Satanic stories, black magic & love

 I had my first aid workshop today at the office. The trainer stood in the middle of our meeting room and lectured us about the dos and don'ts of a critical situation where someone's life was at stake. We sat quietly and nodded when we deemed prudent.  We learned about the Bystander syndrome and that we should always call the emergency services before we jump into action and try to help the victim. The trainer then showed us a latex mannequin where we would practice CRP and occasionally joke about the material it was made of— plastic resembling human skin. "Strange remarks", I thought, with a grin on my face. According to the law, you cannot ignore an accident, and you are compelled to call an ambulance, the police, or even the firefighters. Otherwise, you could be charged with negligence. Something you don't really want on your record, especially when you are a foreigner in a country that is thousands of miles away from the place you were born. I have never encou...

I had had a terrible week. It was one of those long spells of bad luck, as my dearly departed mother used to say. Nothing seemed to go right. Everything I tried went terribly wrong. The lousy weather waited for me to go out to start pouring. The trams were delayed. The food in my fridge would rot faster than usual. Everything was a fucking mess. And there was nothing I could do. All I could do was wait until the spell of shit would break and disappear. I was going home after work. Of course, I would miss the tram home and would have to wait for an extra set of 15 minutes in the rain. At least the fog made all the scenery more interesting. I was one who would try to look at the positive side of things, no matter how crappy things were, I would always find something to smile at and about. My phone lit with notifications coming. My bank account had rejected my Amazon payments. Spotify had also been rejected. I couldn't listen to music while going home. Fuck!, This is too much! I thoug...

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 ...

He was a regular. Always ordered a whiskey sour and a large lagger chaser and sat at the bar and stared blankly at his drink before each sip. His shoes' soles were worn out and his shirt was often wrinkled. He would often unbutton the top of his shirt as if he wanted to let a bit of his angst out, but it never did. His sunken eyes and dry lips always reminded me of my grandfather before he passed. But he was young, or at least that's what I always thought. Late 20's with a heavy burden. His lips would come back to life every time he swallowed his drink. His pupils would fill with light, or perhaps his eyes would catch a gleam of the mirror behind the bar as he tipped his head to down his spirit. I had learned to not bother him and to pour him a drink as soon as he had emptied his glass. He wasn't much of a talker. He sometimes sat there and disappeared among the other customers and the noise from the bar. He was a chameleon, blending in with the scene. And every t...