La alma está enferma.
Or in English: the soul is sick.
Its usually said when a person has veered off into a dark path, close or into the abyss. What calculates this but our human judgement...and when that failed?
My father said this to me after my last killing that he had taken awareness of. Tú alma está enferma. I just gave him a soft smile--all mechanical, an automatic response.
Why not my first taste of blood? I wondered. Why not pinpoint it then?
I remembered it, the shape of the clouds that day, fluffy and white just like the tiny rat that my hand crushed until I felt the veins of the scrawny thing break free. I wiped my hand afterwards on the blades of grass, feeling tiny tickles addressing me in a way that made me feel alive.
My father found me that day. He towered me like a skyscraper, covering my sunshine emotions. He said nothing. Only buried the animal and let me quench my thirst.
Did he not feel anything? He saw me do this--these unexplainable things, and he turned his cheek the other way.
Always.
That was until the quench was undeniably strong. And he was there, I couldn't help it...his last words, "Tú alma está enferma."
My smile broadened, twisting and pulling at the seams, just like the rat. "Too late, old man."
