This is "Steel in the brain", the first story included in my book "The wooden box".
Soon, the whole book in English.
Hope you enjoy it.
Hi, my name is Mauro. I have two things to say.
The first one is that I'm a complete stupid.
The second one is that I'm dead.
So, as you've made me come back to this world without asking, I'm going to tell you my story. My family is rolling in money, and I'm not just saying that they enjoy the privilege of living a well-of life. They are stinking rich. I belong to the fourth generation of a ship-owners stock, and ever since I can remember we have always used the silver cutlery to eat, slept in silk sheets and had shit in a porcelain toilet; that is, they are an authentic band of prudish people. Throughout the years, my parents have celebrated lots of parties, so we have rubbed shoulders with intellectuals, top players, stars from the silver screen, politicians and a whole colourful collection of mugs and whores from both ancient and new lineages.
I went to the best schools and universities of the world but, while my parents thought I was studying, I was actually going on binges in the most indecent parties that an intelligent adolescent could ever imagine. This happened to other teenagers who enjoyed the same lifestyle and had a vague mind. In this kind of places, without exception, I learnt to hate and despise anybody and anything that did not belong to the same exclusive world of money and I did it in the most inhuman way.
In the end, as a product of the constant repetition, the rancid smell of opulence leaked inevitably in my existence, so I became a disgusting, despicable person, a complete stupid. My life was nonsense, empty, and no objectives or dreams filled my days; they were disguised by the mundane routine of an arranged marriage, two children and the managing of an inherited and boring company which I don't give a damn. I needed to to forget all that stuff; that fake way of life, that theatrical performance of an almost perfect existence hold up by rubbish pillars.
I would have sold my soul to change all that stuff, to satisfy my thirst of adventure, to fasten my life stuck at the starting line. However, I was a coward. It was easier to get used to that binges, to that women hunts, and above all, to that poker games under the green lights of that filthy hole in which we bet a lot and doped a lot more.
One of those nights became the beginning of this story and the end of mine. We met almost all of us, and I don't really know why but that night everybody wished to raise the bet even to risk our birth certificate. Sonseca looked nervously around the table, as if he was prisoner of his own bluffs. Juanito was shouting game after game that he was capable to win even Lucifer himself. Galván was scanning our faces as he convinced himself that he was going to clear out all of us once and for all. And I..., I felt like being touched by the grace of God, which was a normal state after having had three snorts of cocaine, a couple of pills and some whiskies with diet Coke.
After some hours, the poker game was not enough for us. Even raising our bets, we didn't have a reason and didn't see the time to stop that nonsense. We were not used to accept a defeat, or admit a withdrawal, so somebody raised the bet when he put a revolver on the card table. To see that old Colt revolver appear was much more exciting than a savage orgy at that moment. It caused an excess of testosterone, a masculine explosion, a vital orgasm.
The rules were simple; only one bullet, four turns. The one who tried his luck only had to spin the drum for the next one. As for the prize, the three lucky men remaining will divide in three equal parts the substantial bet of the poor wretch, after having received the murderous message. That is the way the Russian roulette works; it does not conceive excuses, neither children nor women. It only knows about cold maths, luck and the monstrous, brutal feeling of the cold barrel placed on the temple, while you are trying to decide whether you pull the trigger or shit yourself, or both.
Both Glaván and Juanito tried their luck and their virility... and fortune smiled on them. Then it was my turn and nothing in the whole world could change that now, it was too late to back out. Juanito spun the drum and held out the gun to me. A dying smile escaped from the corner of his mouth, which was a mixture of rapture of being alive and the disgusting feeling for giving me the deathly gun.
I took the gun firmly, and I kept in my position as if I had any other choice. I was one of the brave idiots which filled the cemeteries. As I placed the gun on my left temple and felt the cold steel, I scrutinized my mates' faces looking for a gesture, a clue that let me know if that bullet had the key to crack my head.
I closed my eyes; I let my mind go blank, and listened to my own breath, my faltering, anxious, heavy breath. The powerful sensation of playing with death tossing a coin was pure and morbid ecstasy. I pulled the hammer back with my left thump, and heard clearly the sound of the drum spinning. The delicate and sharp touch of the trigger was hypnotic. My forefinger pressed it slowly, which made the hammer look for the missile desperately to send it at high speed directly to my head. I continued pressing the trigger to its limit, and probably to the end of my story. I could feel a strident silence in that split second, and then I felt my soul screaming with every inch of my body. And then, silence.
That shot destroyed my head, including my whole life ahead of me. Everything I was once, went bust at the same moment I decided that a bet was worthier than my own being. I was bold enough to go to hell's basements. I risked everything tossing a coin with de devil, and I lost.
Well, my friend, I can't help you if you are looking for some advice about life. I learnt nothing from all that and so, I can't offer you anything. A whole life was given to me and I wasted it; now I have no choice but to keep on rotting in hell, waiting for the day this crappy world takes pity on me and let my soul rest in peace.
Translation by Diana Gamón
2012
The first one is that I'm a complete stupid.
The second one is that I'm dead.
So, as you've made me come back to this world without asking, I'm going to tell you my story. My family is rolling in money, and I'm not just saying that they enjoy the privilege of living a well-of life. They are stinking rich. I belong to the fourth generation of a ship-owners stock, and ever since I can remember we have always used the silver cutlery to eat, slept in silk sheets and had shit in a porcelain toilet; that is, they are an authentic band of prudish people. Throughout the years, my parents have celebrated lots of parties, so we have rubbed shoulders with intellectuals, top players, stars from the silver screen, politicians and a whole colourful collection of mugs and whores from both ancient and new lineages.
I went to the best schools and universities of the world but, while my parents thought I was studying, I was actually going on binges in the most indecent parties that an intelligent adolescent could ever imagine. This happened to other teenagers who enjoyed the same lifestyle and had a vague mind. In this kind of places, without exception, I learnt to hate and despise anybody and anything that did not belong to the same exclusive world of money and I did it in the most inhuman way.
In the end, as a product of the constant repetition, the rancid smell of opulence leaked inevitably in my existence, so I became a disgusting, despicable person, a complete stupid. My life was nonsense, empty, and no objectives or dreams filled my days; they were disguised by the mundane routine of an arranged marriage, two children and the managing of an inherited and boring company which I don't give a damn. I needed to to forget all that stuff; that fake way of life, that theatrical performance of an almost perfect existence hold up by rubbish pillars.
I would have sold my soul to change all that stuff, to satisfy my thirst of adventure, to fasten my life stuck at the starting line. However, I was a coward. It was easier to get used to that binges, to that women hunts, and above all, to that poker games under the green lights of that filthy hole in which we bet a lot and doped a lot more.
One of those nights became the beginning of this story and the end of mine. We met almost all of us, and I don't really know why but that night everybody wished to raise the bet even to risk our birth certificate. Sonseca looked nervously around the table, as if he was prisoner of his own bluffs. Juanito was shouting game after game that he was capable to win even Lucifer himself. Galván was scanning our faces as he convinced himself that he was going to clear out all of us once and for all. And I..., I felt like being touched by the grace of God, which was a normal state after having had three snorts of cocaine, a couple of pills and some whiskies with diet Coke.
After some hours, the poker game was not enough for us. Even raising our bets, we didn't have a reason and didn't see the time to stop that nonsense. We were not used to accept a defeat, or admit a withdrawal, so somebody raised the bet when he put a revolver on the card table. To see that old Colt revolver appear was much more exciting than a savage orgy at that moment. It caused an excess of testosterone, a masculine explosion, a vital orgasm.
The rules were simple; only one bullet, four turns. The one who tried his luck only had to spin the drum for the next one. As for the prize, the three lucky men remaining will divide in three equal parts the substantial bet of the poor wretch, after having received the murderous message. That is the way the Russian roulette works; it does not conceive excuses, neither children nor women. It only knows about cold maths, luck and the monstrous, brutal feeling of the cold barrel placed on the temple, while you are trying to decide whether you pull the trigger or shit yourself, or both.
Both Glaván and Juanito tried their luck and their virility... and fortune smiled on them. Then it was my turn and nothing in the whole world could change that now, it was too late to back out. Juanito spun the drum and held out the gun to me. A dying smile escaped from the corner of his mouth, which was a mixture of rapture of being alive and the disgusting feeling for giving me the deathly gun.
I took the gun firmly, and I kept in my position as if I had any other choice. I was one of the brave idiots which filled the cemeteries. As I placed the gun on my left temple and felt the cold steel, I scrutinized my mates' faces looking for a gesture, a clue that let me know if that bullet had the key to crack my head.
I closed my eyes; I let my mind go blank, and listened to my own breath, my faltering, anxious, heavy breath. The powerful sensation of playing with death tossing a coin was pure and morbid ecstasy. I pulled the hammer back with my left thump, and heard clearly the sound of the drum spinning. The delicate and sharp touch of the trigger was hypnotic. My forefinger pressed it slowly, which made the hammer look for the missile desperately to send it at high speed directly to my head. I continued pressing the trigger to its limit, and probably to the end of my story. I could feel a strident silence in that split second, and then I felt my soul screaming with every inch of my body. And then, silence.
That shot destroyed my head, including my whole life ahead of me. Everything I was once, went bust at the same moment I decided that a bet was worthier than my own being. I was bold enough to go to hell's basements. I risked everything tossing a coin with de devil, and I lost.
Well, my friend, I can't help you if you are looking for some advice about life. I learnt nothing from all that and so, I can't offer you anything. A whole life was given to me and I wasted it; now I have no choice but to keep on rotting in hell, waiting for the day this crappy world takes pity on me and let my soul rest in peace.
Translation by Diana Gamón
2012
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