Hey, que onda?
Oh, my God, I haven't said those words in a while...
Anyway, I've found these blank notebooks so I'm them to write my story. Why? For whom? Good questions, very good questions...
For starters, I got nothing better to do: yes, I have a generator and also a TV, but after several months without people, satellites only transmit noise these days; the radio is the same with only static and there is no internet either.
I know, I can read some books or see what's left of the video basket, but I don't know... they give me a weird feeling. All the people on those old videos, they doesn´t exist anymore: they smile, talk, tell jokes and make... stuff as if they were alive, but they're not: it's like a museum of dead people.
The second reason is that I have to keep my mind and hands busy, at least until I get out of this hellhole. The itch, the itch... everything that used to be North America is now full of radiation. Sure, it's not like it can kill me, but that doesn't mean I don't feel it in the bones, on the gums, under my skin... especially on the gums, damn it! its like having a parade of ants on my gums... I must think of something else.
The last reason is... Well... to give my life some purpose I guess; there's no one left on Earth that I know of. This is why I came here looking for survivors here on first place: to give them... well, my guide, but I haven't found anyone yet and radiation only grows stronger; it´s unlikely to find anyone else and if I find them , they sure looks like Quasimodo.
Tomorrow I will turn around and look for a boat to go south. The last thing I heard on the radio before it died, was that the fallout had not gone down to Europe; Who knows? Maybe I'll find a blonde babe in England to be my wife, hehehe... I know I won´t.
I digress again: the point is maybe someone will find these papers next to my dead dried bones (an alien or something) and amuse themselves at my story... It's ridiculous?
Yeah, definitely: whoever comes down, I'm sure he doesn't speak any language in Earth and I don't even know if I'm going to die someday.
Doesn´t matter: What the hell! this could be my legacy, and if this makes me feel a little excited, so be it: that´s something I haven´t felt in a long, long time.
And since I'm talking about "immortality", I guess I should start when I was a mere mortal; that is, a simple bank cashier at the worst bank in Tijuana, Mexico.
What? Were you waiting for me to say "New York" like in the movies? How about London? Too bad... you gonna have to settle for me. Who I´m kidding? I know you're not disappointed, you're not expecting shit because you're all dead... ahh, the itch, the itch... I digress again.
Well, being cashier in a bank: living the poor life, but still have to dress those cheap suits that still cost a week and a half of my payroll; doing a monotonous, boring job with nobody specting shit from me: that´s was my life back then.
My job was more responsibilities than money so I had only enough money for renting a piece of shit of an apartment in The Sánchez Taboada, a neighborhood that at the time was the very worst in all Tijuana; Horrible streets full of horrible people, spitting in the streets or ruining the walls with their shitty "street art"... Just remembering that makes me stop missing people.
Although to be honest I didn't have much left in common with them in the last days: no bonds, no friends, no family; perhaps... maybe Danny... No: in the end she turned out to be just another bitch with a more than deserved ending.
Her name was Danielle and no, her name was not "Daniela"; it was "Danielle": a full Mexican woman with an English name, just...just to give a touch of vulgarity to the matter and to give her a flaw, because outside of that, she was perfect woman.
Ok, perhaps she had another flaw: his taste in men; because of course, such a beautiful woman couldn't be alone for so long, no, no, no... and Danielle had the worst good-for-nothing douchebag she could find: Jimmy, Jimmy the Instructor.
I barely remember the guy, was he a gym instructor? it doesn't matter, because jimmy got fired two weeks since they arrived at the building. No one knew why, maybe he groped a customer or the owners found him dealing steroids... the thing is, they gave him the boot and Danielle was left in charge of all the expenses.
Everyday, Danny would told me about her problems and I always lent my shoulder to her, and waste my time listening to her shit: that Jimmy was depressed, that he no longer wanted to get out of bed, that he is losing muscle tone...
Of course, I was there to tell her the obvious: how much she was worth, and if Jimmy didn't value her, was because he was blind and she deserved better. This didn't change nothing (don't say anything: I know) and this routine followed at least twice a week, usually after a big fight that I could hear through the thin walls of my crappy apartment...
None of this is important, it´s just like my "background", so you know how my life was like before the arrival of my super-powers. Because lets get it straight: I have super-powers now.
What I want to make clear is that my life was shit, you know? An endless parade of pleasures and lives better than mine before my eyes, starting from when I left my shitty flat at 7 a.m. until I was going back to my shitty flat at 8 p.m.
Oh, and then there was "Chanate", of course ; What's a "Chanate"? I don't know and believe me, I've looked for it in books and even in the few databases that are left in this radioactice shithole. The thing is, "Chanate" was a cholo, a thug who along with his gang believed himself to be the owner of the neighborhood. And he didn't like me, of course.
I never spoke ill of him or his kind, I didn't even took a glance to his "jainita" (that's what he called his girlfriend), but every day he passed by, this guy yelled at me things, from the safety of his group. I didn't answer him because I wasn't stupid: the moment I retorted something, lots of stones would rain in my direction and who knows? and maybe even a knife.
Sadly, Mom was wrong: ignoring the taunts doesn't make the bullies get bored and for scum like Chanate, to keep it to only personal insults won't be never be enough; it's never enough for those disgusting monkeys: they always had to go up to the next level.
And just like that it happened: I was coming back from work, walking down the usual street, offending all those scum with my clean body, my neat combed hair... and all of a sudden I had the flat nose of that bastard right in front of my face and with all his friends around me.
Now they wanted to charge "right of passage" They wanted my wallet, my Casio watch and my cheap shoes. I tried to negotiate with them, seriously... After all, what would these smelly punks do with my dress shoes? Then came the blow. A sucker punch, of course; something that shook my head and made me land straight on the ground.
I know it wasn't "Chanate" because I had him in front of me, so I'm sure one of the cockroaches he had for friends. I didn't faint right away though, it was like my soul was still in my body but out of control at all, staring at a dog shit while I was being kicked. Then I felt a dull blow to the back of the head and everything got dark.
I woke up in my bed, something that surprised me by what I remembered. A second earlier I was on the pavement, the next I get out of my bed at 3 a.m. But there I was with a fresh face, the ribs intact and no other pain other than that which my old mattress gave me every night.
What got me out of the mistake was seeing myself in the mirror, with my clothes torn and full of a blood that wasn't mine. You'll figure out what happened. Well, I'm sure you can't imagine what happened: I killed "Chanate." And the primates he had for friends too. I didn't know how I did it or how a mutilate arm ended up in the bathroom, but I did.
I didn't go to work that day. You'll think it was a bad idea considering the situation (very suspicious), but that's the way the human brain works and that's why you can catch a killer: you always panic the first time you do.
In any case, it would have been worse going all the way to work, just imagine the picture:
Someone: "Hello, how are you?"
Me: "I KILLED A GUY"
No, it would have been way worse.
At the bank nobody believed the excuse i gave by phone, as they never believe anyone who asks for a day off, but I stood firm and in the end, they had to accept to not having my presence that day and me accepting to having my salary split in half.
Besides, I had a problem waiting for me on the shower tub. Because movies lie: getting rid of a corpse is not easy at all. I spent all morning boning the arm as if it were for a stew and throwing the meat down the toilet; The bones... I cooked them in a pot and then broke them to pieces so they didn't look human.
You think I'm cold-blooded psychopath for what I did? Of course not. It was one of the most horrible experiences of my life, watching the door every time and waiting for the police to knock any moment. I don't even want to imagine what it's like to get rid of a whole corpse.
Already in the afternoon, after bathing and with the Chanate's bones in garbage bags, I had some time to think about what I was going to do.
What happened last night? I don't know; Who'd seen me? I suppose they saw the Chanate approach me with bad intentions, but I'm sure they looked the other way to avoid retaliation: people are this coward. I wasn't worried about that part. It's not like the police would do many investigations either; Chanate was a Nobody: one burden less in society anyway. The only risk is that any of his friends were left alive, but seeing what I did, I don't think they're gonna go after me and if they tells the police, nobody won't believe them.
Yes, everything should be fine.
Merci pour la lecture!
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