Satanic stories, black magic & love

 It was one of those nights when the snow falls so hard the darkness turns white. Snowflakes gently crashing down and colliding in such a violent fashion. There was an ambiguity to it that made the cruel winter seem lovely. It was 8:05pm and I already had 2 beers down my throat. I had had a tough week and I was tired. I was tired of everything and everyone around me. Judging me, patronizing me, and thinking they knew better than I could ever do. For me, it was natural selection, I had come to understand why people leave. It was the best explanation I could have come up with. Why do they always leave? Or should I say: why do the good ones stay? It is always a matter of how you see things. You can be like my parents, fatalistic, and believe everything is up to destiny. Poor destiny. All the lies and the heartache that is credited to fate. If only destiny could refute these claims and shut them all up, life would be a different story. You could see all the good in things and people. L...

Another year had gone by and as I woke up that morning, I knew that it was going to be a memorable day. Even though several winters had marked my feeble heart and scarred my bright pupils, my heart pumped like never before. I had always completed my morning routine, to a point in which if any of its steps was cut short, partially altered, or omitted, my day would lag. Resulting in a bitter aura that would affect others around me. I knew by then, that people would, sort of tolerate me, for I had earned their respect little by little. Yet, I was aware of the slow-motion wounds that I would inflict to the innocents in my way.  I took no pleasure in doing this. But I have to admit that bearing the scars made me feel more like a war hero. People generally tend to admire and respect those, and won't ask questions. Even if they talked behind my back, it felt like an ego boost. Secretly, until that day. The alarm clock went off as expected. It was 5:00am on that cold spring day. You could ...

They say that hell is not hot. And my first night in Rio de Janeiro proved to be a scorching one. I had everything packed and ready to go. I glanced one last time at my open suitcase before closing it. My gun, my passports, a bunch of cash and an extra pair of torn-up jeans, everything was in its place. "It's my obsessive-compulsive personality disorder", I sighed. Everything, right where it belongs. I made my way out of the hotel room, where my perfectly made bed awaited to be violently unmade by the next guests. There are two kinds of hotel room users. One type is the one, like me, that after binging on whiskey and beer chasers, has to crash and recover from all the self-inflicted wounds, everlasting scars of memorable past stories.  The tear-stained face that has been running away from their fate. The second kind is the one that has decided to hide under the bedsheets and escape their boring everyday life in the company of their partner in crime. A guest that i...