Qué cuadro, mi amor? Qué cuadro...

Parpadeó.

Pero esta vez no volvió a abrir los ojos de este lado.

Tal vez regresó a casa.

Tal vez por fin volvió a ver a su bisnieto.

Tal vez Marta todavía estaba allí, en el sofá, tejiendo, esperándolo con la paciencia con la que se espera a alguien a quien se ama más allá de las capas del tiempo.

O tal vez no.

Tal vez no sea nada de eso.

Tal vez solo se volvió loco del todo, como decían los médicos.

Pero en el fondo, ¿qué es la vida sino la insistencia de habitar un sueño que nos hace felices?

Aos oitenta anos, Arthur carregava no peito a doçura de uma vida plena: o riso constante dos filhos e netos na sala, os primeiros passos do bisneto no jardim e o amor aquecido de décadas vividas ao lado de Marta.

O crepúsculo perfeito de uma longa e feliz jornada.

Foi ao atravessar o corredor para o quarto que algo chamou toda a sua atenção: a parede, ou, mais especificamente, o quadro.

Era uma paisagem banal — um campo de girassóis com montanhas ao fundo, mas havia algo errado. As flores pareciam tremer, como se um vento inexistente as açoitasse. As pinceladas se desfaziam e se refaziam, oscilando entre o visível e o invisível no mesmo piscar de olhos, como uma falha na própria matéria do mundo.

— O que tem de errado com esse quadro, Marta? — perguntou ele, a voz cansada, o peito apertado por um mal-estar súbito.

Marta sequer ergueu os olhos do tricô no sofá.

— Que quadro, meu bem? A gente nunca teve quadro nenhum.

Arthur deu um passo para trás, o pânico subindo pela garganta. Ao olhar ao redor, viu a sala inteira oscilar. A mesa de jantar, o relógio de pêndulo, as paredes — tudo se desfazia e se reagrupava em um ciclo frenético. Levou as mãos ao rosto, mas o horror só se multiplicou: suas próprias mãos enrugadas sumiam e voltavam, desfazendo-se em transparência antes de moldarem a pele novamente.

A consciência o atingiu como um raio em um dia ensolarado: nada daquela vida era real.

Sem querer, Arthur piscou.

Abriu os olhos.

A luz era branca.

O cheiro de álcool e a sensação de lençóis macios na pele.

Máquinas apitavam numa cadência monótona.

Havia um tubo na sua garganta, agulhas nos braços.

Tentou mover-se e sentiu um corpo que não era o seu, leve, estranho, sem as dores da velhice.

Uma voz falou perto dele: · Ele acordou depois de dois anos em coma! Chama o médico!

Dois anos?!

As palavras flutuaram como cinzas tóxicas do inferno.

Alguém segurou sua mão e ele viu, no reflexo de uma janela escura, o rosto de um rapaz de vinte e dois anos.

Cabelo escuro.

Pele lisa.

Olhos assustados que eram seus e não eram!

Não lembrava de nada dali.

Não sabia o nome da enfermeira, não reconhecia a mulher que chorava ao lado da cama chamando-o de filho, não tinha ideia de onde ficava aquele hospital, aquele corpo.

Sua memória era um outro lugar.

Uma outra vida.

A casa.

Marta.

Os girassóis.

Os filhos, os netos e o bisneto.

Lembrava das tantas rugas que não tinha mais.

Do peso dos oitenta anos que nunca viveu.

Do amor de uma vida que se acabou em um piscar de olhos!

Os médicos vieram com termos técnicos e sorrisos animados.

Falaram em milagre.

Em recuperação.

Em jovem com a vida inteira pela frente.

Paulo. Era esse o nome que deram a ele, um nome ao qual ele não respondia. Tentou se explicar. Contou sobre o quadro que se desfez, sobre a esposa que tricotava, sobre a sua vida e sobre não pertencer a esse mundo.

Mas as palavras eram insuficientes e o olhar de piedade nos rostos à sua volta lhe disse tudo: eles acharam que era confusão mental, efeito colateral, trauma.

Ele parou de falar.

Ficou dias em silêncio.

Depois semanas.

Os exercícios de fisioterapia, as sessões com psicólogos, as visitas da família que diziam ser a sua, tudo lhe chegava como através de um espelho distorcido que não mostrava a realidade.

Ele não pertencia àquele corpo.

Não pertencia àquele mundo.

O mundo dele tinha ficado para trás, desmanchando como um quadro que ninguém mais via.

À noite, quando as luzes se apagavam, fechava os olhos e tentava desesperadamente e de todos os jeitos voltar.

Tentava lembrar o cheiro do bolo de fubá, a textura da manta de tricô, a voz de Marta. Mas era tudo em vão.

Os detalhes escoavam.

Os rostos tornavam-se sombras.

A única coisa que permanecia era a certeza insuportável de que aquela vida fora mais real do que qualquer coisa que lhe ofereciam agora.

Os psiquiatras anotaram nos prontuários: delírio dissociativo, síndrome de falsa memória, recusa de identidade. Deram-lhe remédios que embotavam o pensamento, mas não apagavam a saudade.

Arthur, o verdadeiro, o que existiu por oitenta anos, começou a crescer de dentro do rapaz de vinte e dois.

Um jovem com alma de velho que não sabia mais quem era.

Que chorava por uma esposa que nunca existiu.

Que olhava para as mãos jovens e tentava desesperadamente enganar a visão para poder vê-las sumir, voltar, sumir, num piscar infinito, e assim retornar para casa.

Ninguém entendia por que ele ria, às vezes, sozinho no quarto.

Nem por que, certa noite, ele se levantou, caminhou até a janela do quarto, no quarto andar, e olhou para o céu sem estrelas, murmurando: · Que quadro, meu amor? Que quadro...

Ele piscou.

Mas desta vez não abriu mais os olhos para este lado.

Talvez tenha voltado para casa.

Talvez finalmente tenha visto o bisneto novamente.

Talvez Marta ainda estivesse lá, no sofá, tricotando, esperando por ele com a paciência com que se espera por alguém que se ama além das camadas do tempo.

Ou talvez não.

Talvez não seja nada disso.

Talvez ele tenha apenas enlouquecido de vez, como diziam os médicos.

Mas no fundo, o que é a vida senão a insistência em habitar um sonho que nos faz feliz?

At eighty years old, Arthur carried within his chest the sweetness of a full life: the constant laughter of his children and grandchildren filling the living room, his great-grandson’s first steps in the garden, and the warm, enduring love of decades spent beside Marta.

The perfect twilight of a long and happy journey.

It was while walking down the hallway toward the bedroom that something caught his full attention: the wall—or, more specifically, the painting.

It was an ordinary landscape—a field of sunflowers with mountains in the background—but something was wrong. The flowers seemed to tremble, as if whipped by an invisible wind. The brushstrokes dissolved and remade themselves, flickering between the visible and the invisible in the single blink of an eye, like a glitch in the very fabric of the world.

“What’s wrong with this painting, Marta?” he asked, his voice tired, his chest tight with a sudden, suffocating dread.

Marta didn’t even look up from her knitting on the sofa.

“What painting, my dear? We’ve never had any painting.”

Arthur took a step back, panic surging up his throat. Looking around, he saw the entire living room flicker. The dining table, the grandfather clock, the walls—everything dissolved and reassembled in a frantic cycle. He brought his hands to his face, but the horror only multiplied: his own wrinkled hands vanished and reappeared, fading into transparency before molding into skin once more.

Realization struck him like a bolt of lightning on a clear day: none of that life was real.

Without meaning to, Arthur blinked.

He opened his eyes.

The light was stark white.

The smell of rubbing alcohol and the feel of soft sheets against his skin.

Machines chimed in a monotonous rhythm.

There was a tube down his throat, needles in his arms.

He tried to move and felt a body that was not his own—light, strange, stripped of the aches of old age.

A voice spoke nearby: “He’s awake after two years in a coma! Call the doctor!”

Two years?!

The words drifted like toxic ash from hell.

Someone held his hand, and in the dark reflection of a window, he saw the face of a twenty-two-year-old young man.

Dark hair.

Smooth skin.

Terrified eyes that were his, yet were not!

He remembered nothing of this place.

He didn’t know the nurse’s name, didn’t recognize the woman weeping beside the bed calling him her son, had no idea where this hospital was, or whose body he now inhabited.

His memory belonged somewhere else.

To another life.

The house.

Marta.

The sunflowers.

The children, the grandchildren, and the great-grandson.

He remembered the countless wrinkles he no longer had.

The weight of eighty years he had never actually lived.

The love of a lifetime that vanished in the blink of an eye!

The doctors arrived with technical jargon and bright, enthusiastic smiles.

They spoke of miracles.

Of recovery.

Of a young man with his whole life ahead of him.

Paulo. That was the name they gave him—a name to which he did not answer. He tried to explain. He told them about the painting that unraveled, about his wife knitting on the couch, about his life, and about how he did not belong in this world.

But words fell short, and the look of pity on the faces around him revealed everything: they thought it was mental confusion, a side effect, trauma.

He stopped speaking.

He fell silent for days.

Then weeks.

The physical therapy exercises, the sessions with psychologists, the visits from the family who claimed to be his—it all reached him as if through a distorted mirror that refused to reflect reality.

He did not belong in that body.

He did not belong in that world.

His world had been left behind, unraveling like a painting no one else could see.

At night, when the lights went out, he closed his eyes and tried desperately, in every way he knew, to go back.

He tried to recall the scent of warm cornmeal cake, the texture of the knitted blanket, Marta’s voice. But it was all in vain.

The details slipped away.

The faces turned into shadows.

The only thing that endured was the unbearable certainty that his old life had been more real than anything offered to him now.

Psychiatrists made notes in his chart: dissociative delusion, false memory syndrome, identity rejection. They gave him medications that dulled his thoughts, but could never extinguish the longing.

Arthur—the real one, the man who had existed for eighty years—began to grow from within the twenty-two-year-old boy.

A young man with an old soul who no longer knew who he was.

Who wept for a wife who had never existed.

Who stared at his youthful hands and tried desperately to trick his vision, waiting to see them vanish, return, and vanish again in an endless blink, so he could finally go back home.

Nobody understood why he sometimes laughed, alone in his room.

Nor why, one night, he stood up, walked to the window of his room on the fourth floor, and stared into the starless sky, whispering: “What painting, my love? What painting...”

He blinked.

But this time, he did not open his eyes back on this side.

Perhaps he went back home.

Perhaps he finally saw his great-grandson again.

Perhaps Marta was still there on the sofa, knitting, waiting for him with the patience reserved for someone loved beyond the layers of time.

Or perhaps not.

Perhaps it was nothing of the sort.

Perhaps he simply lost his mind for good, just as the doctors said.

But in the end, what is life if not the insistence on inhabiting a dream that makes us happy?

At eighty years old, Arthur carried within his chest the sweetness of a full life: the constant laughter of his children and grandchildren filling the living room, his great-grandson’s first steps in the garden, and the warm, enduring love of decades spent beside Marta.

The perfect twilight of a long and happy journey.

It was while walking down the hallway toward the bedroom that something caught his full attention: the wall—or, more specifically, the painting.

It was an ordinary landscape—a field of sunflowers with mountains in the background—but something was wrong. The flowers seemed to tremble, as if whipped by an invisible wind. The brushstrokes dissolved and remade themselves, flickering between the visible and the invisible in the single blink of an eye, like a glitch in the very fabric of the world.

“What’s wrong with this painting, Marta?” he asked, his voice tired, his chest tight with a sudden, suffocating dread.

Marta didn’t even look up from her knitting on the sofa.

“What painting, my dear? We’ve never had any painting.”

Arthur took a step back, panic surging up his throat. Looking around, he saw the entire living room flicker. The dining table, the grandfather clock, the walls—everything dissolved and reassembled in a frantic cycle. He brought his hands to his face, but the horror only multiplied: his own wrinkled hands vanished and reappeared, fading into transparency before molding into skin once more.

Realization struck him like a bolt of lightning on a clear day: none of that life was real.

Without meaning to, Arthur blinked.

He opened his eyes.

The light was stark white.

The smell of rubbing alcohol and the feel of soft sheets against his skin.

Machines chimed in a monotonous rhythm.

There was a tube down his throat, needles in his arms.

He tried to move and felt a body that was not his own—light, strange, stripped of the aches of old age.

A voice spoke nearby: “He’s awake after two years in a coma! Call the doctor!”

Two years?!

The words drifted like toxic ash from hell.

Someone held his hand, and in the dark reflection of a window, he saw the face of a twenty-two-year-old young man.

Dark hair.

Smooth skin.

Terrified eyes that were his, yet were not!

He remembered nothing of this place.

He didn’t know the nurse’s name, didn’t recognize the woman weeping beside the bed calling him her son, had no idea where this hospital was, or whose body he now inhabited.

His memory belonged somewhere else.

To another life.

The house.

Marta.

The sunflowers.

The children, the grandchildren, and the great-grandson.

He remembered the countless wrinkles he no longer had.

The weight of eighty years he had never actually lived.

The love of a lifetime that vanished in the blink of an eye!

The doctors arrived with technical jargon and bright, enthusiastic smiles.

They spoke of miracles.

Of recovery.

Of a young man with his whole life ahead of him.

Paulo. That was the name they gave him—a name to which he did not answer. He tried to explain. He told them about the painting that unraveled, about his wife knitting on the couch, about his life, and about how he did not belong in this world.

But words fell short, and the look of pity on the faces around him revealed everything: they thought it was mental confusion, a side effect, trauma.

He stopped speaking.

He fell silent for days.

Then weeks.

The physical therapy exercises, the sessions with psychologists, the visits from the family who claimed to be his—it all reached him as if through a distorted mirror that refused to reflect reality.

He did not belong in that body.

He did not belong in that world.

His world had been left behind, unraveling like a painting no one else could see.

At night, when the lights went out, he closed his eyes and tried desperately, in every way he knew, to go back.

He tried to recall the scent of warm cornmeal cake, the texture of the knitted blanket, Marta’s voice. But it was all in vain.

The details slipped away.

The faces turned into shadows.

The only thing that endured was the unbearable certainty that his old life had been more real than anything offered to him now.

Psychiatrists made notes in his chart: dissociative delusion, false memory syndrome, identity rejection. They gave him medications that dulled his thoughts, but could never extinguish the longing.

Arthur—the real one, the man who had existed for eighty years—began to grow from within the twenty-two-year-old boy.

A young man with an old soul who no longer knew who he was.

Who wept for a wife who had never existed.

Who stared at his youthful hands and tried desperately to trick his vision, waiting to see them vanish, return, and vanish again in an endless blink, so he could finally go back home.

Nobody understood why he sometimes laughed, alone in his room.

Nor why, one night, he stood up, walked to the window of his room on the fourth floor, and stared into the starless sky, whispering: “What painting, my love? What painting...”

He blinked.

But this time, he did not open his eyes back on this side.

Perhaps he went back home.

Perhaps he finally saw his great-grandson again.

Perhaps Marta was still there on the sofa, knitting, waiting for him with the patience reserved for someone loved beyond the layers of time.

Or perhaps not.

Perhaps it was nothing of the sort.

Perhaps he simply lost his mind for good, just as the doctors said.

But in the end, what is life if not the insistence on inhabiting a dream that makes us happy?

[removed]

I should never have gone drinking alone on Moon Hill.

The place is a tall hill near the outskirts of town. On Saturday and Sunday nights it turns into a spot for weed, warm beer, and people who just want to hook up in secret. During the week, though, it's abandoned and lifeless. Just the dry wind dragging dust and the leaves of the trees rustling.

I was there on a Tuesday because I was depressed. I bought a cheap bottle of wine and climbed up on a cold, senseless dusk. I stared down at the city; my house was a tiny speck of light among so many others, and I kept thinking about how I didn't want to go back there anymore.

When the bottle was empty, my vision was already a bit blurry. That's when I heard footsteps. I looked up and saw a female silhouette approaching in the orange glow of twilight. It was her, my greatest love: Mary.

She was wearing those tight, ripped jeans I adored, her hair tied up as usual, the smell of cigarettes reaching me before she did. In her right hand, a bottle of Jack Daniel's, our favorite drink. The same one we used to share in the good times, before everything fell apart.

"Were you waiting for me?"

She said it sitting down next to me as if the painful breakup had never happened. Her voice was soft, but it carried a strange note, something inhuman, that I couldn't explain.

I'd always been crazy about her, so I just smiled and answered, surprised:

"Mary... what the hell are you doing here?"

She didn't answer. She just opened it, took a long swig, and handed me the bottle. We drank.

The first few minutes were a sweet dream. The touch of her shoulder against mine, her presence, the wind cooling us down. Then the conversation started to warp.

"You've always been a piece of shit, haven't you?" she said, laughing quietly. "Look at you. Screwed up, drinking poison, all alone."

Confused, I replied: "Fuck you..."

She gave me a light slap on the face. "You know I never loved you, right? Nobody's ever going to love you... you're a mistake. Like a contagious disease. You've never been good for anything and you ruined the lives of everyone around you."

There was no anger in her tone; it was almost sweet, and the sentence got worse: "Your mother died of grief because of you."

Those words hurt because they echoed the things I thought every day. I sank into silence. She ran her hand through my hair, that false affection, and went on:

"You know what would fix everything? Right there on the edge. Jump and the world gets better. All this weight disappears. I'd even go with you... hand in hand... it's just one step."

My heartbeat slowed; my feet felt numb. She spoke and I agreed, because deep down I also believed there was no way out anymore. I looked at the edge of the hill. The height was an invitation in my drunken sight. "Just one step," she repeated, and her hand took mine.

That was when my cellphone buzzed in my pocket. A message.

I grabbed the phone, the screen slightly blurred. Mary: "Idiot, I just had a really weird dream about you. You died. I'm shaking even now. Are you okay?"

I read it three times. The hand holding the phone started to sweat cold and tremble.

The Thing beside me leaned in and pressed her face against my neck, in an almost inaudible whisper: "Ignore that. Must be my brother messing with you."

But the message was hers, the way she always called me an idiot.

I answered with trembling fingers: "Turn on the camera. I need to see you."

The video call came through. On the screen, Mary appeared with eyes swollen from sleep, her hair thrown up any old way, that old Nirvana T-shirt I knew so well. The light from the cat-shaped lamp behind her made the room feel cozy, safe.

"Thank God you picked up," she murmured, relieved. "I had this horrible dream. You were in some high place and someone pushed you. You fell and I woke up screaming... Why are you in that dark place? What is that shadow?!"

I couldn't answer. Because beside Mary, in the reflection on the screen, I saw a figure. A female shape, motionless, wearing a black dress behind me.

My whole body froze with fear. I couldn't turn my neck. I couldn't look back. Only my eyes moved, and the image in the reflection had already vanished, but the feeling of danger remained.

"If something happens... I didn't jump, someone pushed me! I love you and I'll always love you... forgive me for everything..." I said to Mary on the video, my voice coming out weak. I hung up.

Laughter began to echo across Moon Hill. The bottle of Jack Daniel's lay on the ground, empty. Beside me, the presence still occupied the space, even though I could no longer see a thing.

Who had been drinking with me?

I didn't wait and didn't look for an answer. My body, driven by some primal survival instinct, acted before thought. I got up and ran. I ran without looking back. My feet tripped over rocks; I slammed hard into a tree trunk, cutting my forehead, but I didn't stop. I just ran, downhill, until I hit the asphalt and kept going for a long time. Until, exhausted, I threw myself on the ground, sweaty and mute from panic.

I never set foot on that hill again. I can't be around people anymore — I'm afraid they might not even be people.

The place is a tall hill near the outskirts of town. On Saturday and Sunday nights it turns into a spot for weed, warm beer, and people who just want to hook up in secret. During the week, though, it's abandoned and lifeless. Just the dry wind dragging dust and the leaves of the trees rustling.

I was there on a Tuesday because I was depressed. I bought a cheap bottle of wine and climbed up on a cold, senseless dusk. I stared down at the city; my house was a tiny speck of light among so many others, and I kept thinking about how I didn't want to go back there anymore.

When the bottle was empty, my vision was already a bit blurry. That's when I heard footsteps. I looked up and saw a female silhouette approaching in the orange glow of twilight. It was her, my greatest love: Mary.

She was wearing those tight, ripped jeans I adored, her hair tied up as usual, the smell of cigarettes reaching me before she did. In her right hand, a bottle of Jack Daniel's, our favorite drink. The same one we used to share in the good times, before everything fell apart.

"Were you waiting for me?"

She said it sitting down next to me as if the painful breakup had never happened. Her voice was soft, but it carried a strange note, something inhuman, that I couldn't explain.

I'd always been crazy about her, so I just smiled and answered, surprised:

"Mary... what the hell are you doing here?"

She didn't answer. She just opened it, took a long swig, and handed me the bottle. We drank.

The first few minutes were a sweet dream. The touch of her shoulder against mine, her presence, the wind cooling us down. Then the conversation started to warp.

"You've always been a piece of shit, haven't you?" she said, laughing quietly. "Look at you. Screwed up, drinking poison, all alone."

Confused, I replied: "Fuck you..."

She gave me a light slap on the face. "You know I never loved you, right? Nobody's ever going to love you... you're a mistake. Like a contagious disease. You've never been good for anything and you ruined the lives of everyone around you."

There was no anger in her tone; it was almost sweet, and the sentence got worse: "Your mother died of grief because of you."

Those words hurt because they echoed the things I thought every day. I sank into silence. She ran her hand through my hair, that false affection, and went on:

"You know what would fix everything? Right there on the edge. Jump and the world gets better. All this weight disappears. I'd even go with you... hand in hand... it's just one step."

My heartbeat slowed; my feet felt numb. She spoke and I agreed, because deep down I also believed there was no way out anymore. I looked at the edge of the hill. The height was an invitation in my drunken sight. "Just one step," she repeated, and her hand took mine.

That was when my cellphone buzzed in my pocket. A message.

I grabbed the phone, the screen slightly blurred. Mary: "Idiot, I just had a really weird dream about you. You died. I'm shaking even now. Are you okay?"

I read it three times. The hand holding the phone started to sweat cold and tremble.

The Thing beside me leaned in and pressed her face against my neck, in an almost inaudible whisper: "Ignore that. Must be my brother messing with you."

But the message was hers, the way she always called me an idiot.

I answered with trembling fingers: "Turn on the camera. I need to see you."

The video call came through. On the screen, Mary appeared with eyes swollen from sleep, her hair thrown up any old way, that old Nirvana T-shirt I knew so well. The light from the cat-shaped lamp behind her made the room feel cozy, safe.

"Thank God you picked up," she murmured, relieved. "I had this horrible dream. You were in some high place and someone pushed you. You fell and I woke up screaming... Why are you in that dark place? What is that shadow?!"

I couldn't answer. Because beside Mary, in the reflection on the screen, I saw a figure. A female shape, motionless, wearing a black dress behind me.

My whole body froze with fear. I couldn't turn my neck. I couldn't look back. Only my eyes moved, and the image in the reflection had already vanished, but the feeling of danger remained.

"If something happens... I didn't jump, someone pushed me! I love you and I'll always love you... forgive me for everything..." I said to Mary on the video, my voice coming out weak. I hung up.

Laughter began to echo across Moon Hill. The bottle of Jack Daniel's lay on the ground, empty. Beside me, the presence still occupied the space, even though I could no longer see a thing.

Who had been drinking with me?

I didn't wait and didn't look for an answer. My body, driven by some primal survival instinct, acted before thought. I got up and ran. I ran without looking back. My feet tripped over rocks; I slammed hard into a tree trunk, cutting my forehead, but I didn't stop. I just ran, downhill, until I hit the asphalt and kept going for a long time. Until, exhausted, I threw myself on the ground, sweaty and mute from panic.

I never set foot on that hill again. I can't be around people anymore — I'm afraid they might not even be people.

El lugar es un cerro alto cerca de la periferia; los sábados y domingos por la noche se vuelve un punto de marihuana, cerveza caliente y gente que solo quiere coger a escondidas. Entre semana, sin embargo, es un lugar abandonado y sin vida. Solo el viento seco arrastrando polvo y las hojas de los árboles haciendo ruido.

Yo estaba allí un martes porque estaba deprimido. Compré un vino barato y subí en un anochecer frío y sin sentido. Me quedé mirando la ciudad allá abajo; mi casa era un pequeño haz de luz junto a tantos otros, y me puse a pensar en que ya no quería volver a ese lugar.

Cuando se acabó la botella, la vista ya la tenía medio borrosa. Fue entonces cuando oí pasos. Levanté los ojos y vi una silueta femenina acercándose en la luz anaranjada del crepúsculo. Era ella, mi mayor amor: Mary.

Llevaba esos vaqueros rotos y ajustados que tanto me gustaban, el pelo recogido como siempre, el olor a cigarro llegando antes que ella. En la mano derecha, una botella de Jack Daniel’s, nuestra bebida favorita. La misma que compartíamos en los buenos tiempos, antes de que todo se derrumbara.

—¿Me estabas esperando? —dijo, sentándose a mi lado como si la ruptura tan dolorosa nunca hubiera ocurrido. Su voz era suave, pero cargaba una nota extraña, inhumana, que no supe explicar.

Yo siempre había estado loco por ella, así que solo sonreí y respondí sorprendido:

—Mary… ¿qué mierda haces aquí?

Ella no contestó. Solo abrió la botella, dio un trago largo y me la tendió. Bebimos.

Los primeros minutos fueron un sueño bonito. El roce de su hombro contra el mío, su presencia, el viento refrescando. De repente la conversación empezó a torcerse.

—Siempre has sido una mierda, ¿no? —dijo, riendo bajito—. Mira dónde estás. Jodido, bebiendo veneno, sin nadie.

Yo respondí, confundido:

—Vete a la mierda…

Ella me dio una leve bofetada en la cara:

—Sabes que nunca te amé, ¿verdad? Nadie nunca va a amarte… eres un error. Eres como una enfermedad contagiosa. Nunca has servido para nada y arruinaste la vida de todos a tu alrededor.

Su tono no tenía rabia, era casi dulce, y la sentencia empeoró:

—Tu madre murió de pena por haberte tenido.

Esas palabras dolieron porque resonaban con las cosas que yo pensaba todos los días. Me hundí en silencio. Ella me pasó la mano por el pelo, esa caricia falsa, y continuó:

—¿Sabes qué lo arreglaría? Justo ahí, en el borde. Tírate y el mundo mejora. Todo este peso desaparece. Yo misma te acompañaría… de la mano… es solo un paso.

Mi corazón bajó el ritmo, mis pies parecían anestesiados. Ella hablaba y yo asentía, porque en el fondo yo también pensaba que ya no había remedio. Miré hacia el borde del cerro. La altura era una invitación en mi vista borracha. “Solo un paso”, repitió ella, y su mano agarró la mía.

Fue en ese instante cuando mi celular vibró en el bolsillo. Un mensaje.

Agarré el aparato, la pantalla medio borrosa. Mary: “Idiota, acabo de tener un sueño muy raro contigo. Te morías. Estoy temblando hasta ahora. ¿Estás bien?”

Lo leí tres veces. La mano que sostenía el celular empezó a sudar frío y a temblar.

La Cosa a mi lado inclinó el cuerpo y apoyó el rostro en mi cuello, en un susurro casi inaudible: “Ignora eso. Debe ser mi hermano molestándote.”

Pero el mensaje era de ella, la forma en que ella me llamaba idiota.

Respondí con los dedos temblorosos:

—Enciende la cámara. Necesito verte.

La videollamada entró. En la pantalla, Mary apareció con los ojos hinchados de sueño, el pelo recogido de cualquier forma, aquella camiseta vieja de Nirvana que yo conocía tan bien. La luz de la lámpara con forma de gato detrás de ella volvía el cuarto acogedor, seguro.

—Gracias a Dios que contestaste —murmuró, aliviada—. Tuve un sueño horrible, estabas en un lugar alto y alguien te empujaba. Te caíste y me desperté gritando… ¿Por qué estás en ese lugar oscuro? ¡¿Qué es esa sombra?!

No pude responder. Porque al lado de Mary, en el reflejo de la pantalla, vi un bulto. Un bulto femenino, inmóvil, con un vestido negro detrás de mí.

El cuerpo entero se me congeló de miedo. No pude girar el cuello. No pude mirar hacia atrás. Solo mis ojos se movieron, y la imagen en el reflejo ya había desaparecido, pero la sensación de peligro seguía ahí.

—Si pasa algo… yo no salté, ¡me empujaron! Te amo y siempre te voy a amar… perdóname por todo…

Se lo dije a Mary en el video, la voz me salió débil.

Colgué.

Una risa empezó a resonar por el Morro da Lua. La botella de Jack Daniel’s estaba tirada en la tierra, vacía. A mi lado, la presencia aún ocupaba el espacio, aunque ya no viera nada.

¿Quién estaba bebiendo conmigo?

No esperé ni busqué respuesta. Mi cuerpo, por un instinto primario de supervivencia, actuó antes que el pensamiento. Me levanté y corrí. Corrí sin mirar atrás. Mis pies tropezaban con piedras, terminé golpeándome fuerte contra el tronco de un árbol, haciéndome un corte en la frente, pero no me detuve. Solo corrí, cuesta abajo, hasta alcanzar el asfalto, y seguí por mucho tiempo. Hasta que, exhausto, me tiré al suelo, sudado y mudo por el pánico.

Nunca más volví a pisar ese cerro. Ya no puedo convivir con la gente, tengo miedo de que ni siquiera sean personas.

I should never have gone drinking alone on Moon Hill.

The place is a tall hill near the outskirts of town. On Saturday and Sunday nights it turns into a spot for weed, warm beer, and people who just want to hook up in secret. During the week, though, it's abandoned and lifeless. Just the dry wind dragging dust and the leaves of the trees rustling.

I was there on a Tuesday because I was depressed. I bought a cheap bottle of wine and climbed up on a cold, senseless dusk. I stared down at the city; my house was a tiny speck of light among so many others, and I kept thinking about how I didn't want to go back there anymore.

When the bottle was empty, my vision was already a bit blurry. That's when I heard footsteps. I looked up and saw a female silhouette approaching in the orange glow of twilight. It was her, my greatest love: Mary.

She was wearing those tight, ripped jeans I adored, her hair tied up as usual, the smell of cigarettes reaching me before she did. In her right hand, a bottle of Jack Daniel's, our favorite drink. The same one we used to share in the good times, before everything fell apart.

"Were you waiting for me?"

She said it sitting down next to me as if the painful breakup had never happened. Her voice was soft, but it carried a strange note, something inhuman, that I couldn't explain.

I'd always been crazy about her, so I just smiled and answered, surprised:

"Mary... what the hell are you doing here?"

She didn't answer. She just opened it, took a long swig, and handed me the bottle. We drank.

The first few minutes were a sweet dream. The touch of her shoulder against mine, her presence, the wind cooling us down. Then the conversation started to warp.

"You've always been a piece of shit, haven't you?" she said, laughing quietly. "Look at you. Screwed up, drinking poison, all alone."

Confused, I replied: "Fuck you..."

She gave me a light slap on the face. "You know I never loved you, right? Nobody's ever going to love you... you're a mistake. Like a contagious disease. You've never been good for anything and you ruined the lives of everyone around you."

There was no anger in her tone; it was almost sweet, and the sentence got worse: "Your mother died of grief because of you."

Those words hurt because they echoed the things I thought every day. I sank into silence. She ran her hand through my hair, that false affection, and went on:

"You know what would fix everything? Right there on the edge. Jump and the world gets better. All this weight disappears. I'd even go with you... hand in hand... it's just one step."

My heartbeat slowed; my feet felt numb. She spoke and I agreed, because deep down I also believed there was no way out anymore. I looked at the edge of the hill. The height was an invitation in my drunken sight. "Just one step," she repeated, and her hand took mine.

That was when my cellphone buzzed in my pocket. A message.

I grabbed the phone, the screen slightly blurred. Mary: "Idiot, I just had a really weird dream about you. You died. I'm shaking even now. Are you okay?"

I read it three times. The hand holding the phone started to sweat cold and tremble.

The Thing beside me leaned in and pressed her face against my neck, in an almost inaudible whisper: "Ignore that. Must be my brother messing with you."

But the message was hers, the way she always called me an idiot.

I answered with trembling fingers: "Turn on the camera. I need to see you."

The video call came through. On the screen, Mary appeared with eyes swollen from sleep, her hair thrown up any old way, that old Nirvana T-shirt I knew so well. The light from the cat-shaped lamp behind her made the room feel cozy, safe.

"Thank God you picked up," she murmured, relieved. "I had this horrible dream. You were in some high place and someone pushed you. You fell and I woke up screaming... Why are you in that dark place? What is that shadow?!"

I couldn't answer. Because beside Mary, in the reflection on the screen, I saw a figure. A female shape, motionless, wearing a black dress behind me.

My whole body froze with fear. I couldn't turn my neck. I couldn't look back. Only my eyes moved, and the image in the reflection had already vanished, but the feeling of danger remained.

"If something happens... I didn't jump, someone pushed me! I love you and I'll always love you... forgive me for everything..." I said to Mary on the video, my voice coming out weak. I hung up.

Laughter began to echo across Moon Hill. The bottle of Jack Daniel's lay on the ground, empty. Beside me, the presence still occupied the space, even though I could no longer see a thing.

Who had been drinking with me?

I didn't wait and didn't look for an answer. My body, driven by some primal survival instinct, acted before thought. I got up and ran. I ran without looking back. My feet tripped over rocks; I slammed hard into a tree trunk, cutting my forehead, but I didn't stop. I just ran, downhill, until I hit the asphalt and kept going for a long time. Until, exhausted, I threw myself on the ground, sweaty and mute from panic.

I never set foot on that hill again. I can't be around people anymore — I'm afraid they might not even be people.

Nunca devia ter ido beber sozinho no Morro da Lua.

O lugar é um morro alto perto da periferia, sábado e domingo à noite vira point de maconha, cerveja quente e gente que só quer trepar no sigilo.

Durante a semana, porém, é um lugar abandonado e sem vida.

Só o vento seco arrastando poeira e as folhas das árvores fazendo barulho.

Eu estava ali em uma terça-feira porque estava deprimido.

Comprei um vinho vagabundo e subi num anoitecer frio e sem sentido.

Fiquei olhando a cidade lá embaixo, minha casa era um pequeno feixe de luz junto com tantos outros, fiquei pensando em como eu não queria mais voltar para aquele lugar.

Quando a garrafa acabou, minha vista já estava meio turva.

Foi aí que ouvi passos.

Levantei os olhos e vi uma silhueta feminina se aproximando na luz alaranjada do crepúsculo.

Era ela meu maior amor: Mary

Usava aquela calça jeans rasgada e colada que eu adorava, cabelo preso como de praxe, o cheiro de cigarro chegando antes dela.

Na mão direita, uma garrafa de Jack Daniel’s, a nossa bebida preferida.

A mesma que a gente dividia nos tempos bons, antes de tudo ruir.

- Tava me esperando?

Ela disse, sentando ao meu lado como se o término tão doloroso nunca tivesse acontecido.

A voz dela era macia, mas carregava uma nota estranha, inumana, que eu não soube explicar.

Eu sempre fui apaixonado por ela, então só sorri e respondi surpreso:

-Mary… que merda cê tá fazendo aqui?

Ela não respondeu.

Só abriu e deu um grande gole e me estendeu a garrafa.

Bebemos.

Os primeiros minutos foram um sonho bom.

O toque do ombro dela no meu, sua presença, o vento refrescando.

De repente a conversa começou a entortar.

- Você sempre foi um merda, né?

Ela disse, rindo baixinho.

- Olha onde você tá. Fodido, bebendo veneno, sem ninguém.
Eu respondi, confuso:

-Vai se foder...

Ela me deu um leve tapa no rosto:

- Cê sabe que eu nunca te amei né? Ninguém nunca vai te amar... você é um erro. É tipo uma doença contagiosa. Cê nunca prestou pra nada e arruinou a vida de todos ao seu redor.

O tom dela não tinha raiva, era quase doce e a sentença piorou:

- Sua mãe morreu de desgosto por ter você.

Essas palavras doeram porque ecoaram as coisas que eu pensava todo dia.

Eu me afundei em silêncio.

Ela passou a mão no meu cabelo, aquele carinho falso e continuou:

- Sabe o que ia resolver? Ali na beirada. Se joga e o mundo fica melhor. Todo esse peso some. Eu mesma te acompanharia… de mãos dadas... é só um passo.

Meu coração diminuiu o ritmo, meus pés pareciam anestesiados.

Ela falava e eu concordava, porque lá no fundo eu também achava que não tinha mais jeito.

Olhei pra beirada do morro.

A altura era um convite na minha vista embriagada.

“Só um passo”, ela repetiu, e a mão dela segurou minha mão.

Foi nesse instante que meu celular vibrou no bolso.

Uma mensagem.

Eu peguei o aparelho, a tela meio borrada.

Mary: “Idiota, acabei de ter um sonho muito estranho com você. Você morria. Tô tremendo até agora. Tá tudo bem?”

Eu li três vezes.

A mão que segurava o celular começou a suar frio e a tremer.
A Coisa ao meu lado inclinou o corpo e encostou o rosto no meu pescoço, num sussurro quase inaudível: “Ignora isso. Deve ser meu irmão te zoando.”
Mas a mensagem era dela, o jeito dela me chamar de idiota.
Eu respondi com os dedos trêmulos:

- Liga a câmera. Preciso te ver.

A chamada de vídeo entrou.

Na tela, a Mary apareceu com olhos inchados de sono, cabelo preso de qualquer jeito, aquela camiseta velha do Nirvana que eu conhecia tão bem.

A luz do abajur de formato de gato atrás dela deixava o quarto acolhedor, seguro.

- Graças a Deus você atendeu.

Ela murmurou, aliviada:

- Tive um sonho horrível, você estava num lugar alto e alguém te empurrava. Você caiu e eu acordei gritando… Por que você tá nesse lugar escuro? O que é essa sombra?!

Eu não consegui responder.

Porque ao lado da Mary, no reflexo da tela, eu vi um vulto.
Um vulto feminino, imóvel, com um vestido preto atrás de mim.

Meu corpo inteiro congelou de medo.

Não consegui virar o pescoço.

Não consegui olhar pra trás.

Só meus olhos se moveram e a imagem no reflexo já tinha sumido, mas a sensação de perigo continuava.

- Se acontecer algo... eu não pulei e sim me jogaram! Eu te amo e sempre vou te amar... me desculpa por tudo...

Eu falei pra Mary no vídeo, minha voz saiu fraca.

Desliguei.

Uma risada começou a ecoar pelo Morro da Lua.

A garrafa de Jack Daniel’s tava caída na terra, vazia.

Ao meu lado, a presença ainda ocupava o espaço, mesmo que eu não enxergasse mais nada.

Quem estava bebendo comigo?

Eu não esperei e nem busquei por resposta.

Meu corpo por um instinto primal de sobrevivência agiu antes do pensamento.

Levantei e corri.

Corri sem olhar para trás.

Meus pés tropeçavam em pedras, acabei batendo forte contra um tronco de árvore fazendo um corte na minha testa, mas eu não parei.

Só corri, ladeira abaixo, até alcançar o asfalto e continuei por bastante tempo.

Até que exausto me atirei no chão, suado e mudo pelo pânico.

Nunca mais pisei naquele morro.

Eu não consigo mais conviver com as pessoas, tenho medo delas sequer serem pessoas.

Hi everyone! I'm currently working on this psychological horror short story and I would appreciate some critical feedback.

Just to be clear, this is a short story right now, but I have ideas to expand it into a larger series. I would love to know if you think I should keep exploring this theme or if I should just stop here.

What I'm looking for: I'd like to know if the suspenseful atmosphere works well, if the characters feel real, and if the ending makes sense:

I first came across the name Lilly on an old missing persons forum. The thread was nearly dead, buried beneath years of inactivity.

What struck me was that nobody was trying to figure out who she was.

They were trying to figure out whether she had ever existed at all.

According to the posts, Lilly had been sighted in remote places: dirt roads, abandoned fields, forests, and hiking trails far from civilization. The descriptions never matched. Sometimes she was blonde. Sometimes brunette. Sometimes she looked sixteen. Other times she appeared to be in her twenties.

Yet every witness agreed on one thing:

She was impossibly beautiful.

There was another detail.

She only seemed to appear to men who were already in relationships.

At first, I dismissed it as some kind of rural morality tale. Then I found a local newspaper article from 1998.

A man had been discovered deep in the woods, naked and bleeding from horrific injuries. Before he died, he repeated the same sentence over and over:

"She opened the wrong mouth."

No one knew what he meant.

The more I researched, the stranger things became.

Over the years, similar cases appeared across different states and even different countries. Survivors were extremely rare. The few who lived never recovered.

They would sit motionless for hours.

Staring at empty corners.

Never blinking.

Never responding.

And every one of them complained about the same thing.

They said they were burning.

Not on the outside.

Inside.

As if an invisible fire had been lit somewhere beneath their skin.

Doctors blamed trauma, psychosis, or neurological damage. No treatment ever helped.

Eventually, every survivor died.

While gathering reports, I received a private message from a user named Elias.

He claimed to live near a village where nobody was willing to say Lilly's name out loud.

Not as a joke.

Not in conversation.

Not even children would say it.

I asked him why.

His reply consisted of a single sentence:

"Because she listens."

I assumed he was feeding the legend.

Then he sent me a photograph.

It showed a small chapel hidden in the middle of dense woods. The walls were covered with names, dates, and strange symbols carved into the stone.

One name appeared hundreds of times.

LILLY

I asked where the photo had been taken.

Elias never replied.

Two days later, his account disappeared.

Months afterward, I used satellite imagery and old maps to locate the chapel.

It wasn't there.

No ruins.

No foundation.

No trace that any structure had ever existed.

That should have been the end of it.

Instead, I found something worse.

A church document dated 1913.

In it, a priest described a secret cult operating near the village. According to his report, the cult sacrificed newborn infants to an ancient entity called Lilly in exchange for prosperity and protection.

Most of the document had been damaged by moisture and age.

Only the final sentence remained readable.

"Lilly is not a woman. Lilly is merely the name she uses when she wishes to be found."

I stopped researching after that.

At least, I tried to.

That night I dreamed of a girl sitting beside an empty road.

She was smiling.

Waiting for someone.

When I woke up, there was a new message in my inbox.

No sender.

No subject line.

Just six words.

"Thank you for looking for me."

"Watch what you do, kid. Because wherever you go, God will follow."

It all started with that shitty sentence.

It wasn't the monster coming out of the closet or a demon vomiting green that really scared him — it was that sentence, spoken by his own mother while she swept the kitchen floor, without even looking the boy in the face.

To her, it was just a cheap sermon. To that child's brain, it was a curse.

Imagine being four years old and finding out there's an invisible, all-powerful entity breathing down your neck twenty-four hours a day.

The boy didn't see a kind old man with a white beard; he felt a haunting presence.

He couldn't go to the bathroom in the dark without pissing himself before he reached the toilet, he was so terrified of blinking and seeing two gigantic eyes staring at him with disapproval.

At school, life was suffering.

The other kids could smell the fear on him from miles away.

He became the official punching bag, the "chicken shit" who cried if someone told a dirty joke, terrified that the ceiling would collapse on his head at any second as punishment.

Then came adolescence and the poison of hormones.

His body was begging him to do what everyone else did at that age. Biology demanded he be rebellious, have desires, impulses.

In catechism, he learned the fate of those who gave in to such sins: eternal fire.

That's when the madness began to manifest physically.

He didn't just feel guilt. He felt the hellish heat.

Every time his gaze strayed beyond a girl's face or a curse word slipped out by accident, his body would freeze.

Sweat poured.

He started hearing a sick sound inside his own head:

scrrsh, scrrsh.

The sound of flames growing.

It was his final destiny revealing itself.

The bullying got a thousand times worse.

He walked stiff, rigid, a hollow saint among normal teenagers, and he got beaten precisely for being the "weird virgin" who never slipped up.

The truth was he was in a state of panic and no one cared.

If he even thought about punching back, the sole of his sneaker would heat up as if he were stepping on embers.

He heard the footsteps.

Heavy.

Thump... thump... thump...

The stern, invisible father walking right behind him.

At eighteen, his brain simply broke.

He threw everything away and dove into the filth.

Cheap booze, hard chemicals, sleepless nights in places that reeked of shit and despair.

Guess what?

It worked.

In the middle of that narcotic fog, his brain shut off the signal.

The flame stopped growing.

The footsteps and the stares vanished.

For the first time in his entire life, he felt like he was alone and could do whatever the hell he wanted!

He was destroying his own body, but, damn, he was genuinely at peace and free.

Unfortunately the high was wearing off and the storm was coming back...

His drug tolerance increased and the barrier fell.

The heat didn't return slowly; it came back like a furnace blast.

Paranoia hit a fever pitch.

The feeling of being watched was so strong his eyes ached.

He saw shapes everywhere, felt the air burning his lungs.

He scraped together the rest of his money and bought a tiny shack at the end of a dead-end street.

A rat hole.

The first thing he did was go to a supermarket, grab dozens of cardboard boxes and rolls of duct tape.

He lost it.

He sealed every inch of that house.

Lined the walls, covered the window cracks, the gap under the door, the drains.

Everything.

Total darkness.

His twisted, psychotic logic was simple:

If I close off all the entrances and get inside really fast and shut the door, God stays outside.

When he went out and quickly came back in closing the door, silence returned.

The air cooled.

He slid down the wall until he sat on the floor, breathing deeply.

God was outside, like a stray dog scratching at the door, unable to get in.

A sick relief.

He was safe.

Alone, at last.

He gave a shaky smile, pulled a crumpled joint from his pocket and put it in his mouth.

The deserved prize.

He struck the lighter.

In the exact fraction of a second the spark lit the tip of the paper, the whole room boiled.

The temperature shot to sixty degrees in the blink of an eye.

The fiery breath hit his face.

The heavy, immense eyes were in there with him.

Staring.

Judging.

He didn't scream.

Fear didn't come.

What came was a smile — manic, the smile of someone who'd spat out the last drop of sanity.

He looked at the small flame of the lighter.

Then he looked at the walls completely covered in dry cardboard.

— You want hell?!

He shouted at nothing.

He touched the lighter flame to the cardboard.

The fire surged in a red and orange roar, swallowing the wall in seconds.

The heat became a monster, black smoke began to choke, but he didn't get up.

He just pulled the smoke from the joint, laughing.

A hysterical, guttural, diabolical laugh.

His skin began to blister and melt, but his happiness was absolute.

He had finally taken control.

He was creating his own hell on earth, and in his insane mind, if God was locked in there with him...

then God would burn with him.

I think I brought something home with me.

In 2011, I was completely lost and in a really dark, turbulent place, drinking heavily and using other kinds of drugs.

felt like something had latched onto me, a negative energy so heavy that whenever I went out to a bar at night, the streetlights would flicker or simply go out... sometimes my computer would stop working for no apparent reason.

Even with the house clean, ants, flies, spiders, and scorpions kept showing up.

One night, while I was at my grandmother’s house in the countryside, I couldn’t sleep and decided to go outside for a cigarette.

I looked out at the horizon and saw a huge black dog sitting in a guard-like posture, staring at me with glowing yellow eyes.

It was far away, so I didn’t panic; I just kept watching until I finished my cigarette, and it didn’t move an inch.

I went back inside, but a little later I decided to check again... and it was still in exactly the same spot.

I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep.

An hour later, I went back outside, and guess what?

The dog was still in the same position.

I went back inside feeling awful, consumed by even stranger thoughts.

A month later, my grandmother passed away.

I still can’t sleep very well.

I’ve been suffering from insomnia ever since that encounter with the dog.

To make things worse, whenever I do manage to sleep, I hear my grandmother’s voice saying:

“You brought the devil into my house.”

She keeps repeating it until I wake up.

Four weeks later, i woke up and there was a huge spider right next to my bed staring at me. I got really scared and jumped up fast.
I went to grab something to kill it, but when I looked at the bed again, it had already vanished.

To recover from the fright, I decided to watch TV, but when I pressed the button, it wouldn’t turn on. I thought the power had gone out, but then I noticed the TV’s red standby light was still on. I thought it was weird, but I let it go.
To calm my nerves, I headed to the kitchen to get a glass of water. On the way, I heard the sound of a long howl. At the time, I didn’t think much of it; I was still a bit drowsy.

That’s when I started feeling horribly unwell. My mouth got a metallic taste, my left arm began to go numb, and I felt my heart racing so wildly that it seemed like it was going to leap out of my throat.
I was desperate, I didn’t know what to do. It felt like I was standing on train tracks and the train was approaching, and there was nothing I could do... absolutely nothing.

I knew I was going to die.

As bizarre as it sounds, I accepted that fate and went back to bed. I lay curled up with my face pressed against the mattress, if I died with a look of pain on my face, I didn’t want to scare anyone.

My heart kept pounding faster and faster... I thought about all the things I still hadn’t done, like having a child, and that made me feel really awful.

I just waited for death, but it didn’t come... I spent the whole day in despair, heart racing, doing nothing but pacing back and forth.
But at the end of the day, my heart slowed down and I calmed down a little...

After the adrenaline wore off, I knew I’d been on the verge of a heart attack. I looked it up later, and it was probably cocaine poisoning.
That was the day I turned my life around.

Now, after 15 years, I’ve only had one relapse with drugs. I’ve had a few with alcohol, but they’re becoming rarer and rarer...
I’m afraid of one day hearing that howl again or seeing that dog again... I’m certain that if it ever happens again, I won’t survive.

«Fíjate bien en lo que haces, chico. Porque a donde vayas, Dios irá detrás de ti».

Todo empezó con esa frase de mierda.

No fue el monstruo saliendo del armario ni un demonio vomitando verde lo que realmente lo asustó: fue esa frase, dicha por su propia madre mientras barría el piso de la cocina, sin siquiera mirarlo a la cara.

Para ella, era solo un sermón barato.
Para el cerebro de aquel niño, fue una maldición.

Imagínate tener cuatro años y descubrir que hay un ente invisible y todopoderoso respirándote en la nuca las veinticuatro horas del día.
El chico no veía a un viejito bondadoso de barba blanca; sentía una presencia que lo acechaba.
No podía ir al baño a oscuras sin orinarse encima antes de llegar al váter, del pánico que le daba parpadear y encontrarse dos ojos gigantescos mirándolo con desaprobación.

En la escuela, la vida era un sufrimiento.
Los otros chicos olían el miedo en él a kilómetros de distancia.
Se convirtió en el saco de boxeo oficial, el «cagón» que lloraba si alguien contaba un chiste sucio, aterrorizado con la idea de que el techo se le desplomara encima en cualquier momento como castigo.

Luego vino la adolescencia y el veneno de las hormonas.
El cuerpo le pedía hacer lo que todo el mundo hacía a esa edad.
La biología le exigía ser rebelde, tener deseos, impulsos.
En el catecismo aprendió el destino de quienes cedían a tales pecados: el fuego eterno.

Ahí fue cuando la locura empezó a manifestarse físicamente.
No solo sentía culpa.
Sentía el calor infernal.
Cada vez que su mirada se desviaba más allá del rostro de una chica o se le escapaba una palabrota sin querer, el cuerpo se le paralizaba.
El sudor le corría a chorros.
Empezó a oír un sonido enfermizo dentro de su propia cabeza: scrrsh, scrrsh. El ruido de las llamas creciendo.
Era su destino final asomándose.

El bullying se multiplicó por mil.
Caminaba tieso, rígido, un santo de palo en medio de adolescentes normales, y le pegaban justamente por ser el «virgen raro» que nunca se equivocaba.
La verdad es que estaba en pánico y a nadie le importaba.
Si tan solo pensaba en devolver un puñetazo, la suela de la zapatilla le ardía como si pisara brasas.
Oía los pasos.
Pesados.
Pum... pum... pum...
El padre severo e invisible caminando justo detrás.

A los dieciocho años, el cerebro simplemente se le quebró.
Mandó todo al diablo y se hundió en la mierda.
Alcohol barato, química dura, noches en vela en lugares que apestaban a mierda y desesperación.
¿Adivina qué?
Funcionó.
En medio de aquella niebla de estupefacientes, el cerebro le desconectó la sintonía.
La llama dejó de crecer. Los pasos y las miradas desaparecieron.
¡Por primera vez en toda su vida sintió que estaba solo y que podía hacer lo que se le antojara!
Estaba destruyendo su propio cuerpo, pero, joder, estaba genuinamente en paz y libre.

Por desgracia el colocón se estaba acabando y la tormenta volvía... la tolerancia a las drogas aumentó y la barrera se cayó.
El calor no regresó despacio; volvió como la explosión de un horno.
La paranoia alcanzó un nivel febril.
La sensación de estar siendo observado era tan fuerte que le dolían los ojos.
Veía sombras en todas partes, sentía el aire quemarle los pulmones.

Juntó el resto de dinero que le quedaba y compró un cuchitril minúsculo al final de una calle sin salida.
Una ratonera.
Lo primero que hizo fue ir a un supermercado, recoger decenas de cajas de cartón y rollos de cinta aislante.
Perdió el juicio.
Selló cada centímetro de aquella casa.
Forró las paredes, tapó las rendijas de las ventanas, la abertura bajo la puerta, los desagües.
Todo.
Oscuridad total.
Su lógica retorcida y psicótica era simple: si cierro todas las entradas, entro muy rápido y cierro la puerta, Dios se queda afuera.

Cuando salió y volvió a entrar rápidamente cerrando la puerta, el silencio regresó.
El aire se enfrió.
Se deslizó por la pared hasta sentarse en el suelo, respirando hondo.
Dios estaba afuera, como un perro callejero arañando la puerta sin poder entrar.
Un alivio enfermizo.
Estaba a salvo.
Solo, por fin.

Sonrió tembloroso, sacó un porro arrugado del bolsillo y se lo puso en la boca.
El premio merecido.
Encendió el mechero.

En la exacta fracción de segundo en que la chispa iluminó la punta del papel, la habitación entera hirvió.
La temperatura subió a sesenta grados en un abrir y cerrar de ojos.
El aliento de fuego le golpeó la cara.
Los ojos pesados, inmensos, estaban ahí dentro con él.
Mirándolo fijamente.
Juzgándolo.

No gritó.
El miedo no llegó.
Lo que llegó fue una sonrisa, maníaca, de quien había escupido la última gota de cordura.

Miró la pequeña llama del mechero.
Luego miró las paredes completamente cubiertas de cartón seco.

— ¿¡Quieres el infierno!?

Gritó a la nada.

Acercó la llama del mechero al cartón.
El fuego se alzó en un rugido rojo y naranja, tragándose la pared en segundos.
El calor se volvió un monstruo, el humo negro empezó a asfixiar, pero él no se levantó.
Solo le dio una calada al porro, riendo.
Una carcajada histérica, gutural, diabólica.
La piel comenzó a ampollársele y a derretirse, pero su felicidad era absoluta.

Por fin había tomado el control.
Estaba creando su propio infierno en la tierra, y en su cabeza enloquecida, si Dios estaba encerrado ahí dentro con él... entonces Dios ardería con él.

"Watch what you do, kid. Because wherever you go, God will follow."

It all started with that shitty sentence.

It wasn't the monster coming out of the closet or a demon vomiting green that really scared him — it was that sentence, spoken by his own mother while she swept the kitchen floor, without even looking the boy in the face.

To her, it was just a cheap sermon.
To that child's brain, it was a curse.

Imagine being four years old and finding out there's an invisible, all-powerful entity breathing down your neck twenty-four hours a day.
The boy didn't see a kind old man with a white beard; he felt a haunting presence.
He couldn't go to the bathroom in the dark without pissing himself before he reached the toilet, he was so terrified of blinking and seeing two gigantic eyes staring at him with disapproval.

At school, life was suffering.
The other kids could smell the fear on him from miles away.
He became the official punching bag, the "chicken shit" who cried if someone told a dirty joke, terrified that the ceiling would collapse on his head at any second as punishment.

Then came adolescence and the poison of hormones.
His body was begging him to do what everyone else did at that age.
Biology demanded he be rebellious, have desires, impulses.
In catechism, he learned the fate of those who gave in to such sins: eternal fire.

That's when the madness began to manifest physically.
He didn't just feel guilt.
He felt the hellish heat.
Every time his gaze strayed beyond a girl's face or a curse word slipped out by accident, his body would freeze.
Sweat poured.
He started hearing a sick sound inside his own head: scrrsh, scrrsh. The sound of flames growing.
It was his final destiny revealing itself.

The bullying got a thousand times worse.
He walked stiff, rigid, a hollow saint among normal teenagers, and he got beaten precisely for being the "weird virgin" who never slipped up.
The truth was he was in a state of panic and no one cared.
If he even thought about punching back, the sole of his sneaker would heat up as if he were stepping on embers.
He heard the footsteps.
Heavy.
Thump... thump... thump...
The stern, invisible father walking right behind him.

At eighteen, his brain simply broke.
He threw everything away and dove into the filth.
Cheap booze, hard chemicals, sleepless nights in places that reeked of shit and despair.
Guess what?
It worked.
In the middle of that narcotic fog, his brain shut off the signal.
The flame stopped growing. The footsteps and the stares vanished.
For the first time in his entire life, he felt like he was alone and could do whatever the hell he wanted!
He was destroying his own body, but, damn, he was genuinely at peace and free.

Unfortunately the high was wearing off and the storm was coming back... his drug tolerance increased and the barrier fell.
The heat didn't return slowly; it came back like a furnace blast.
Paranoia hit a fever pitch.
The feeling of being watched was so strong his eyes ached.
He saw shapes everywhere, felt the air burning his lungs.

He scraped together the rest of his money and bought a tiny shack at the end of a dead-end street.
A rat hole.
The first thing he did was go to a supermarket, grab dozens of cardboard boxes and rolls of duct tape.
He lost it.
He sealed every inch of that house.
Lined the walls, covered the window cracks, the gap under the door, the drains.
Everything.
Total darkness.
His twisted, psychotic logic was simple: If I close off all the entrances and get inside really fast and shut the door, God stays outside.

When he went out and quickly came back in closing the door, silence returned.
The air cooled.
He slid down the wall until he sat on the floor, breathing deeply.
God was outside, like a stray dog scratching at the door, unable to get in.
A sick relief.
He was safe.
Alone, at last.

He gave a shaky smile, pulled a crumpled joint from his pocket and put it in his mouth.
The deserved prize.
He struck the lighter.

In the exact fraction of a second the spark lit the tip of the paper, the whole room boiled.
The temperature shot to sixty degrees in the blink of an eye.
The fiery breath hit his face.
The heavy, immense eyes were in there with him.
Staring.
Judging.

He didn't scream.
Fear didn't come.
What came was a smile — manic, the smile of someone who'd spat out the last drop of sanity.

He looked at the small flame of the lighter.
Then he looked at the walls completely covered in dry cardboard.

— You want hell?!

He shouted at nothing.

He touched the lighter flame to the cardboard.
The fire surged in a red and orange roar, swallowing the wall in seconds.
The heat became a monster, black smoke began to choke, but he didn't get up.
He just pulled the smoke from the joint, laughing.
A hysterical, guttural, diabolical laugh.
His skin began to blister and melt, but his happiness was absolute.

He had finally taken control.
He was creating his own hell on earth, and in his insane mind, if God was locked in there with him... then God would burn with him.

"Olha bem as coisas que tu faz, moleque. Porque aonde tu for, Deus vai atrás."

Tudo começou com essa frase de merda.

Não foi pelo monstro saindo do armário nem um demônio vomitando verde que ele ficou realmente assustado, e sim foram por essa sentença dita pela própria mãe, varrendo o chão da cozinha, sem nem olhar na cara do guri.

Pra ela, era só um sermão barato.

Pro cérebro daquela criança, foi uma maldição.

Imagina você ter quatro anos e descobrir que existe uma entidade invisível e onipotente fungando no seu pescoço vinte e quatro horas por dia.

O guri não via um velhinho bondoso de barba branca; ele sentia uma assombração.

Ele não conseguia ir no banheiro no escuro sem se mijar antes de chegar no vaso, ele ficava com tanto pânico de piscar e ver dois olhos gigantescos o encarando com desaprovação.

Na escola, a vida era um sofrimento.

Os outros moleques sentiam o cheiro de medo nele a quilômetros de distância.

Ele virou o saco de pancadas oficial, o "cagão" que chorava se alguém contava uma piada suja, aterrorizado com a ideia de que o teto fosse desabar na cabeça dele a qualquer segundo como punição.

Aí veio a adolescência e o veneno dos hormônios.

O corpo do cara pedia pra ele fazer o que todo mundo fazia nessa idade.

A biologia exigia que ele fosse rebelde, que tivesse desejos, impulsos.

No catecismo, ele aprendeu o destino de quem cedia a tais pecados: o fogo eterno.

Foi aí que a loucura começou a se manifestar fisicamente.

Ele não sentia só culpa.

Ele sentia o calor infernal.

Cada vez que o olhar dele desviava para além do rosto da garota ou um xingamento que ele disse sem querer, o seu corpo ficava paralisado.

O suor escorria.

Ele começou a ouvir um som doentio dentro da própria cabeça: scrrsh, scrrsh. O barulho das chamas crescendo.

Era o seu destino final aparecendo.

O bullying piorou mil vezes.

Ele andava reto, travado, um santo do pau oco no meio de adolescentes normais, e apanhava justamente por ser o "virjão esquisito" que nunca errava.

A verdade é que ele estava em pânico e ninguém se importava.

Se ele pensasse em dar um soco de volta, a sola do tênis dele esquentava como se ele estivesse pisando em brasas.

Ele ouvia os passos.

Pesados.

Tum... tum... tum...

O pai severo e invisível caminhando logo atrás.

Aos dezoito anos, o cérebro dele simplesmente se quebrou.

Ele jogou tudo pro alto e mergulhou no lixo.

Bebida barata, química pesada, noites em claro em lugares que cheiravam a merda e desespero.

Adivinha?

Funcionou.

No meio daquela névoa de entorpecentes, o cérebro dele desligou a sintonia.

A chama parou de crescer. Os passos e os olhares sumiram.

Pela primeira vez na vida inteira, ele sentiu que estava sozinho e poderia fazer o que ele bem quisesse!

Ele estava destruindo o próprio corpo, mas, porra, ele estava genuinamente em paz e livre.

Infelizmente a brisa estava acabando e a tempestade estava voltando... a tolerância às drogas aumentou e a barreira caiu.

O calor não voltou devagar; ele voltou como a explosão de um forno.

A paranoia atingiu um nível febril.

A sensação de estar sendo observado era tão forte que os olhos dele doíam.

Ele via vultos em tudo que é lugar, sentia o ar queimar os pulmões.

Ele juntou o resto de dinheiro que tinha e comprou um barraco minúsculo, no fim de uma rua sem saída.

Um buraco de rato.

A primeira coisa que ele fez foi ir num supermercado, catar dezenas de caixas de papelão e rolos de fita isolante.

Ele surtou.

Lacrou cada centímetro daquela casa.

Forrou as paredes, tapou as frestas das janelas, o vão debaixo da porta, os ralos.

Tudo.

Escuridão total.

A lógica retorcida e psicótica dele era simples: Se eu fechar todas as entradas e entrar bem rápido e fechar a porta, Deus fica do lado de fora.

Quando ele saiu e rapidamente voltou para dentro fechando a porta, o silêncio voltou.

O ar esfriou.

Ele escorregou pela parede até sentar no chão, respirando fundo.

Deus estava do lado de fora, feito um cão de rua arranhando a porta sem conseguir entrar.

Um alívio doentio.

Estava seguro.

Sozinho, finalmente.

Ele deu um sorriso trêmulo, puxou um baseado amassado do bolso e colocou na boca.

O prêmio merecido.

Ele riscou o isqueiro.

Na exata fração de segundo em que a faísca iluminou a ponta do papel, o quarto inteiro ferveu.

A temperatura foi pra sessenta graus num piscar de olhos.

O bafo de fogo bateu no rosto dele.

Os olhos pesados, imensos, estavam lá dentro com ele.

Olhando fixamente.

Julgando.

Ele não gritou.

O medo não veio.

O que veio foi um sorriso, maníaco, de quem cuspiu o último pingo de sanidade.

Ele olhou pra chama pequena do isqueiro.

Depois olhou as paredes inteiras cobertas de papelão seco.

- Quer o inferno?!

Ele gritou pro nada.

Ele encostou a chama do isqueiro no papelão.

O fogo subiu num rugido vermelho e laranja, engolindo a parede em segundos.

O calor virou um monstro, a fumaça preta começou a sufocar, mas ele não levantou.

Ele só puxou a fumaça do baseado, rindo.

Uma gargalhada histérica, gutural e diabólica.

A pele dele começou a empolar e derreter, mas a felicidade dele era absoluta.

Ele finalmente tinha tomado o controle.

Ele estava criando o próprio inferno na terra e na cabeça enlouquecida dele, se Deus estava trancado ali dentro... então Deus iria queimar com ele.

Em sua cela a garota acorrentada na cama sorria.

Os guardas no corredor nunca olhavam lá dentro.

Nunca olhavam.

Pois havia histórias de que dois deles, de tanto olharem para ela, acabaram se suicidando, e só Deus ou quem sabe o Diabo sabe o motivo.

O padre ajeitou a estola roxa sobre os ombros, sentindo o peso de quarenta anos de sacerdócio e dezenas de rituais que haviam deixado cicatrizes profundas em sua alma.

Sentou-se no banco de madeira, o mesmo banco que havia sido arremessado contra a cabeça de um guarda na semana anterior, quando três homens adultos não conseguiram conter o que habitava aquele corpo franzino e ágil.

- Filha... qual é o seu nome?

Começou o padre, e a palavra pareceu doce demais naquele lugar esquecido por Deus.

Ela sorriu com olhos assustados, como se houvesse uma certa dualidade dentro dela.

- Certos nomes não devem ser pronunciados...

O padre entendeu...

O demônio não queria que a menina revelasse a sua identidade.

O padre disse, com uma voz mais autoritária:

- Você pode responder com sinceridade, não escute o que ele fala dentro de você.

Ela continuou sorrindo, mas seus olhos não paravam de se mover: felicidade e nervosismo no mesmo corpo.

- Se eu responder, a escuridão se enfurece, cresce e se apossa de tudo...

O padre ainda não sabe se ela está fingindo; ele já viu boas atrizes... performando um show de mal gosto.

- Quando a escuridão toma seu corpo, você se lembra de alguma coisa, ou tudo simplesmente se apaga?

A prisioneira inclinou a cabeça para trás e para frente, para trás e para frente, como se estivesse brincando em um balanço invisível.

Seus olhos castanhos suaves à luz fraca, fitaram os do padre, ela ainda não tinha piscado nenhuma vez.

- Fico num estado entre o pesadelo e a realidade, as coisas se misturam, mas digamos que caio numa paralisia do sono e o Cão desperta. Ele faz coisas que não controlo e não quero controlar. Deixo-o correr livre, em troca, ele não devora minha alma.

O padre anotou algo em seu pequeno caderno.

A caneta estava mais quente que o casual e suas mãos tremiam.

- Os guardas dizem que você fala em línguas estranhas. Tem consciência dessas palavras, ou elas simplesmente saem?

- Minha boca está fechada, mesmo assim saem sons: murmúrios, lamentações, maldições. Mesmo sem entendê-los, sinto que é isso que eles são.

O brilho da luz da lâmpada diminuiu.

O padre se inclinou um pouco mais para a frente.

O cheiro piorava perto da prisioneira — não o cheiro de alguém sujo ou doente, mas algo como carne cozida com com mel estragado, uma mistura que trazia náusea.

- O que cresce dentro de ti nessas horas... é a sua própria voz, ou sente que é outro falando por meio de você, como está fazendo agora?

A prisioneira fechou os olhos por um instante, como se saboreasse a pergunta.

- Talvez no fundo eu queira dizer essas palavras, entretanto Ele está no comando. É algo entre Ele e eu. Somos quase um.

Quase um.

O padre repetiu mentalmente a palavra.

- Quando Ele acorda, o que sente primeiro: frio, raiva, vazio ou presença?

- Quase não sinto as coisas, mas nesse momento me sinto livre e acorrentada ao mesmo tempo. É uma sensação presa entre o prazer da devassidão e o medo do que ela pode trazer.

A voz da prisioneira mudava a cada resposta. Às vezes era a de uma jovem e em outros momentos, algo mais velho, mais profundo, como de uma bruxa em seu túmulo.

O padre tocou o crucifixo pendurado contra o peito.

O metal estava frio... frio demais.

- Você está sofrendo? Ou há um prazer oculto quando isso acontece? Quando você matou todas aquelas pessoas... os sobreviventes disseram que você gargalhava e dançava em cima dos corpos, isso é verdade?

A prisioneira deu uma risada curta.

- Eu nunca sofri depois que Ele apareceu. Me tornou mais forte. Deixei de ser vítima. Me protege, nós dois desfrutamos da violência que Ele proporciona. Percebeu que eu era um potencial, fico feliz em ser seus dentes.

Sete garotas.

Sete garotas em um quarto em uma festa universitária, todas encontradas com marcas de mordidas que não eram humanas. As arcadas dentárias não correspondiam a nenhum animal conhecido.

O padre tentou engolir a própria saliva, mas percebeu que o calor dentro dele era tão intenso, que nem suor, saliva e sequer lágrimas nasciam, em meio ao medo fez a pergunta seguinte.

- Essa entidade, se é assim que devo chamá-la, fala com você quando você está acordada?

- Sim, e me incita ao mal. Todo mundo tem uma consciência entre o bem e o mal. Já não escuto mais o bem, se cansou de tentar falar comigo. Foi embora. Não sobrou nada de bom aqui dentro.

A prisioneira ergueu as mãos algemadas e acariciou o próprio corpo.

A mão tinha uma pele perfeita e pequena, mas as unhas, compridas e amareladas cobertas de um fungo que fazia parecer ser de um velho tronco de árvore, davam uma aparência nauseante.

Mas foi o gesto que mais perturbou, as mãos foram até onde ficava o coração e as unhas começaram a se enfincar com força contra a pele; ela se tocava como se tentasse arrancar um parasita que a incomodava.

- Ele pede algo a você? Se sim... o quê?

Os olhos castanhos escureceram. Não mudaram de cor... simplesmente escureceram, como se alguém tivesse apagado uma luz atrás deles.

- Garotas puras... puras como eu era. A alma delas tem um sabor melhor.

O padre sentiu percorrer em todo seu corpo um calafrio que nada tinha a ver com a temperatura da cela.

Enfrentara possessões antes, homens que cuspiam sangue e blasfêmias, mulheres que se contorciam em línguas impossíveis, crianças que falavam com vozes de adultos mortos.

Aquilo era totalmente diferente.

Aquilo não era possessão.

Era uma parceria.

- Quando você rosna e se contorce, sente que está defendendo algo... ou atacando?

- É a natureza animalesca vindo à tona, ou a entidade infernal... só sei que é enorme e imponente, é colossal.

A prisioneira abriu os braços algemados o máximo que pôde, como se tentasse demonstrar o tamanho do que habitava seu ser.

- Há um nome... uma palavra... algo que se repete quando isso acontece?

O sorriso voltou, mais largo dessa vez.

- Anime vestra, anime vestra, anime vestra...

O padre sentiu o crucifixo de repente ficar quente, como se aquelas palavras fossem uma ofensa direta ao sagrado.

Anime vestra:

Suas almas.

Mas não era uma prece, era uma invocação, dita com a entonação de alguém que reivindica o que lhe pertence.

- Você sente medo durante esses episódios? Ou é o mundo que deveria temer você?

- Não sinto medo nenhum. O mundo é natureza, a natureza é perfeita mesmo com as abominações, ela tem sua harmonia no caos. Agora, a sociedade deveria ter medo. Eu sou um produto dela.

Pela primeira vez, ele soube que ouvira a voz da garota: ela era revoltada, estava com ódio, igual ao ser que se apossara dela, motivos diferentes, mas unidos no ódio.

As paredes, antes distantes, agora pareciam próximas demais, como se estivessem se fechando lentamente.

- Antes de dormir, você sente isso se aproximando... como se estivesse te observando de algum canto da cela?

- Ele já está dentro de mim. Eu o deixei entrar há muito tempo. Rezei, implorando que qualquer coisa que me escutasse se aproximasse e me salvasse de mim mesma. Ele é um presente. Eu estaria morta sem ele.

O padre fechou o caderno.

Suas mãos agora tremiam, não de medo, mas de algo que ele compreendeu:

Reconhecimento.

Em quarenta anos de confissões, ouvira súplicas parecidas.

Pessoas que rezavam não a Deus, mas a qualquer coisa que as arrancasse da dor.

Ele mesmo, em noites escuras após rituais fracassados, sentira a tentação de rezar para o outro lado.

- Você acredita que essa força é maligna... ou a vê como uma parte sua que finalmente se revelou?

- Maligno, feroz e insaciável. Tenho uma parte nela, mas não sou tão majestosa quanto Ele. Sou minúscula perto dele. É transcendental, sempre existiu e sempre existirá. Antes de mim e depois de mim, continuará. Você acredita em forças superiores? Então, quando vir meus olhos nesse estado, acreditará.

O padre acreditava.

Esse era o problema.

- Se eu colocasse minha mão regada de água benta em sua testa agora... aquilo que aparece à noite acordaria?

A prisioneira encarou a mão que o padre molhava com a água benta do cantil que erguera no ar.

Havia algo faminto naquele olhar, mas também algo entediado.

- Esse ser e eu somos um. Ele não vai aparecer porque você não é um perigo nem sequer é uma presa para nós. Você é velho e está perto da morte, é mentiroso e depravado como todos que vestem essas batinas, nega sua natureza, é digno de pena. O cão só aparece para as garotas puras com quem quer saborear. Deixo que ele se divirta comigo, deixo-o mais livre para que Ele afrouxe minhas correntes e eu afrouxe as dele.

O padre recolheu a mão.

O calor infernal fez a água benta evaporar.

As palavras doeram mais do que deveriam, porque atingiram verdades que ele enterrara décadas atrás, toques impróprios no seminário que jamais denunciara, o padre mais velho que ainda celebrava missa, o silêncio cúmplice de toda uma instituição.

- Quando você acha que isso começou? Antes dos crimes... durante... ou depois?

- Ele apareceu e eu o deixei entrar três dias antes da primeira matança. No começo, só ficava ao meu lado. Depois que viu que eu era capaz de matar, tomou conta de mim.

O padre lembrou-se do arquivo policial.

Três dias antes, a prisioneira então uma garota de dezenove anos, recebera alta de um hospital psiquiátrico onde passara seis meses após uma tentativa de suicídio.

Ninguém a visitara.

Ninguém fora buscá-la na saída.

Caminhou sozinha até a rodoviária e, três dias depois, a sua família desapareceu.

As peças se encaixaram.

- O que essa coisa pensa sobre a cadeira elétrica que te espera? Ela teme a morte?

A prisioneira discordou com a cabeça devagar, como uma professora paciente explicando algo a um aluno lerdo.

- Ele é indiferente. Vou dar um exemplo simples para você tentar entender. Ele é uma mão forte e imponente que pega uma marionete e a faz dançar como quer. Eu sou o brinquedo dele.

O crucifixo estava vermelho de tão quente.

Ele não sentia a queimadura.

- Se eu ordenasse, em nome de Deus, que isso se manifestasse agora... obedeceria?

- Não, porque você não tem poder aqui. Existe o livre-arbítrio. O mal não pode ser expulso se eu não quiser!

Foi a resposta mais lúcida da noite.

O mal não entrava sem permissão.

O padre sabia disso melhor do que ninguém.

- Você quer que eu a liberte disso... ou quer mantê-lo dentro de você?

O tempo que se seguiu foi acompanhado de imagens de pecados que o padre já cometera.
Ele quase saiu correndo do local, pois estava se ensandecendo, mas fez uma prece baixinho e continuou lá.

Não uma prece vazia era um clamor cheio e verdadeiro.

- Se você me libertar disso, voltarei a ser a garota doente que todos vocês quebraram, vou acabar brincando de levitar e nunca mais sentir o chão. Mas a decisão é sua.

A responsabilidade caiu sobre os ombros do padre como uma lápide pesada.

Ele podia tentar o exorcismo, arriscar a vida, a sanidade, a alma, por uma mulher que não queria ser libertada.

Podia ir embora e deixar que o Estado executasse o corpo, sabendo que o que habitava a prisioneira simplesmente encontraria outra igual.

- Se essa entidade falasse comigo agora, o que ela me diria?

A prisioneira tornou a inclinar a cabeça, mas dessa vez o movimento não era humano, era como uma cobra examinando um rato, um predador avaliando se a presa valia o esforço.

- Você é inferior. Ele não gastaria saliva com uma criatura como você. Sinto o cheiro de morte empesteando em você... morte, mijo e remédio. Você está perto do caixão, por causa dos pecados que cometeu e dos quais nunca se arrependeu, porque ainda anseia cometê-los, o Cão vai te arrastar para as profundezas. No inferno nós vamos dançar juntos de mãos dadas sobre as chamas infernais do nosso mestre Diabo.

Ela abriu a mão como se pedisse para ele aceitar aquele pedido grotesco.

O padre recuou e levou a mão ao peito.

O cheiro que a prisioneira descrevera — ele agora podia senti-lo em si mesmo.

O odor de um corpo envelhecendo, de uma fé apodrecendo, de décadas de confissões não ditas.

- Quando você olha para mim, você me vê... ou é ele que me observa pelos seus olhos?

A prisioneira ficou imóvel, e por um instante, apenas um instante, o padre viu algo por trás daqueles olhos castanhos.

Algo imenso.

Algo profano.

Algo eterno.

Algo que o conhecia pelo nome.

- Sei bem da sua fraqueza e da sua falsa autoridade. Você pode até ter expulsado alguns, mas o veneno que injetou nas pessoas que profanou com suas mãos ainda vive na mente delas. Você é o mal maior que brinca de ser bom.

O padre se levantou do banco.

As pernas estavam dormentes, já não sentia o próprio corpo.

Sentia apenas o peso do o crucifixo, o cheiro de enxofre que agora parecia vir de dentro de si mesmo.

- Por fim: você acredita que isso é uma maldição lançada sobre você... ou um companheiro que sempre esteve esperando o momento de tomar seu lugar?

A prisioneira estendeu as mãos algemadas em direção ao padre, como se oferecesse um presente, como se convidasse a um abraço.

- Somos amigos, e compartilhamos um interesse em comum: matar e torturar almas ingênuas que caem na armadilha quando seguram nossa mão. De certa forma, você faz parte do mal.

A luz se apagou.

Na escuridão, o padre ouviu o som de correntes se arrastando, um rosnado grave que vibrou pelas paredes.

Som de risadas... duas risadas sobrepostas, uma humana e outra que não era.

Desesperado, recuou até bater na porta de ferro.

Socou-a com força e repetidas vezes até que os guardas a abrissem.

Quando a luz do corredor inundou a cela, a prisioneira estava exatamente na mesma posição: acorrentada, imóvel, sorrindo.

O padre viu o que não devia ter visto.

Viu que as correntes não prendiam a prisioneira.

As correntes prendiam algo dentro dela.

As algemas sempre estavam frouxas, porque o que quer que vivesse naquele corpo não precisava de mãos para matar.

O padre fechou a porta e se encostou na parede do corredor.

O coração velho batia como nunca havia batido antes.

A estola roxa estava se manchando de lágrimas e suor.

Pela primeira vez em quarenta anos, não conseguiu rezar.

Porque a última coisa que a prisioneira dissera cicatrizava em sua mente como uma sentença final:
"De certa forma, você faz parte do mal."

O pior era que, no fundo da alma, apodrecida pelo tempo e por seus pecados nunca contados, o velho padre sabia que era verdade.

Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting beside her sister with the head she had severed fifteen minutes ago.

Once or twice she glanced at the body stretched out on the floor, but there was no way left to hurt her.

"What use is a dead body?" thought Alice, "if she feels no more pain and doesn't even have a breath?"

Then she grew irritated with herself (as badly as was possible on that hot day that made her furious and even more dangerous) if the pleasure of making a necklace out of all her sister's severed fingers was stronger than the effort of having to bite and tear off all her fingers, when suddenly a White Rabbit covered in blood with yellow eyes came staggering past her.

There was nothing special about that; nor did Alice find it very out of the ordinary to hear the rabbit say to itself: "Oh hells! Oh hells! I should have murdered her!" (when she thought about it afterwards, it occurred to her that she should have thought she was still drugged, but at the time it seemed the breeze had already worn off.)

But when the Rabbit pulled a knife from the pocket of its bloodstained waistcoat and looked at her, hurrying to sharpen it, and then took out a watch and looked at it in haste, Alice got to her feet and it flashed through her mind, like lightning, that she had never made a stew out of a rabbit that had a pocket in its bloodstained waistcoat.

And even less so, one with a watch to steal and trade with her dealer in exchange for lots of drugs.

Burning with hunger, she ran across the field after him, just in time to see him jump into a burrow, a filthy hole beneath the sewer.

In that same instant, Alice went in after him, without thinking about how she would get out again, after all she was already hardened from chasing desperate victims into every nook and cranny.

The rabbit hole led straight into a tunnel, and then suddenly plunged downward.

So suddenly that Alice had not a single moment to think before she found herself falling into what seemed to be a rather deep hole, perhaps even deeper than the graves she used to dig.

Either it was very deep or she was falling very slowly, because the girl had plenty of time to look around her and to wish to know the taste of her own blood during this fall.

First, she tried to look down and understand where she was heading, but it was too dark to see anything, not as dark as her own soul, but still dark; then she looked at the sides of the shaft and noticed it was filled with skulls: here and there she saw bones and necks hanging from clotheslines.

Alice snatched a cranium from one of the bone piles as she passed: it was labeled "Brain in putrefaction," but to her great disappointment it was empty: she threw the skull away forcefully to hurt someone who might be down below.

"Shit," thought Alice to herself. "After a fall like this, I won't be forced to face the electric chair! If I survive, at the trial they'll think I'm innocent and say I was attacked by the killer too! Because I won't say a word, even if they torture me, I'll even enjoy it!" (Which was probably true.)

To hell, to hell, to hell. This fall will never end!

"I'd love to know how many meters I've fallen so far," she said smiling.

"I must be getting quite close to the Devil now.

Let me see.

I've already gone down about a hundred graves by now, I think... (you see, Alice had learned the ideal depth for a body through her own actions and repetitions of burying, even though she was no gravedigger, and she thought it would be a good opportunity to show off her morbid knowledge; even though there were only the ghosts of her victims to hear her, it was always good for her to hear her own voice.)

"Yes, I think that's correct, but which position would I be in if they dug me up, face down or on my side or belly up? (Alice didn't have the faintest idea of what was above the Earth, nor her position in the world, but she thought the image of her twisted body upon being dug up would be good for scaring others.)

Soon she began again: "I wonder if I can kill even after I'm dead! How funny it would be to haunt and kill people with fright who walk with their heads upside down.

All sons of bitches pissing themselves when they see me, I find that rather amusing... (she was less sad that there was no one judging her now, because she always had to pretend in order not to get caught.)

Now if I go to hell I'll have to start reigning there, but I have to force them to worship me. Tell me before I cut your throat, this is my territory now and it will bear my name, before was it called Hell? Limbo? My name carries more weight than those previous ones. (and she tried to make an even scarier face as she spoke – trying to make them fear while falling through the air! Do you think I wanted to control that?)

She would think I'm a stupid little girl for asking! No, I'll never ask. I'll torture her so she can confess, if she doesn't treat me well I'll rip her tongue out with my own teeth."

To hell, to hell, to hell! There was nothing more to do, so Alice started screaming again.

"Diana will miss me very much tonight, I think (Diana was the dead body of her mother whom she had killed but never buried.)

I hope she won't mind not having tea with me.

Diana, you stupid! I wish you were buried with me right now!

There's nothing to do when you're dying! But have the worms already started eating me from inside?"

And here Alice began to get excited and carried on touching herself and talking to herself in a disturbing manner.

"Worms sucking all my skin," and sometimes "worms sucking my cunt."

As you can see, she could think of nothing else, for she was a nymphomaniac, and it mattered little what reason for her desire that she fed them.

Alice felt that she was coming, and began to dream that she was killing her mother Diana once more and screaming at her, most diabolically:

"So Diana, tell me the truth... do you come when the worms eat you?"

When suddenly, "thump! thumpt!," she fell onto a pile of bones and ashes and the fall ended, but for Alice the mental fall only grew, and she always smiled.

Alice, to her joy, was quite hurt and managed to get up slowly:

She looked up but it was all dark above her head, giving a sensation of peace, for she was always enveloped in darkness; before her there was another long tunnel and the White Rabbit with bloodstains was still staggering, drunk.

There wasn't a moment to lose, he was going to die!

Off went Alice like a hurricane, just in time to hear him say, as he turned the corner:

"Oh! Damn and hell, how late it's getting, I'll have to kill her while she sleeps!"

Alice was drawing near, cautious and ready to strangle him when he rounded the corner, but the damned thing was still in sight!

The girl found herself, then, in a long, moldy room, which was lit by a row of black and red candles hanging from the ceiling inside skulls, like a scarier Halloween pumpkin.

There were coffins all around the room, but they were all closed, and after Alice tried to open them one by one, attempting to desecrate each coffin without success, she returned furiously to the center of the room, thinking about how she would carry out her necrophilia.

Suddenly, she found a small coffin, all made of solid glass: there was nothing inside it but a tiny rusty hatchet and Alice's first thought was that it might break into some coffin in the room; "but, what rotten luck!, either the coffins are too big or the hatchet too small, but in any case it wouldn't pry open any of the coffins."

Nevertheless, on the second try, Alice found a curtain with piss, blood and pus that she hadn't noticed before; she gently took it and licked it all over.

Then she saw behind it there was a vagina approximately 35 centimeters wide: the girl placed her hands around the lips and, to her great pleasure, she began to stretch it and tear it open.

Alice widened the vagina so much that she saw it gave a small passage, not much larger than a shotgun hole she had made so many times in other people's heads: she knelt down and spotted the most abandoned cemetery of aborted fetuses she had ever seen.

How she wanted to get out of that useless room and wander among those tiny graves with beds of dead flowers and those cold little marble angel statues weeping... but she couldn't even get her head through the vagina; "and even if my head passed," thought the demented Alice, "it would be of little use without the rest of my body, and I wouldn't want to end up in the same state I left my first boyfriend...

Oh! How I wish to be the size of a cock and go all the way inside that cunt.

I think I could, if only I could reach the uterus and make it bleed."

You see, so many hellish abuses had happened that Alice always thought that very few things were actually truly impossible.

There was no sense in Alice's life, but she hated waiting beside the cunt and so Alice went back towards the glass coffin, hoping to find another larger hatchet or, who knows, a lighter to burn everything:

This time she found a small bottle full of absinthe on it ("which certainly wasn't here before or she would already have drunk it all because she was an alcoholic," exciting Alice)

And tied around the neck like nooses that Alice used to make on unsuspecting necks, there was a label with the words "Fuck it" crudely scrawled in crooked letters.

It's all very well to say "FUCK IT," but Alice wasn't going to fuck herself hastily. "No, I'll sniff it first," she said, "and see if it has alcohol or not, because I don't want to drink some shitty natural juice.

Alice had drunk a lot of alcohol and even having thrown up almost every weekend, she hated more than anything healthy and dull liquids.

For example: a cigarette butt can burn you but you have to hold it for a long time, or, if you cut your wrist too shallow with a knife, it usually won't bleed enough; and she never forgot to sniff before drinking: if you drink a bottle that says "fuck it" it's almost certain to harm you, sooner or later, and that excited her even more.

This bottle smelled of alcohol, so Alice ventured to drink it down to the last drop, and finding the flavor very strong (the content was in fact a sort of mixture of absinthe and vodka, tequila, beer, cachaça, gin, whiskey, a real 'pharmacy' sold in bars that Alice used to frequent), she very quickly finished it all.

"What a wonderful sensation," said Alice.

"I must be turning into a cock!"

And indeed it was a fact, she was now in the shape of a vein-covered penis measuring 25 centimeters, and her purple head almost came at the thought that that was the exact size to tear open the little cunt towards the lovely cemetery of aborted fetuses.

First, however, she waited a few minutes to see if she would still get harder: she felt a little nervous about the timing of full rigidity "because that can result, you know in," said Alice to herself, "in necrotizing and then rotting."

The girl kept thinking about what it would be like, trying to imagine how the continuous rigidity that makes a cock necrose looks after the cock rots and she couldn't remember ever seeing something like that.

After all, thinking she wasn't going to get any harder, she decided to tear open the cunt, but, infamous Alice! When she reached the vagina, she remembered she had forgotten to fetch the little hatchet, and when she went back to the glass coffin, she realized she couldn't pick it up:

Alice could see it through the glass and tried as much as possible to climb one of the legs of the table, but it was too slippery, and the penis didn't have the necessary grip, and when she gave up, the diabolical one sat down and started banging her head against the floor.

"Come on, there's no reason to lose consciousness like that," said Alice.

"I advise you to leave it alone, later I'll come back with my lighter and burn all this shit that annoyed me."

Usually she gave herself terrible advice (though she always followed it) and sometimes hurt herself so severely that she ended up full of aftereffects on her body and brain.

Once she even remembered trying to mutilate herself for having let a victim escape in a forest where she used to hunt, for this curious girl liked to pretend to be so many people, that sometimes she lost herself between being her own murderer, victim, executioner and judge.

"But it's no use now," the insane Alice raved, "to want to be the victim! Because it's sufficiently impossible for me to give myself my necessary punishment."

Soon her eye fell upon a very small glass coffin that lay beneath the dirty floor: she destroyed it cutting herself with the shards which made her release a drop of sperm from the pleasure of pain, she saw the destruction and amidst the wreckage found a small cooked arm, on which the word "devour-me" was crudely tattooed.

"Well, I'll devour it," thought Alice licking her lips, "it's been a while since I ate human flesh (that was a lie, she had had it for breakfast)

And if it makes me grow I'll tear that cunt even more and I can get the little hatchet put it inside my urethra and it will serve me as a weapon; if it makes me very small I can be a virus and still hurt that cunt being a new kind of STD.

So either way, I'll go to the cemetery of aborted fetuses and I don't care what happens!

Because that's my place!

Where the dead whore of my mother should have put me all along!"

Alice as a cock opened her urethra and 'ate' part of the arm.

"How delicious! How delicious!," moving the balls as if getting excited.

She was surprised to learn that she didn't get harder and grew even more from so much lust.

To tell the truth, that's what happens when you eat a corpse, but Alice was already used to expecting nothing but rot and debauchery, that things happening in a normal way was impossible in her life.

So, she set the urethra to widening again and very quickly shoved the entire rest of the arm down the dick.