Ataraxia- English version

One

A drop, a tiny drop of water, cold, freezing like a crystal-clear icicle, going down slowly and calmly all along the back of your spine, chilling, causing a shiver, a tremor like the whistling wind; the dark night was nothing but a drop, with that penetrating coldness, with that sharpness, exhaling fog, smelling of wind and mist, covering the gray presence of the nameless city. The stars, shy and pure, were hiding, and so did humans, inside their houses and gray buildings, made of concrete and bricks. Everybody knows the night holds in its bosom the cold essence of evil, of visceral fatality, and, naturally, they all hide in the warmth they built, in the lies of their minds, ignoring that their blood caries the cruelty, the hate, the pain, the lust, the perversity, even more than the night does; just like the dreadful hells, where these demons are born, was the impureness of human souls.

The moon was a ghost, a faint spectral image, white between the shadows. Shining with its frigid light the desolated street, giving a sense of reality to the silhouettes and figures present in the place, falling softly over the pale skin of a particular face, with sunken cheeks and tired eyes, the wind brushing against his cheekbones, giving him the feeling of a chilling caress, surreal, mortuary.

Evil covers and fills the world, it is everywhere or in everyone, but even so, goodness, like the moon rays, fights to shine, from the inside, like a firefly. That man surrounded of badness, was conscious of this, of caring a firefly in his soul, of the fact that everyone caries light and darkness.

He walked at a resonant rhythm, a firm and continuous march, his steps echoing against the pavement, filling the void. The hells within him writhing, scalding, with the calm of the hunter waiting for a prey, with the calm of one who knows a lost story, a worrying mystery, and awaits for the solving.

His strong footsteps entered the light of a closed setting, unprecise, to be honest, indecent, a hall saturated with the stink of alcohol and cheap perfume, veiled by the smoke of cigarettes, by the heat that was taking over the place. People of unthinkable natures would take over the tables here and there, bottles and ladies would pass from hand to hand, form mouth to mouth, between laughter and strange, drunk, conversations. Many heard the sound of the door opening and closing, turned their gazes towards the stranger arriving, and then continued with their mischief. A table was waiting for him, in the corner of the decayed place, in the shadow, like always, like every ominous Friday, always waiting for the day that would finally change his path.

-The usual? -Asked a waitress with a sharp face, covered in an obscene quantity of makeup, her lipstick all ruined, a prominent neckline to complete the tempting look.

-Sure. -He answered without doubting, while he laid back in his chair, putting a heavy boot on the wooden table. 

Without wasting time, the maid started her rushed walk towards the larder, from where she took without thinking the typical rum bottle and a slightly dirty glass. She hit the table soundly, leaving both things in their place, giving a glance and a playful wink to the man who watched her silently. He started using his teeth to take out the cap of the bottle, in a few minutes the drink would take from him any thought, any pain. A sudden voice interrupted him, unexpected and hoarse; it was directed to him like a blade breaking the continuity of things. Nobody talked to him, not usually.

-Good evening. -He said, in a firm, yet spiritless, tone. After not getting any answer, he continued. -Would you bother having some company?

-No sir. -He answered, signaling the vacant chair to the new arriver, with the half full cup in his hand. His voice was deep, but not as much as the stranger's, who, in the act of accommodating himself, continued:

-The weather today is absolutely annoying, don't you think? – A triviality, something random just to start a nice conversation, expecting to agree.