THE MONSTER NEEDS FRIENDS

 

It was a morning of almost spring, so, for no reason, God that life was unfair, that his sister humiliated him, that he could not understand this impudence in the light of all his goodness, that he hated it when she returned from vacation to her own house, that the humiliation was continued, that the lies spread in each other,  basted, with a definite end. He pretended to be mistreated, he had in his mouth an excuse ready to appeal to his cousin's foolishness. He devised evil plans, he could no longer allow himself to be ensnared by the manipulations of others. The creature, with a wart on its nose, believed that the disease it had suffered would be removed from its root if it applied the same broth it had received from the nuclear family. And he said, tear in hand, appealing to empathy, using it as a target to rescue a piety he called truth. He told so many things that, no matter how much their intelligence accompanied them, it was almost impossible not to believe what he said, contextualizing the plot that will come, in the future, to serve as his bed.

He cut the old woman's nails, washed her back and feet, and even waited for her turn at the health center since three o'clock, when everyone was still asleep. He had seen his adolescence stolen from him by the imposed tyranny and selfishness of a mother who skilfully manipulated, set and disposed of, without even asking whether the willing destiny she had prepared for him was pleasant or indifferent. As a reward, for having taken care of the countess, for having sacrificed a whole life, he would keep his aunt's blessings, in stockings with another bandit, who pretended to be a believer in the church, always on the front line, flour from the same bag. Revolt is thus built up in the labyrinths of the mind, and grows without apparent cause, in the inopportune desires of the demented society. He begged to be listened to and it was all part of the plan. To get married, to keep the properties that were not his own, because he too had abdicated and lost back then, in the very unresolved past. Manipulation, he had mastered this art of the bandit, through what he had suffered in his skin. They did the same to him. The robbers were added to the family as lifelong furniture, innate, and in that malice of revenge, the ungrateful one chose, the part that had taken him in, says the people in their wisdom and art, to spit on the plate they gave him to eat.

He walked through the valleys of darkness, he said, with ridiculous facts, he swindled wherever he went, he stole the truth from his aunt, sometimes his cousin, sometimes from others, coloring his sick carcass with naivety. And he even devised long-term plans, of gains that he aspired to aspire to, he was an artist of leaps and bounds, in appearance he dressed himself in vulnerability. "In your weakness is your strength, boy!" It sounded like the voice of God, but it was the demonic angel on his shoulder who gave him the surroundings to continue doing so. He was thus cunning, a liar, a technocrat, and when things did not go well for him, it was always the fault of others, those others with whom he lived, those others who supported him, those others to whom he said he had been the victim of disease, abuse and heresy. And to get away from a marriage, he used a low blow, luckily it was reciprocal. A hidden pregnancy saved him from a marriage that, no matter how much it dragged on, had no foundation. He had married to meet the expectations of others. And the roll continued, because this acclaimed artist received the return of this unwise choice, he was left without an allowance for the years he worked. He had married a master in the arts of revenge and realized that after all, wolves in sheep's clothing abounded in the market, and he was just one more in the chain of interests, the one in the middle. Cowardice was his name, and a bead on his jacket did what he didn't know how to do. To be a man, to have courage. Speak his truth.  On top of all this, from continued humiliations, from wage thefts, from shameful pedophilia, from contract killings, everything had to happen to him, to refine his arts of deception. He was the slime, but the one who had made it was the real wolf that ate capuchins. They say that the devil is on the loose, he has been encountered several times in his life. Their hunger has been fed, their wound has been healed. Pure deception. The damage will never heal once the program is installed. They are only ointments and palliatives, because trust is a non-negotiable good that they already do not know. He misrepresented some to always look good in the photograph. He was prodigal in the art of deception. This kind of archetype is capable of so much more, but in fact, whoever builds these sociopaths should be serving time there in the alcatraz jail. The intellectual and emotional misery has ugly contours, where the characters appropriate the desires and, whatever the cost, under any pretext and means, they will try to make themselves viable. There are no scruples. Make no mistake, virtue is taken out of context here.