365 Fiction Bites

My body had been giving up, my skin covered in pustules. My mood fell hard and everything lost sense. I began to see everything black, losing interest in moving on, fighting through and all that crap people say.

Then, one gray day as any other, lying down busy obsessing over my multiple virulent marks, I realized my sores where symmetrically placed along my body. The open wounds on my arms had a match in the exact opposite point from one arm to the other. With the help of a full-length mirror I confirmed the ulcers on my back suffered from the same odd phenomenon. It took me a couple of minutes to discover this proportion to be a planar symmetry rather than a volumetrical one, since there was a line of various lesions forming a line right on the middle of my front and back side.

I considered stigmata for a split second. The mere thought of an actual superior being gave me a perfectly symmetrical rush on my upper chest. Iddly scratching this new treat, a scene of a particularly traumatic day at Sunday School came back screaming to me. I checked just to be sure. Nope. No bodily marks on my feet or hands. Those were spared for some reason.

Alien coded messages, Matrix plug marks and a rare new disease that could be named after me later, I was about ready to give up on it. Whatever the cause, I decided, it wasn't as important as the meaning. I was rather keen on the idea of a coded message and, being the narcissistic obsesser that I am, I decided to map the constellations of my sores.

For now, it's hainging on my wall and I spend endless hours staring at it, as if trying to magically decode the shit out of it, Beautiful Mind style. So far, no luck.

In the meantime I went back to my doctor's diet and started taking the vitamins. No reason, I just felt like it. Unfortunately, all this fresh fruit and healthy eating choices is making my stigmata disappear. Even if I decode the message and it turns out I am the chosen human specimen the Superior Beings will spare when they come to annihilate the planet -you know, for collecting purposes-, I will have no way of proving it. Fuck my luck.

Existen tantos tipos de abuso como de bastardosinmadres maltratadores e incluso de "simples" bestias desconsideradas. Ellos son los perpetradores, ergo, los responsables del crimen, legal o moral. Pero no los culpables, o al menos no los únicos culpables, ni los más.

La culpa y la vergüenza la llevan las víctimas, los sufridores, sí, y también los consentidores. Los peleles quasi-voluntarios -a efectos prácticos lo son-, tienen una carga psíquica y de conciencia aún mayor. Porque es tan ridículo, tan obvio y de cajón que hay que decir que no, hay que devolver la hostia y es tanto o más necesario pasar del mirar mal y quejarse, coño, nada más que quejarse y si hace falta discutir. No tolerar.

Sufrir, llevar con paciencia. Eso es lo que implica la tolerancia. Resistir ante las burlas, soportar las palizas o las faltas de respeto, los insultos amistosos denigrantes y menospreciativos.

Permitir ser el blanco te hunde en la miseria. Te sientes peor. Más aún de lo que el hijodemilputas debería sentir, si tuviese esa capacidad escondida en alguna parte.

Cuanto más inocente o informal pueda llegar a parecer, más te golpea donde más te duele. En el orgullo y, peor, en lo que ya no te queda, la dignidad. Por consentirlo, por no defenderte.

Te dejas robar de ti mismo y callas como en lo que tanto odias estar convirtiéndote. Callas como una puta.

"You know, when someone asks me How is the real Luke like? The first word that comes to mind is balanced." Balanced, she said. If that isn't an insult, I don't know what is. I am a living human male, I am not fucking balanced.

The nerve on her. She kept getting dressed as if nothing happened. As if what she just laid on me hadn't been but a conversational add-on. I sat frozen, staring at her black pants as she pulled them up. I couldn't bring myself to strike back. I knew how to hurt her -I always know where I can poke them so they don't get back up, I simply choose not to, 'cause I'm bigger and better than than, than them-, and yet I didn't.

I didn't say a word. I kept my thoughts to myself. Those who told me I had never thought about her as nothing but a training excercise. Until the real one came along, so I knew what to do and how to do it so I could get it right on the first try. But I didn't say. And, to this day, she doesn't know. Probably will never know, I didn't ever cared much about her. Only as a practice dummy.

Lo que más me ha fascinado/acojonado siempre del asunto es la fragilidad de todo el tinglado. Ya puedes tener un historial impoluto, que en cualquier momento puedes cagarla. Aunque sólo sea una vez, aunque sólo sea un poquito. Cagarla es cagarla. Y cargártelo.

Te puedes descalificar por el error más nimio y ridículo. Te pueden echar, te pueden perder el respeto, te pueden mandar a la mierda. Por un sólo puto error.

Así que no te duermas en los laureles, no te atontes y esos ojos bien abiertos. Esa espalda bien erguida y esa lengua bien rápida.

I'm set out to break a heart. It gives you power like no other. That is if you do it right, remorse-free. You are never more alive than when you manage to completely and utterly disregard someone else's feelings. I could live off of that for years.

An electro-plasma beam parts the waters, Interrupting an intimate embrace between a sea monster and a long lost wrecked ship. The ray of energy keeps going, making its way through the globe, liberating all forms of life of the hability to feel jealousy.

"There is great love without great jealousy!", pointlessly yells an anonymous human voice. Half a milisecond later, the human specimen succums to the simultaneous collectively worldly orgy that broke out with the first two beings the beam reached. Soon enough, every STD in existence is transmitted to the whole of mankind, rendering their reproductive systems sterile and useless, as their genitalia dries, withers and dies.

Now, what would you bet is the one decease that ends with the biggest percentage of human lives?

I guess taking up your mom's side in every matter, every fight and everything else means you are unequivocally gay. Whatever your gender. Could be only true 80% of the time, or even less. Still. My theory is, there must be a very determining gene that actives a neuron somewhere in our brains that allows a certain amount of cognitive functions to filter through an ultra common sense, for lack of better phrasing, which prevents us from wanting to emulate a complete ass.

In those cases it applies, of course. Not mine.