No death had hurt me so much.
I don’t know how many are on my list, probably more than fifty.
The “skulls” that I had pending to pay I paid, and without a doubt, very expensive.
I believed that the devil awaited me in hell with an infinite sentence, I knew that eternity would not be enough to complete my debt.
And so it has been and so it will be.
The difference is that hell is not what I thought it was.
Imagining that satan himself was proud of me, thinking that I was one of his best soldiers on earth made me feel special, and of course, superior to others.
I remember how I made fun of the “romantics” every time an acquaintance spoke of falling in love, I offended them by calling them “effeminate”, or worse still: “weak”.
For me, that thing about theater “obrillas”, and those stupidities of making poems, meant being less of a man, it meant being an idiot.
I felt like a real man, that’s why I killed.
He argued that murdering a human being required courage, guts, true manhood. Who could not do it did not have “balls”, therefore, it was not a man.
Walking through the streets showing the gun on my waist, covering my face with dark glasses, the serious and defiant gesture, it was imposing, it was scary.
And that is precisely what I confused. I thought people respected me, now I know they feared me.
And who is not afraid of a psychopath?
Fear is a defense mechanism that I never paid attention to because I thought I was brave.
Of course. The death of the dozens of people I killed never hurt me because they were simply not my blood.
Only once, I remember that, driving through the streets of the city altered by the mixture that grass, white powder and the lyrics of a song praising false gods made in the car, I let myself be carried away by euphoria.
One of the companions, also ecstatic, challenged me, and since I was no coward, I not only accepted the challenge, but multiplied it.
It was plain. Killing any passerby just to prove my fierceness was real. That really the feelings of kindness did not dominate me.
Three bullets came out of my gun that mourned three different families.
That was the only time something inside me made me question my conscience.
But the ego, the vanity, and some bad memories of my childhood, had her kidnapped, that’s why I never listened to her.
“Hell awaits me,” I said proudly, and then I drank the bottle of whiskey in one gulp, threw it violently against the wall and let out a loud and long scream where I discharged the euphoria of momentary pleasure.
One night, I had the cynicism to pass in front of the house where one of the “deceased” was being held, who, just a couple of days before, had begged me for his life while I pointed my gun at him on the desolate highway.
His mistake was smiling too much.
Every time I saw him, ever since I met him, he never stopped smiling. That “stupid” joy, meaningless, for no apparent reason, aroused in me an anger that had no apparent reason either.
Today I know that both had a reason.
But when I had him kneeling in front of me, no longer smiling, pleading with me, it caused the feeling of power to run through my body with an addictive adrenaline a thousand times more powerful than any substance I had tried before.
I smiled as I slowly walked past the mourners. “Where was your smile?” I muttered and walked away, but not before leaving a spit on her in front of her stool.
I knew that one day I would pay for all of this. Right in that place where the days would no longer exist, where the punishments would have an unrecognizable pain on earth, there where I could appear before satan to say “thy will be done”.
That way, I would know that I was one of his best subjects and that hell was my home, because that was the last resting place of rude men, of macho men, of those who don’t back down.
That’s what I thought until I killed the last of my victims. That’s where my hell began.
That night, I arrived more drugged than usual. Two days without sleep with the help of the “crystal”, celebrating the aim that my weapon had to send one of my staunch enemies to a better life, was worth it.
My now ex-wife, who is 7 months pregnant, approached me and told me with a broken voice, with a tenderness that caused me some remorse for the first time in my life: “You need help.”
My anger, not to let compassion enter my heart, made me react by kicking him right in the belly.
She fell a couple of meters in front of me, only a muffled cry was heard from the pain that she tried to get rid of with her hands squeezing her belly.
The puddle of blood soaking her nightgown and then the floor, was what was left of my son that I never saw born, where true hell was born for me.
The families of whom I murdered have forgiven me.
But me, I will never be able to forgive myself for killing the one I waited for with so much love… and that is true hell.