Desde a minha infância exibi potencial para desbravar as terras ermas. O fato de continuamente me esconder, de me mover velozmente e não fazer barulho são características que me acompanham desde que eu me entendo por gente. Quer dizer, eu e minha vila. Não foi nenhum espanto, portanto, quando me designaram como batedor. Há anos exerço essa função, e há anos corro o risco de morrer ao vasculhar o que restou das terras de meus antepassados por comida, ferramentas, armas e qualquer coisa que possa ser útil para a sobrevivência do meu povo.

Contudo, nem só de sobras vive o homem. Parte essencial da nossa motivação, conhecimento e entretenimento vem dos livros que arrumamos em nossas viagens. É inegável o fato de que aprendemos muito com essas compilações de papel marrom e tinta quase apagada. As histórias de como nossos antecendentes viviam em um mundo completamente diferente – sem água radioativa e garras-da-morte – sempre me intrigou. Não eram apenas momentos de escapismo, mas também de esperança, por serem obras que nos informavam de um mundo que os avós dos nossos pais conheceram, onde plantas eram capazes de crescer em variadas cores e a poeira não se infiltrava por qualquer fresta.

No entanto, ao passo que, em mim, os livros causavam a vontade de não arriscar minha vida passeando fora da vila, nos jovens os elaborados e fantásticos contos os deixavam apenas mais afoitos para se aventurar. Nossa biblioteca era reduzida, e as mesmas histórias, lidas repetidas vezes, continuamente inflamavam os espíritos de nossos filhos. Por isso, quando ouvi falar da existência de um suposto “livreiro” na região, não hesitei em procurá-lo. Era a peça chave para expandir o repertório de nossos leitores.

O livreiro sabia se esconder, mas nada que algumas chapinhas de Nuka-Cola não resolvessem com os mercadores de Canterbury Commons. Em pouco tempo, eu já estava explorando os fétidos esgotos próximos à entrada sul de Washington. Poucos ghouls ferais me notaram, e, mesmo assim, apenas quando meu shishkebab já estava encostado em suas nucas. Alguns dutos adiante, achei o local. Era um verdadeiro oásis literário, com várias pilhas de livros que impregnavam o espaço com o cheiro de mofo. Sentado ao lado de uma vitrola, segurando um pequeno bobblehead da Vault-Tec em suas mãos, estava o dono de tudo isso.

Boris era um ghoul. O cheiro de sua carne necrosada era impregnante, mas ele era refinado em suas atitudes. Recepcionou-me com um solene sorriso, enquanto ajeitava a agulha da vitrola, e perguntou o que eu procurava. Apesar da exibição de livros sobre Nikola Tesla e um Guia de Sobrevivência por Moira Brown, optei pelo caminho inverso. Solicitei histórias que desmotivassem pessoas a explorarem as terras ermas.

Boris exemplificou com diferentes episódios. Que tal uma família separada? Mulher e filha afastadas do pai pela Irmandade de Aço em nome da segurança e isolamento da radiação. Ou um exílio forçado? Um homem é expulso de sua cidade por gradualmente se tornar um ghoul. E uma tormenta pessoal? Pai consegue reencontrar mulher, mas a mesma é espancada e levada embora, puxada pela perna, por super mutantes. De repente você prefere uma devastação emocional? Pai reencontra filha e pede ajuda, mas a mesma o xinga de zumbi e organiza sua própria escolta para resgatar a mãe. Durante a missão, raiders aparecem, e no fogo cruzado entre eles, os super mutantes, e a escolta, todos morrem.

Quando afirmei que queria o livro que possuía estes relatos, Boris não esboçou lágrimas. Seu tom melancólico, acompanhado da faixa “I don’t want to set the world on fire”, foi claro quando ele disse: Eu também gostaria que fossem apenas livros.

Voltei, naquele dia, sem chapinhas, mas carregado de compilações. Mesmo assim, os jovens continuaram ansiosos para explorar as desconhecidas terras áridas. Foi então que entendi que apenas uma história iria ensiná-los a valorizar a vida: as suas próprias.

Revisão: Isabel Ferreira

Primus Bacon no PARLA!

No dia 08 de outubro, durante a SB Games 2009 na PUC-Rio, teve início a mostra de Personagens PARLA!. Um concurso no qual o personagem Primus Bacon, criação minha em co-autoria com Larissa Fuchs, foi premiado com o primeiro lugar. Em meio à uma diversidade de conceitos e projetos de personagens Primus, o conhecido porco da casa de tijolos da fábula dos três porquinhos, se destacou. Não ganhou por ser uma versão reciclada da famosa fábula, mas por contar os fatos que sucedem a tragédia vivida pelo porco após os eventos da versão original de 1843 de James Orchard Halliwell-Phillipps. O personagem está exposto em tamanho real, ao lado de suas pranchas (e os outros premiados), no Solar Grandjean de Montigny da PUC-Rio.

Medindo 1,67m e pesando 200kg, Primus Bacon é uma alma ingênua, instável e angustiada que vive no robusto corpo de um porco. Um ser que hospeda, em função do ataque do Lobo Mau que sobreviveu anos atrás, um palco de duelo espiritual entre seus sentimentos de culpa e a sua determinação em atingir a felicidade. É o único porquinho sobrevivente dos eventos da fábula original “Os Três Porquinhos e o Lobo Mau” e, apesar de ao final comer o lobo assassino em um ensopado, o porquinho não consegue evitar a morte de seus dois irmãos. O sentimento de culpa e de responsabilidade fraterna juntamente com a solidão da fria casa de tijolos levam Bacon a entrar em profunda depressão. Alguns meses mais tarde, ele percebe que precisa ocupar sua mente e deixar para trás o passado que o assombra. Assim, Primus decide se mudar do ambiente rural para tentar a vida na cidade grande.

Pranchas do Personagem

O ambiente urbano oferece oportunidades a Primus e ao procurar por empregos ele é contratado por uma construtora. Diante a frenética rotina de trabalho, Bacon passa a ocupar seu cotidiano com preocupações urbanas e mundanas. A vida ganha um novo sentido e não resta mais tempo para pensar. A triste memória da morte dos seus irmãos é substituída por freqüentes atividades sociais incluindo encontrar amigos em academias, após o trabalho, e sair para bares em busca de álcool, música e mulheres. Bacon se torna em um ser dividido entre a dedicação profissional e a busca por integração social e seus irmãos passam a visitá-lo apenas em eventuais pesadelos. Contudo, certo dia, no caminho para o trabalho, Primus repara um lançamento de livro que ocorre no interior de uma livraria. Curioso e suspeito, ele entra e pega um dos exemplares com o título “Os Três Porquinhos e o Lobo Mau”. Ao perceber que a história relata os acontecimentos do seu passado que levaram à morte dos seus irmãos, mas de maneira deturpada, Primus tem um ataque nervoso. Ele se enfurece, perde o controle próprio e avança na direção do Lobo que alega ser o autor. Em meio ao agressivo debate, Bacon é retirado por seguranças e entra em um ciclo depressivo. O escândalo da livraria é publicado nos jornais e o livro sobe para os bestsellers. Ele se esconde da sociedade durante meses e passa a gastar todo seu dinheiro em bebidas para tentar esquecer o evento e o seu passado. Em meio ao seu arrependimento, Bacon faz uma tatuagem no braço em homenagem aos irmãos e passa anos seguidos trancado em seu apartamento se ocupando com brinquedos infantis ao tentar reviver a felicidade de épocas passadas.

Primus Bacon em um Momento Feliz

Meses depois, no caminho para comprar mais bebidas, Bacon se depara com a entrada para um novo consultório terapêutico. Ele conclui que precisa de ajuda para tratar seus problemas emocionais e psicológicos e decide arriscar. Lá encontra uma sessão de terapia em grupo com vários outros personagens de fábulas que passam pela mesma frustração que a sua: a de não ter a verdadeira versão de sua história contada publicamente.

A exposição do Solar da PUC-Rio vai até o dia 6 de novembro (sexta-feira),  então não perca tempo e confira as possíveis datas e horários.

And so, here we are. How many years has it been? Quite a few right?

You can’t hear as well as you used to. You can’t run as fast. Jump as high. Talk as eloquently.

But you sure can write.

Worry not, society has that habit of always confusing you, pushing you one way, then the other. You’re not really sure in what to believe. What to follow. Who to trust. What to long for.

It just feels…empty. A void that evidently lacks that special element. One that will never be found, not unless you truly understand what you are searching for.

Life is split into three moments. During the first one, you’re actually looking for a goal. Something to pursue. That special something that’ll show you life actually has a purpose and through it everything will fit into place.

That is, until you actually find what you’re looking for. Then comes into place the second moment. A time of sweat and despair in which you’re just doing your best to achieve that special objective you’ve already determined for yourself. The smile you attained by laying eyes of your life’s passion is only hampered by the thought of not achieving it, for whatever reason.

After many years, you finally reach the pinnacle of happiness. That sweet sublime stage in which all obstacles have been conquered and your career has surrendered to your skilful attributes and abilities. Or so you thought.

It was all a hoax and you weren’t ready for the shock. It was all and scam and you fell for it. Get real. What were you thinking? Life was your own personal hammock?

And so you realize that even after attaining whatever it is you thought would make you whole, you’re not complete. You’re missing something. You lack purpose. You lack essence. Thus, after wiping the sweat from your weary heart, you come to the conclusion that you’ve been searching for the wrong thing. The third moment, which could actually be identified as a repetition of the first one, then begins.

A totally newly repetitive phase you’ve seen before. Only this time you don’t have the same motivation and naivety as before. A shorter quest that holds even more responsibility that the first one.

Years pass. Decades go by. Before you know it, you don’t even know what were your initial motives and your final conclusions. In a blink of an eye you decide stop, either because you’ve given up or because you’re dead.

If there’s one thing certain about life, it’s that you won’t make it out alive. Because we yearn for more time to sort out our baggage, we crave immortality.

This is my way of achieving eternal life. Hold my journal in your hands. Read it, study it, and learn from it. Perhaps someday my legacy will unveil greater mysteries. Perhaps someday we will be satisfied with ourselves.

A tall thin man brushed through the backstage curtains and stepped onto the old wooden stage. His eyes looked tired, but he wore a grin along the face. Slowly, he bowed before the buzzing crowd and grabbed a long spear from the floor.

There was no spotlight, but the crowd of men, women, and children sitting of wooden chairs began to turn silent. The frail man then touched the tip of the spear’s steel head with his finger and showed the blood trickling from the tip. He smiled, sucked the blood with his mouth, then used his right hand to grab the spear’s shaft and swiftly throw it into the stage floor. The sharp edge drove through the wood and made a loud thud. The crowd was startled and went silent.

With his hands free, the thirty-something aged performer calmly took off his shirt. Although gradual, it didn’t make the spectators feel any less awkward. People gasped as the man’s frail body was revealed. Once done and wearing only pants and shoes the man dropped his shirt on the stage floor and smiled back at the frightened eyes and mouths across the hall.

He understood their widened pupils. After all, his scars covered his torso and back. Some were small and revealed only a small portion of elevated skin, but some started at the shoulder and ended at the hip. Other scars formed weird drawings, some X shaped, others went zigzag. It was impossible to determine whether all or some of them had the same age. Though unlikely, there were so many scars it was hard to tell. To the audience, the scene was disturbing at least. Either a lot of people wanted that man dead or he enjoyed pain.

As used to it as he seemed to be, the entertainer blushed. His grin widened even more, but his eyes expressed a slight shyness. He cleared his throat and spoke the following words as his hands freely strummed through the air:

Good evening dear audience, ladies, gentlemen, boys, and girls. Tonight, I, the one without a name, will be executing an astounding feat. I’ve wept enough throughout my life to know this by heart, but…as all you should know,

Tears Do Not Heal Scars.

Please pay close attention to this lesson, because during the following days I will perform my greatest act. Many people call it disgusting, some consider it insane, others refer to me as the undead, but I’d rather dub this as the “Healing Act”.

I will not be interrupted during this process, no matter the consequences. Feel free to eat, drink, leave, and come back during the spectacle, but please keep in mind the show must go on. Kids, don’t try this at home, but do watch closely if you want to learn something.

With that said, the entertainer (if one could be called that way), picked up the sharp spear and placed its base vertically in a tight gap between two slightly old wooden planks from the stage. Once having tested if the spear would not move accidentally, the man started tilting its tip towards his chest. Viewers did not understand the scene. Some frowned, others leaned forward, and a few leapt from their seats when blood started dripping.

Slowly, the head blades crept toward the heart. Blood curled along the spear as it hit the skin. The flesh cried as muscles and bones were violated. Red tears poured across the floor and slid through the maze of scars. All of them glittered, but none of them seemed to get any better. The pain was visible, as the man’s face agonized with contorted expressions.

My god! He’s killing himself!

Women started screaming, some men laughed, families left, and a few creeps remained. Among the “so called” creeps, two beings stood out: a young bearded sir who constantly wrote on his notepad, while balancing his chair on two legs and a small boy naively biting his lower lip and observing with large curious eyes. Unlike the remaining spectators that seemed to enjoy the gore, those two actually tried to learn something from the spectacle.

Finally the whole head pierced the man’s body and among the river of blood, only the spear’s shaft could be seen. What was once brown polished wood, now resembled a dark wine-like taint. Somehow the man still breathed and he held the shaft with both hands, constantly pulling the spear inward and playing a morbid tug-o-war with death.

The pain was indescribable. The man’s feet trembled and barely managed to support the half-alive body. The man’s eyes began to close and he embraced darkness in his thoughts. Suddenly his hands lost grip of the shaft and began to dangle lifelessly.

Act II

The crowd had somehow refreshed. Children weren’t a common sight, but a new batch of men and women sadistically observed the impaled body sluggishly descending on the spear. Many did not notice, but the body came to a halt when the spear’s head hit the skin on the man’s back, from the inside.

After a few minutes still, the tip of the spear head popped at the back accompanied by the sound of tearing flesh. The long forgotten pain woke up what seemed like a day-old body. The man’s eyes opened and his mouth widened as if desperate for air. His neck stretched as far as it could and his right lung, which was still intact, begged for air. An almost silent inspiration followed by an excruciating scream.

The dry blood on the floor boards meant to many in the crowd that the entertainer was long dead. That resurrection meant, nevertheless, that he never died and it startled those men, except for the young boy and the writer. Their eyes never faltered and their attentiveness as well. They paid close attention, unlike many who saw the performance as a mere act of entertainment.

The man’s hands no longer dangled, but rather firmly held the spear’s shaft. He maintained the torturous process, pulling the spear inward and feeling it exit behind his torso. His breathing was heavy and constant, as if it took years of discipline to execute inhale and exhale steadily in those circumstances. Sweat mixed with dry blood dripped from his forehead. What seemed like an impossible task, also lifted many burdens, as the man’s faint smile could not be hidden.

After the entirety of the spear head had already traversed through the man’s body, he felt relieved. No longer would those blades need to rip his flesh anymore. Only the shaft remained, but the wooden cylinder occupied less room than the triangular shaped blade. Since the spear was firmly held in place by the stage floorboards, the man no longer needed to force the weapon inward. The man let go his hands and simply started slouching towards the floor. His movement was slow and resembled that of a near-death vampire with human-sized steak driven through one’s body. The steps were taken one at a time, but eventually no effort needed to be made any longer.

The man simply stopped moving and leaned forward, his body slid on the remainder of the spear’s shaft and the man’s face hit the floor. The loud smack of flesh and bones kept the audience on their feet, but after a while of apparent death, once again, they lost their interest in the presentation. Like sheep being herded, almost all of them left. A few booed and waited a bit longer, but eventually only two spectators remained, watching as the spear-driven corpse laid on the stage floor.

Act III

The sunlight made its way through the boarded windows in the auditorium. The rays hit the corpse’s pale eyes and brought back life to the flesh that almost became one with the floorboards. A few feet away stood the note taker and curious eyes, always watchful and attentive to any event.

The man breathed heavily, making out the most of the only intact lung he had left. Not even bothering to stand up, he slowly lifted his arms and grabbed the spear shaft that stuck out from his back. With what little strength he had left, the man wiggled in order to loosen the spear from the floorboards. He kept shaking it, side to side, hoping to detach it from the stage floor, but nothing happened. He kept trying and both the boy and the writer approached. The performer never stopped trying, but his eyes focused on both spectators. No subtitle was needed; both of them stepped back and silently watched.

After wiggling the spear in vain, the man decided to give one precise tug at the shaft. He tried holding firmly, though his hands were sweating, and without hesitating placed all his remaining strength into the movement. The spear detached from the stage floor and seemed to pop out. The man carefully pushed it away, avoiding the contact with any exposed internal organs, and relaxed. Every muscle in his body, even those torn apart, relaxed. Every inch of the man’s body stopped contracting and would have liquefied, if they could. What once were groans now manifested as deep sighs of relief.

After a few minutes of rest, the man got up. He slowly lifted his body and stood facing what remained of the once populous audience. Upon the sight of both a possibly a man in his thirties and a boy under eleven, the man smiled. He stepped toward the stage’s edge and squatted on his weary heels. The hole in the man’s chest made torn heart, lung, bones, and tissue visible, not to mention the pink curtain stage behind him. That scene frightened the man’s lonely witnesses, but luring them wasn’t hard. He placed his hand inside his pocket and from it retrieved two glittering white pearls. The small polished spheres shone in those red hands of dry blood.

For pigs do not deserve pearls, but you two are different. Here is my token of appreciation. Might you have any questions?

The young boy hesitantly raised his hand and asked:

What was the hardest part?

The man licked his lips as if preparing to talk. He glanced at the second spectator and noticed the man did not stop taking notes once.

Once wounded, there isn’t much one can do…except confront the pain. Once the spear head has already perforated your flesh, the best thing to do is drive it in and get it out. The problem is it will perforate you again, but once it has gone through your body, the final stings of the flesh cutting edges are the hardest. After that you’ll have to put the matter behind you, but many are not willing to do so. How long does one take to get rid of the pain and the problem? It depends, how far are you willing to pull the spear?

So the worst part was getting the spear out…- the boy concluded.

Indeed. Once the spear head is out, you know the shaft won’t hurt as much because it’s smaller. It’s a matter of putting issues and the pain behind you and preparing for what lies ahead, which inevitably takes time.

What about the scars? Don’t they bring back memories? – Asked the writer while taking down notes on his pad.

They always do. Every scar is a story, a show, a performance. But in time those memories tend to affect less your heart and mind. That is, if you’re willing to advance. Unless the spear has been extracted from one’s body, the scars will never have a chance to form. Though thoughts come to mind, time rewards those with disposition. Some, on the other hand, prefer to remain forever trapped in pain impaled by the spear. They don’t confront the pain and they don’t try to end it as well.

The man slowly stood up and futilely tried cleaning his hands by patting his pants.

I couldn’t ask for better viewers. You’ve been a great audience, the best. Value these lessons. Keep smiling and keep writing.

The teacher’s back revealed new scars that had been formed through the course of those few days. Though both spectators could see the man’s ripped dangling heart, they had no insight on his feelings. Leaving his bloody spear behind, past the stage curtains the frail man slipped, never again to be seen.

Epilogue

If scars bring back memories, so does the spear. Ever since I placed it on my wall I need only one glance to remember the notes I took on that fateful day. No grief or sadness could ever make those moments return. Ever since, I’ve carried a smile on my face because I know tears won’t help. They’re fruitless and they end here.

He grinned, laughed in a comforting manner, and said it was normal. Said there was nothing wrong with my heart.

“Bitch Dependency” he called it:

A bleeding scar created after having that silk-smooth red carpet pulled from under your feet and hitting your face smack on the floor.

The biggest problem isn’t getting hurt, – the doctor went on – it’s being unprepared. Feeling the carpet shake a bit doesn’t give you enough time to foretell what’s to come. Not being able to do so leaves you in doubt and completely vulnerable.

Next thing you know you’re patching your forehead from the fall with one hand and trying to clutch your slippery pulsating heart with the other. Let me tell you: It pains. Making you wish it had never happened.

There isn’t really any cure for it and preventing it can be quite hard. Like a flu, it has to be transmitted by other people, usually those close to you, usually those that have the power to somehow affect your feelings and state of mind.

Women portrayed as “significant others” have commonly been identified as the cause of this pathology, but it has been reported to affect both sexes. When men are the cause though, the name remains unchanged. Be it because you’re dependent on a bitch or because you’re the bitch for being dependent.

There’s not much I can do except prescribe you this bottle of time. All you have to do is swallow it with a glass of truth and wait. It should taste like shit, but it works. What you do though, once you leave this office, is none of my business. I’ve seen patients drinking, some frantically searching for someone else to occupy the void, while others develop a tendency towards sharp razors and lofty skyscrapers.

Time is a treatment, not a cure. Be warned that side effects are involved and it helps to not poke the wound. Scars can’t form unless you leave them be and the more you play with them, the more they bleed and hurt. On the other hand, though, I know, touching the wound is not masochism, but rather a way to feel human.

It’s a process. In the beginning you were fearful of treading that imaginary red carpet of yours. Carefully, though, you stepped forward. Little by little you started walking down the path. Being surprised in such unexpected manner can stun anyone, but now you need to apply the reverse effect. Get up and start walking back. Some say, the quicker the better, but honestly, there’s no point in rushing it.

As for the side effects I mentioned, they vary. Thoughtful depression, extreme rage, and psychotic humor are just some I can think of. None of them feel as something you normally would, so you know it’s part of the treatment.

The problem is some people are affected by these side effects and end up hurting other people. It’s as if you were to become just as rotten as the person who made you come here in the first place. Heed my words, this isn’t healthy. Struggle to become someone better, not as rotten as whoever scarred you. The world definitely could use people who didn’t hold grudges and hatred in their torn hearts.

If you do choose to go against my advice, I won’t stop you. You won’t be the only one to do this and frankly, whoever you hurt becomes my next patient. Unethical to some extent, but it does pay the bills. Keeps the business running.

“The Scar Cycle” he called it.

Now please sign this waiver. Once you cross that door, what you do is none of my concern. Follow my instructions and you’ll do fine, otherwise, good luck.

The appointment was over.

“Next!” his voice echoed.

The agonizing part develops like a child in its womb. The essence of the pain is the doubt. An uncertainty that drives your mind through a never ending torture.

The knife’s blade felt cold.

It stabbed straight into my heart. Half-in and half-out always twitching and turning making the pain constantly remain. You’d think your senses would fade after a while, but they don’t. The knife hurts just as much in the mind, body, and soul.

The constant debate whether you’re right or wrong; whether you know the answer or not; whether there might be hope…or not. Almost as if you unwillingly wanted to grasp insanity.

My damsel…

She could’ve meant yes.

But then her words would contradict themselves.

I bet she lied. She lied and did it sarcastically.

That bitch…

You’ll easily switch between two absurd points of view with relative ease. Then you’ll resort to logic and none of it will make sense, because later you’ll conclude logic is useless when it comes to feelings.

The hole just gets deeper and deeper. The rabbit has fooled you into his trap and not even Alice seems to be part of this wonderland. Light and hope seem distant and soon turn into a speckle of illusion. A mirage of the dumb…and that means you.

After hours of mental collision and internal conflict your soul is where your heart should be, your logic where your soul should be, and your heart torn apart.

Few understood the process I went through and even less understood why I did it. They knew I wasn’t strong enough to overcome the obstacles and even more to conquer the evil disguised in grey. They found my bones alone. No muscles, no tissue. All of it was drained from me until it hit the marrow.

From that point on I couldn’t see a thing. Darkness mixed with a faint image of old wood. Outside the capsule I could hear many lamenting. Commenting what society had lost. Those interested me not, but the ones who mentioned they had lost a friend caught my attention. A few sounded true and even less voices I could recognize. Those close and loyal enough said nothing at all, they showed themselves true to the friendship by providing the tombstone engraving.

“R.I.P. dear friend, for only in death there are no thoughts: Only certainty.”

If she was there, next to the coffin, I heard not a word. All the better because her silence would not be deciphered.

As if cared.

I chose not to be.

“So we have the night for ourselves?” asked intuitively the male figure.

“Not really, but all we’ve got to do is keep a lookout on the mansion. It’s not that bad” the young girl’s speech evaded her friend’s intentions.

“I think Paul can handle himself. It’s not like he needs two babysitters.”

“I have my doubts” her lips touched the edge of the man’s lips as she began to get up. “When we get back, we’ll start from here”.

Salem’s smile was hypnotizing. There was no need for her to offer a helping hand, as he quickly picked up the pace. Both of them clambered the tree, moving form branch to branch.

A larger branch awaited them at the top of the tree and though not comfortable it seemed to be strong enough. Both Julius and Salem sat down next to each other. Past the gardens and below the brightly lit moon awaited an old Victorian mansion. The sight was ideal.

“Do you think it’ll be long?” his pale skin reflected the moonlight as he spoke.

“How should I know, Julius? Do you even remember your first time?” Salem’s answer exhaled sarcasm.

“You’re not serious?” Julius’ eyes squinted, “It was a long time ago. With you.” The corner of his lips formed a faint smile.

“At least there’s something you recall” an inevitable sneer escaped the brown eyed girl’s mouth.

In silence, both Julius and Salem, searched the old mansion windows with their eyes for any sign of movement. In spite of the vines and plants that crawled upon the wooden structure, the moon gave off a white light that aided the inspection. Plants and weeds intertwined, paving a   green contorted path all the way to the long forgotten garden.

Not caring whether Salem was in the mood to talk or not, Julius spoke. “I don’t get it.” His statement sounded natural and naïve, as if he were confronting an impossible conundrum. “How come the mansion hasn’t ever been under investigation? It works and has worked perfectly for us, but I find it unlikely that parents have never suspected of their young daughters coming to a place like this for privacy.”

“My father did. Don’t you remember?” the irony was inherent to Salem’s words.

Julius stared at Salem. His eyes cursed her in advance, sparing him the need of actually opening his mouth.

“That was-” his sentence was interrupted midway through.

“I know, many years ago. Still, we’re lucky the police mistook him for a crazy person. Since the property’s been bought though, now they need a warrant to get in.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. Someone could be on our trail, looking for us.” Julius’ insecurity made his words tremble.

“Not likely.” Salem sounded as detective ready to explain all the logical steps to her conclusion. “We don’t make mistakes. We don’t draw attention to ourselves. Every time a couple enters the house, someone needs to be on the lookout outside. You think I enjoy spending my time here? Besides it’s not like we hav-”

A female scream slit the night’s silence and froze Julius and Salem in place.

“Up until now” Julius quickly offered payback to all of Salem’s sarcasm.

“Paul…” Salem growled as she stared at the house and her eyes quickly twitched from side to side in search of him.

“Hey, relax. He’s inexperienced and it’s normal to make mistakes.” Julius sounded like a father protecting his own.

“And from the looks of it, he has no idea of what he’s doing.” Snapped Salem as her eyes still searched for a sign of Paul.

“You worry too much. There’s nothing wrong.”

“But if there is…I’ll kill him. Again.”

Julius was tired of convincing Salem otherwise. He knew she had a point, but there was no need to overreact. The silence returned, this time creating tension and heightening the tingling in their bodies. Both of them cautiously observe every movement in the nearby area.

Julius slowly places his left hand on Salem’s shoulder. Mistaking it for a gesture of affection, she shrugs. He grabs her attention again by pointing to something in the distance with his other hand. Salem’s eyes open widely and her pupils dilate.

Julius lightly Salem on the back, waking her up from a frightened state. He positions himself, ready to jump, and she does the same. Both of them knew the faint alternating red and blue lights in the distance demanded drastic action.

“I knew he would screw up.” Salem had returned to her normal self.

Under the guise of the night, the couple quickly left the large tree. With one leap half the distance to the mansion was covered. Through the shadows, concealed in darkness, Julius and Salem ran until they reached the mansion’s main entrance. With little time to spare they leapt onto the canopy above the front doors and crept inside through the second floor windows.

“Paul!” Julius’ voice easily made its way through the structure of empty rooms, long hallways, and rotten wood.

“Here! In the room.” A distant quavering male voice answered to the call.

The wooden floor barely had time to creak and the couple ran to the room’s entrance. Reaching the open door, both of them assessed the scenario that awaited them. A big and old suite filled with the stench of decadent bricks and oak. The broken window handle revealed the dust and mold clotted on the glass and its corners. Everything seemed forgotten and left aside, except for the bed.

A huge bed structure made of marble stood in the middle of the room. Its surface shone in the dim light and both the sheets on the mattress and on the canopy smelled like fabric softeners. Above the sheets, however, lay a dormant naked body. The lady’s curves accentuated the lust in every man, but her skin seemed to be gradually loosing its blush and its life.

“Is she alive?” Paul was still putting his pants back on when Salem demanded answers.

“It depends on what you consider alive.” Replied Paul with a grin.

“Why did she scream?” Julius continued the interrogation while Salem approached the body.

“I don’t know. Everything was fine.” Paul retraced his steps, as if searching for a mistake “We were kissing, hugging each other, and all of a sudden her expression changed. She stopped smiling and screamed. That’s when I bit.”

“You are stupid” Julius already had all the answers at the tip of his tongue “She saw your teeth. But I bet that perverted look of yours didn’t make things any easier.”

“She’s got a light pulse. Should wake up in a few hours, but we can’t stay here.” Informs Salem, strictly as a coroner would.

“Why?” Paul’s innocence takes hold of his lines.

“Because your inexperience drew unwanted attention.” Julius’s authority was of a father’s and a general, at the same time “Grab the sheets, I’ll carry the girl. Salem, you lead.”

Paul pulls the bed sheets with one effortless tug, Salem opens the old broken window with one precise kick, and Julius places the girl’s body over his shoulder with ease. As they approach the window, Julius identifies the deep mark of two canine teeth on the girl’s neck. Two nearly identical, symmetrical and equidistant holes with no sign of blood or bruises.

“Nevertheless, Paul, it was a nice bite. Not bad for your first time” Julius smiles in approval.

All three figures exit through the window and in an instant leave the mansion. It is deemed lifeless, as it has been for the past century, when perplexed police officers search it for clues. “A prank call”, they conclude as they exit the property and leave the place as it always has been, camouflaged from civilization.

- Então hoje temos a noite livre? – perguntou a figura masculina.
- Não, mas é só ficar de olho na casa. Não é tão ruim. – responde a garota de jovem aparência
- Ah. O Paulo sabe se virar. Ele não precisa de duas babás.
- Eu tenho minhas dúvidas. – a garota beija o homem no canto da boca e começa a se levantar – Quando voltarmos a gente continua.

O sorriso de Samara era quase hipnotizador. Ela não precisou oferecer a mão para Julio. Ele já a acompanhava na mesma velocidade, escalando a árvore e subindo de galho em galho logo atrás.

Achando um galho maior e chato, no topo da árvore, Samara verificou se havia espaço para Julio. Não era dos galhos mais confortáveis de se sentar, mas ele parecia agüentar ambos e a visão da velha casa na distância era ideal.

- Será que vai demorar muito? – a pálida pele dos dois refletia a luz da lua.
- Sei lá Julio. Você lembra como foi a sua primeira vez?
- Quê? Me testando, é? Faz muito tempo, mas eu lembro sim. Foi com você. – ele sorri com o canto da boca.
- Pelo menos isso você lembra. – uma inevitável risada escapou da boca da garota de olhos castanhos.

O silêncio perdurou por algum tempo enquanto ambos procuravam identificar qualquer movimentação na casa por dentro de suas largas janelas antigas. O luar facilitava a tarefa ao iluminar a casa e o gigantesco quintal da mesma. Entre o pálido casal e a casa ficava o que devia ter sido um luxuoso jardim em tempos passados. Atualmente, um emaranhado de plantas e capim dominava o que deveria ser terreno suficiente para um campo de equitação.

- Sabe o que não entendo? – Julio pouco se importava se queria ou não conversar. A indagação dele soava ingênua e natural, como se aquela dúvida fosse solucionar a razão da sua existência. – Como que até hoje nunca investigaram o casarão? É um ótimo lugar. Funciona e funcionou muito bem pra gente, mas é impossível um pai nunca ter suspeitado que sua filha puritana tenha vindo para um lugar desses em busca de privacidade.

- E é por isso que eu digo que você é esquecido. Meu pai veio me procurar aí.

A expressão facial de Julio era impagável. Seus olhos entreabertos xingavam Samara de mil nomes sem nunca falarem uma palavra.

- Isso foi há -
- Eu sei, muitos anos. Ainda assim, felizmente naquela época a polícia não deu muita bola pra ele. Hoje em dia isso não acontece mais porque o terreno é particular.
- Você que pensa. Hoje em dia é fácil demais, mas a gente pode estar sendo investigado e nem sabe.
- Não. É fácil e tranqüilo porque a gente não comete erros. Porque a gente não chama atenção. Por que você acha que a gente geralmente vem aqui vigiar? Sempre que um casal entra na casa, alguém tem que ficar de guarda do lado de fora. Além do mais, nunca deixamos qualquer ras -

Um grito feminino distante cortou o ar e o diálogo.

- Até agora. – Julio não perdeu a oportunidade. Seu sorriso era sarcástico.
- Paulo… – Samara comentou olhando para casa com olhos prestes a pegar fogo.
- Deixa ele. Você se irrita com facilidade. É normal errar quando se é inexperiente.
- Mas pelo grito da garota parece que ele não tem idéia do que faz.
- Calma…acontece nas melhores famílias.
- Exato e se sujar o nome da nossa eu mato ele. De novo.

A idéia de instigar a tempestade em copo d’água criada por Samara não apetecia Julio, então ele optou por ficar calado. Ainda assim, ele sabia que ela tinha alguma razão.

O silêncio retorna, dessa vez constrangedor. Todos os dois observando atentamente os arredores.

Julio toma a iniciativa e diz:

- Vamos lá ver se está tudo bem.
- Por que a preocupação repentina?

Julio aponta rapidamente para a estrada que tangencia o terreno da abandonada casa. Em razão da distância, apenas se pode ver o fraco piscar alternado de luzes vermelhas e azuis por entre o matagal do quintal.

- Eu sabia que ele ia fazer merda. – Samara resmunga.

Usando a noite como refúgio o casal rapidamente deixou a árvore. Um largo pulo e metade da distância até a casa já tinha sido coberta. Por entre as sombras a outra metade foi alvo de uma ligeira corrida. A escuridão como o perfeito disfarce.

Chegando à entrada, ambos pouparam tempo pulando e entrando por uma janela no segundo andar.

- Paulo! – a voz de Julio se propagava com facilidade por entre a madeira velha e os corredores vazios.
- Aqui. No quarto. – a distante voz respondeu.

Julio e Samara chegaram à porta do quarto e analisaram a situação. Um grande e antigo cômodo em que tudo era velho e decadente. O chão de madeira rangia e a quebrada maçaneta da janela mostrava que ela não tinha sido aberta em anos, assim retendo o cheiro de poeira e mofo.

Exceto pela cama. Uma gigantesca e conservada cama pairava no meio do quarto. A madeira da sua estrutura brilhava e os lençóis cheiravam a amaciante. No centro do colchão, iluminada pelo luar que atravessava a janela, deitava uma jovem envolta em um fino lençol roxo. O que o lençol não cobria, revelava ser um escultural corpo nu, mas de coloração estranha que parecia perder vida e ficar pálido.

Paulo terminava de vestir sua calça quando Samara exigiu respostas:

- Ela tá viva? – a autoridade era audível.
- Depende de o que você considera “viva”. – Paulo respondeu sem perder a oportunidade e o senso humor.

Enquanto Samara se aproximava do corpo, Julio continuava com as perguntas:

- Por que ela gritou?
- Não sei. Estava tudo bem. Estávamos abraçados e nos beijando e de repente o olhar dela mudou. Parou de sorrir e gritou. Eu não sabia o que fazer e mordi.
- Idiota. Ela viu seus dentes. Seu olhar pervertido também não deve ter ajudado muito. – Julio desvendou o mistério com facilidade.
- Ela está com um pulso fraco. Deve acordar em algumas horas, mas a gente precisa sair daqui. – Samara informa.
- Por quê? – Paulo indaga.
- Porque a sua gritaria chamou a atenção da polícia. Pegue os lençóis que eu vou carregar a garota. Samara lidera.

Paulo rapidamente puxa os lençóis da cama, desenrola o que ainda está preso ao corpo da garota e coloca tudo debaixo do braço. Samara abre a janela com um forte e preciso chute. Julio ajeita o corpo feminino sobre o seu ombro e observa a profunda marca de dois dentes caninos marcados no pescoço. Dois buracos quase idênticos, simétricos e eqüidistantes sem qualquer indicativo de sangue vazado ou uma área dolorida em volta.

- Apesar de tudo, Paulo, foi uma bela mordida. Nada mal para uma primeira vez. – Julio sorri com o canto da boca.
E em instantes a casa estava vazia novamente. Policiais perplexos deduziram ter sido um trote ou jovens marginais. Sem as figuras pálidas, a casa voltou a ficar vazia como parecia estar pelas últimas centenas de anos. Camuflada para a civilização.

We desired to be together. I did with my entirety, but she did only half. A part of her wanted to be with me and a part didn’t. Her words descended as cruel speech from a father upon his child. My inside ached, but I understood. I respected Decay and it would feel as a betrayal on my behalf.

As I treaded back to sulk into the darkness, my thoughts wouldn’t leave me alone. Nevertheless, I was rescued. The five steps that felt like kilometers were interrupted by the calling of my name. I turned and faced back. I couldn’t deny her voice.

It was unexpected, yet perfect.

Our lips touched.

Thoughts left my head and only a calm peaceful tide could be felt. Rejuvenating.

At the end, we knew words would not help at anything. We had already been careless for exposing ourselves in public, but it seemed worth it.

I smiled. She smiled back.

Then her eyes felt empty and her body fell.

Loss

Half of Decay’s sword had already pierced her from behind.

I drew my sword and as a reaction his lackeys arrived.

I used the opportunity to swing my blade. In a swift movement he retrieved his from her body and the blood escaped from the wound dragging her life with it.

The scene held my eyes in place almost long enough to join her. The high pitched swing of the blade woke me up and I evaded just in time. He held no grudge at attacking and drew a second sword from his belt. My avenging chances were slimming.

His men approached as well, but they were no match. As always, stupid enough to follow and stupid enough to fight. They lacked the intellect and the ability to truly assess the situation and confirmed the definition of disposable henchmen.

With one thrust I cut open three chests. Their leather armor was red and prevented much of the blood from being seen. An old technique to diminish the opponent’s moral. Luckily the falling of bodies and screams of agony easily substituted the strategy.

Decay seemed to laugh. I could not be sure. It was dark and he wanted me dead. I had no idea a kiss could change that much.

I wanted to swing, but my arm faltered. It hurt. It bled. Decay had somehow hit me.

My thoughts were in my way. They kept me out of focus. Where was her body?

Another musical attack headed my way. The sound metal cutting the air felt unpleasantly close.

I rapidly crouched and then tackled him with my shoulder. It worked.

Decay lost his balance. Holding two swords did not help regain the standing position. He tripped backwards, unfortunately on her body, and fell helpless.

One blade on the floor and the other held with both arms. He cowered. He acted as a child, upon the sight of a hungry bear, would.

But the bear had no words. The bear’s heart ached. The bear’s soul felt void. The bear wanted blood.

With one hit his sword flew far away. He held his clenched fists up and thought they would protect him. I took no chances. I cut them off.

I dropped tears from my eyes and the sword from my hand. I dropped my closed fist on his face. A successive session of blows and punches at first hit the flesh. Screams accompanied most of them and fueled my rage.

Some time later they stopped and I started to feel the hard and impenetrable tarmac. It seemed over.

I got up and searched for her. Tainted red and with a pale base she laid there on the floor. Back punctured and without a soul. I held her next to me. I hugged her hopping comfort would come out of it.

Decay knew everything, which meant he was a spy. A public enemy dressed in red armor portraying the eagle emblem. A traitor to the nation. And I, a traitor to a friendship.

It was all betrayal. Did the reason or consequences matter?

I would ensure they would both get a proper burial.

Would I deserve one too?

Eu explico: o ópio do povo nunca se manteve distante das aulas de educação física e por isso toda semana eu era obrigado a participar de algumas partidas. No início fui coagido pela minha consciência e o temor das autoridades, mas com o tempo aprendi que tudo que é forçado e se torna desgastante acaba sendo burlado. Foi o que fiz, tentei boicotar o regimento interno do futebol.

Minha primeira atitude, como um aluno diligente foi conversar com o professor, mesmo que eu não soubesse dar o recado em uma única fala:

- Professor, olha só…hoje eu não vou fazer aula não. Tenho consulta no médico.

Na semana seguinte:

- Professor, meu pé tá doendo. Não consigo jogar assim.

Mais uma semana:

- Professor, estou com dor de cabeça.

Até que uma semana o que eu temia aconteceu. Conversava eu no banco com outros reservas quando fui chamado e me tornei vítima do seguinte diálogo:

- O que tá acontecendo? Você não gosta de futebol?

- Não.

- É, percebi. Mas sabe o que acontece? Se você ficar arrumando uma desculpa toda aula pra não jogar a diretoria vai reclamar comigo. Você não pode ficar arrumando uma desculpa nova porque pega mal pro meu lado.

- Entendi. – e continuei de maneira enfática – Mas eu realmente não quero jogar.

- Tudo bem. Vamos fazer o seguinte…tá vendo aquele garoto ali?

- O Peru?

- É esse o apelido dele?

Fiz cara de quem não daria mais explicações e que lamentava pelo outro aluno.

- Vamos fazer uma aposta: se ele fizer um gol na partida você nunca mais precisa fazer educação física. Você vem e vou te deixar no seu canto lá sentado conversando com o pessoal do atestado médico pra não fazer aula. Agora se não tiver gol, você vai precisar fazer aula sempre e jogando todas as partidas.

Parei para analisar. Devo ter demorado um segundo para responder. A linha de raciocínio que ocupou minha mente durante esse um segundo foi bem simples. O Peru devia jogar muito mal para o professor fazer uma aposta daquelas. No entanto por pior que ele fosse eu ainda tinha alguma chance de ganhar. Não era como se eu fosse o jogador em campo, porque se fosse o caso, certamente não apostaria em mim mesmo. Se perdesse a aposta eu deveria praticar as aulas toda semana sem falta. Em teoria naturalmente, porque eu ainda poderia faltar mais vezes e certamente continuaria burlando o sistema. Por outro lado se eu ganhasse a aposta eu não precisaria mais me preocupar em driblar a freqüência da aula e poderia descansar e receber presença ao mesmo tempo. Em suma, não tinha nada a perder.

- Tudo bem, vamos apostar.

Não sei quantas copas do mundo eu já assisti e apoiei o Brasil, mas durante todo o meu tempo de pseudo-patriota eu nunca me senti tão emocionado como naquele jogo. O destino (literalmente) em jogo soava muito mais importante e mal sabia Peru que naquele momento era a minha esperança.

Mesmo sem jogar, o suor desceu pela minha testa quando eu via que nada acontecia entre Peru e o gol. Eles não pareciam se dar bem e até aquele momento nenhum chute a gol.

A depressão monótona foi quebrada quando nos últimos minutos, por uma falha do outro time, Peru dominou a bola e realizou o que tanto ele e eu desejávamos. Não fez sentido algum para qualquer um dos jogadores ver um louco no banco de reservas comemorando um gol tão patético de uma pelada de colégio. Não importava para mim, pois agora estava livre dos grilhões da arte nacional. Por mais que eu nunca tenha verbalizado o meu agradecimento ao Peru, sei que graças a ele o futebol foi usado como instrumento para me afastar ainda mais do próprio esporte. Graças ele, posso dizer que pelo menos durante alguns minutos, eu fui brasileiro.