Jugando con la creatividad: Mi primer relato corto, ¿suspenso o terror? ESP - ENG

Conseguir información de mis vecinas fue tarea fácil. Nuestra casera sonreía al pensar en una historia de amor bajo su edificio, por lo que conversar con ella para conocer horarios y ocupaciones fue algo sencillo de saber, solo se trataba de observar, vigilar y nadie sospecharía del amable caballero del departamento 303. Mi plan ya estaba puesto en marcha y no fallaría.

La noche llegó y la oscuridad, como mi fiel compañera, me otorgó todo lo que necesitaba para lograr la libertad de mi amada.

Forzar la cerradura fue más fácil de lo que pensé. El departamento estaría vacío, lo sabía, esa molesta mujer estaba fuera trabajando. Pronto, mi amada y yo seríamos libres. Yo volvería a mi vida y nadie más conocería mis secretos. Todo sería tan simple como eso. Sin embargo, algo sucedió. Ahora entendía lo que decía mi madre cuando hablaba del destino.

Un leve movimiento a la izquierda me alertó, traté de reaccionar, pero un cuerpo curvilíneo me rodeó y en una maniobra de lucha me tumbó sobre mi espalda. Traté de luchar, era más fuerte, rápido y experimentado.

Nunca había peleado con alguien, pero la frase "lucha contra la muerte" no dejaba de repetirse en mi mente. Pero qué absurdo el destino, en un descuido, el sonido de un fuerte disparo llenó la sala y mi cuerpo se desplomó lentamente, y lo supe: estaba en los últimos momentos de mi vida.

Solo pude pensar en lo imperfecto que me vería al morir de esta manera, tomado por sorpresa y en presencia del único ser que inspiró emociones intensas en mí. Y allí, mientras la sangre se escapaba por mi hombro, lo supe: no era amor, era terror y obsesión lo que había llevado a esa escena.

La muerte yacía en el sofa frente a mí, cínica e indolente, esperando mi último respiro. Una vez se encendieron las luces, pude visualizar a mi ejecutor, la carcelera que creí mi amada, con su burdo uniforme de policía. Alertó por teléfono que había atrapado al asesino en serie que llevaban años buscando. Pedía asistencia médica, pero sabía que este era el final, pues como una avalancha, la verdad vino a mí con gran facilidad.

El asesino soy yo, no eran sueños, sino trozos de mi memoria, desencadenados por la visión de esa criatura que me recordaba a mi padre. Por años estuve traficando y coleccionando órganos porque si la perfección era el camino, yo sería su inventor. Y en los últimos segundos de vida, miré hacia el balcón donde había liberado al objeto de mi obsesión, se encontraba posado en un árbol juzgando la escena y sonreí; pensé que mi muerte no sería tan imperfecta, pues fui tan perfecto, controlado, astuto e inteligente que logré ocultar mis asesinatos incluso de mí mismo.

As the sanest member of my family, it was always clear to me that human beings are governed by the most basic instincts given to them by nature: survival and the perpetuation of the species. Survival was never a problem for me, after all, I am a perfect specimen, intelligent, shrewd and cunning.

While others wasted their time in absurd emotions such as love or sadness, I invested my time in controlling everything around me and that is how I managed to build an empire of maritime trade.

In 30 years I never knew boredom, lack of control and much less love, until that autumn day when an incredible creature came to disrupt my existence.

When I met her, she had just moved into the apartment next door. She had arrived in the city in the company of a portly middle-aged woman dressed in a sports uniform, who only prattled on about how great her trip was. She looked so lonely, aloof, unique and majestic. She looked perfect with a red that wrapped her figure, representing passion and fire, and a mysterious expression with her gaze full of sadness and anger.

She did not manage to speak to me, but the wind whispered with a singsong voice that everything had come to an end, that creature of fantastic stamp had come to undress something that I neither knew nor believed to possess: my soul. There she discovered my secrets, and as the apartment door closed in a last glance, I knew I was lost forever.

In my life I became accustomed to being aloof and polite in its proper measure, perfect and calculating. My thoughts were never in the public domain; they only saw what I allowed them to. Not even when my mother died of an aggressive cancer did I manage to show overflowing emotions, in front of family and strangers.

So why was I disturbed by this creature on the other side of the wall in my room? Something wasn't right, how could I become an absurd human wreck of uncontrolled imperfection? His very presence every morning on the balcony blurred my vision, made my hands tremble, my throat close up and something strange and unpleasant settle in what the great poets call the heart.

The worst thing was not my reaction to his presence, but how he became so deep inside me that he disturbed my dreams. After having small, empty and comfortable sleeping quarters, I began to visualize every night the most disconcerting scenes, full of blood, with an atmosphere full of death and perversion.

The most vivid of all was about the cliff-front house where my parents lived. In one of the rooms, a woman was screaming for her life as a man with his face covered administered a serum and watched her die. As if it were a movie scene, I could see how he slowly shaved off her hair, pulled out her fingernails and emptied her organs into small jars, then took the rest of her body and threw it into the sea. This scene would cause terror in anyone, but in me it only left me with the uncertainty of what was hiding behind that mask.

Am I going crazy? No, no, no... it's impossible. I didn't go crazy like when my father beat me over and over again while blaming me for my mother's death. I won't now that I've fallen prey to what would be the love everyone was talking about. Maybe if I take distance I will be better off, I could move away, but it is impossible for me to do that. The solution is to see her every day, every day. Maybe if I free her from her jailer I will be better off and can return to my peaceful life, but I needed a plan.

Getting information from my neighbors was an easy task. Our landlady was smiling at the thought of a love story under her building, so chatting with her to find out schedules and occupations was a simple thing to know, it was just a matter of observing, watching and no one would suspect the nice gentleman in apartment 303. My plan was already set in motion and it would not fail.

The night came and the darkness, as my faithful companion, granted me everything I needed to achieve the freedom of my beloved.

Picking the lock was easier than I thought. The apartment would be empty, I knew, that annoying woman was out working. Soon, my beloved and I would be free. I would be back to my life and no one else would know my secrets. Everything would be as simple as that. However, something happened. Now I understood what my mother was saying when she talked about destiny.

A slight movement to the left alerted me, I tried to react, but a curvaceous body surrounded me and in a fighting maneuver knocked me onto my back. I tried to fight back, he was stronger, faster and more experienced. I had never fought anyone before, but the phrase "fight to the death" kept repeating in my mind. But how absurd fate, in an oversight, the sound of a loud gunshot filled the room and my body slowly collapsed, and I knew: I was in the last moments of my life. I could only think of how imperfect I would look dying this way, taken by surprise and in the presence of the only being who inspired intense emotions in me. And there, as the blood ran down my shoulder, I knew: it was not love, it was terror and obsession that had led to that scene.

Death lay on the couch in front of me, cynical and indolent, waiting for my last breath. Once the lights came on, I could visualize my executioner, the jailer I thought was my beloved, in her crude police uniform. She alerted by phone that she had caught the serial killer they had been looking for for years. I called for medical assistance, but I knew this was the end, for like an avalanche, the truth came to me with great ease.

The murderer is me, they were not dreams, but pieces of my memory, triggered by the vision of that creature that reminded me of my father. For years I was trafficking and collecting organs because if perfection was the way, I would be its inventor. And in the last seconds of life, I looked up at the balcony where I had released the object of my obsession, it was perched in a tree judging the scene and I smiled; I thought that my death would not be so imperfect, for I was so perfect, controlled, cunning and intelligent that I managed to hide my murders even from myself.