The Horror of Ordinary Life

"Yes, hurrah, I could write a book about zombies! I'd plunder thousands of pages of literature and cinema, so much cinema. You know, the first zombie movie dates back to nineteen hundred... Wait, let me check Google..."
"Save your fingertips! You'd only be plundering material that others have already plundered. You'd just be serving the same reheated soup."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure!"
"So zombies are a no."
"Let them rot in peace."
"How do you feel about a detective story with an inspector?"
"You mean the usual inspector who's despised by the entire precinct, smokes without restraint, clings to the bottle like it's his mother's breast, has a wife and kids who refuse to see him, and when the case stalls, decides to take justice into his own hands?"
"An inspector like that, but without the mother's breast part. You know, it might make the whole thing slip into incest."
"Leave it alone..."
"Why?"
"Because it's a cliché – one that sells, God knows, but still a cliché."
"A pathologist then! A forensic pathologist who solves cases. I actually know a pathologist. I'm not saying he'd take me on a honeymoon to the morgue, but he could give me some tips about his profession and some gruesome details. Maybe I'll invite him to dinner..."
"But there are thousands of those!"
"Of pathologists who solve cases?"
"Who else?"
"But I'll give him a vice..."
"After Bukowski's books, there's no vice left that holds up."
"A birth defect then. I'll make him dyslexic!"
"That already exists..."
"A dyslexic pathologist?"
"Not exactly. It's a detective, but what's the difference!"
"Can I say a bad word?"
"No!"
"Shit!"
"You said it!"
"After the dyslexic inspector, I had the right. What if I switched to a serial killer?"
"Hmm, a bit overused but always interesting..."
"I'll make him special... Ah, listen to this idea... He's a serial killer who doesn't know he's one. I mean, he dissociates. He replaces his persona by imagining himself as a brute crossing the desolate countryside in an old van..."
"Already done..."
"Really?"
"Oh yes!"
"A homeless serial killer. One who hides in other people's homes and..."
"You're late to that party, my dear!"
"One who goes around unarmed and when he has to kill his victim, improvises..."
"Already done."
"And who would this genius be?"
"I'd tell you but I can't. It's the same author as this story and he'd end up being disqualified."
"I'll read something of his."
"You should, he's good."
"A serial killer who kills virgins!"
"Oh God!"
"He goes around wearing a mask!"
"Ugh!"
"He's a religious fanatic."
"Come on! Are you giving up?"
"No, damn it! I'll write a story with femmes fatales, criminals, vampires, and demons cheerfully chasing each other among city skyscrapers!"
"You forgot the werewolves..."
"It wouldn't work, would it?"
"Maybe it would, if we were in 1948, a bit before the advent of television."
"Infernal machines, lethal epidemics, interplanetary coups... A xenomorphic organism - an extraterrestrial parasite that single-handedly exterminates the entire crew of a large space cargo..."
"Who are you trying to fool?"
"Doesn't work?"
"No way, beautiful!"
"Let me think. An idea must come to me, sooner or later... I've got it. An enormous library, full of books with the names of all people who have lived and are living on this earth written in them..."
"And with their birth and death dates, perhaps..."
"Yeah, perhaps! Why are you laughing? Ah, I get it, already done. Let's try then with the story of a child who talks to the dead, an Indian cemetery that brings corpses back to life, a frustrated girl with telekinetic powers, an epidemic where everyone's dead but the people at the Arctic base don't know anything. A story with a corpse preserved in a fridge, an Amazon expedition that discovers the tree of life at the center of the ecosystem, a society where they burn books, an abandoned hotel in the mountains, someone who has a car accident and is cared for by a strange nurse... Some young fellows who venture out in search of a corpse?"
"Come on, don't let yourself go. You need to stay calm and you'll see, an idea will come. Right now you're stressed and you won't get anything out of that little head of yours. It's late now. I need to throw something together to eat and then I'm going out. I have yoga class, you know?"
"And I'm sad..."
"About this inspiration thing? Don't think about it and you'll see it'll get better. Now don't be offended, but I really have to go..."

Today my friend has been cynical, more than usual.
I leave her when she's already focused on finding something in the back of her pantry that can be ready in less than ten minutes, and in just five stirs of a spoon.
On the landing, with the door now closed behind me, I sink into the confused sounds of a couple of televisions, unwitting messengers of the same lie. I choose not to take the elevator and face the eight floors stepping on pristine steps. They seem not to have aged at all, and to have preserved in them a bit of the smell of those years, when apartment buildings replaced meadows with the same speed with which night alternated with day. I form an idea of which reheated dishes were preferred for that evening and am surprised that the tenant on the third floor is singing a song against the fragrant backdrop of sautéing.
Outside, the usual street, which seems to have not yet digested the afternoon traffic.
A procession of pedestrians defies death, heads bowed and faces barely lit by the opaque reflection of the sidewalk.
A couple of cyclists faces the green light with an underlying tension that can be felt from a distance. He, with square pedaling and curved shoulders, heads straight for the service road on the opposite side. She follows him, nervously huddled in her gray leotard.
The beggar at the corner hasn't left yet, and the homeless woman under the lamppost seems to have found company.
The businessman arrives menacingly, maintaining the exact center of the sidewalk. He brandishes his briefcase like a battering ram, and his secretary follows him with breath scraping in her throat. She's tired and walks fighting with the constraints of a too-tight skirt. She has X-shaped knees that converge inelegantly toward the center, heels dangerously seeking a manhole to slip into, and in her eyes the desire to go home, and to do it as soon as possible.
The mother struggles to keep the capricious child in check. Five years old, maybe six, and a cascade of decibels to vent into the ears of the unfortunate around them. The woman apologizes with a forced smile, placed on her face as if it were fake.
The street vendor with roasted chestnuts could still package a few more bags, but has been systematically ignored by all passersby. I move on, clearly perceiving the watershed between disappointment and anger. The girl behind me, twenty years worn poorly and an organic chemistry formula bouncing confusedly in her brain, stops in front of the roasted chestnuts, hesitates, and leaves without buying any.
I pass the newsstand with a mummy inside, the window of a stationery store that has lost faith in itself, and the dusty collection of an antique dealer.
Finally, I reach the metro stairs and catapult myself into rush hour hell.
The train has already pierced the station's saturated air with a roar and welcomes me into an atmosphere of unreal heat and brake stench.
In the car, an amorphous regiment of human beings is attracted to their phone screens. They sway, synchronized with every movement, and sometimes feel the need for support. A forest of hands projects everywhere, searching for the right hold. The man with tortoiseshell glasses misses his mark and messes up the snow-white hair of the little old lady with the dog in her arms. The exchange of apologies and pleasantries is seasoned with a nauseating blend of hypocrisy and good manners.
The girl on the other side of the car is metaphorically naked.
She's devoid of a phone or a companion to converse with. The dirty window doesn't reflect the image of her beautiful face.
We look at each other, across the few meters that divide us and the thousand life stories enclosed by zippers.
I imagine her under a straw umbrella, set in the hot white sand of a tropical beach, with the light breeze that precedes sunset, the sun's reflection on the shoreline, and a spread of red clouds on the horizon. For a moment, I perceive a breath passing through her black hair.
She hints at a smile, shy, drawn with a light stroke behind the evaporated memory of lip gloss. We seem made for each other, but we can't find the courage to speak.
When my stop arrives, too soon and suddenly, I get off with two solid certainties.
The first is that I will never see the metro girl again.
The second is that I've had an idea for a book.
It will be set in the streets of my city and it will be a horror story.

I’m not sleepy - No Rest for the Wicked. No Mercy for the Lost

 I’m not sleepy.

Let’s be clear: this is nothing new for me. I haven’t truly slept in years, and at the same time, I’m never fully awake. I live in a kind of virtual reality, as if I’m trapped in the lights of a nightclub before dawn, with the mirrored disco ball spinning and spinning, scattering a multitude of tiny bright dots across the carpet, the tables, and the empty glasses. My ears are wrecked by ringing, my eyes half-closed, as if bracing for the crash of my eyelids in a roar of iron, a cloud of dust and rust. I feel my brain turning to mush, sloshing inside my skull, and if I really pay attention, sometimes it turns liquid, threatening to trickle down my nose.

The avenue framed in the window cuts through a small grove of red maples, green acacias, and weeping willows—trees I planted myself. Now, strong and lush, they transform the lawn into a mesmerizing play of light and shadow, blending perfectly with the blue notes of John Coltrane. They come from an old Prestige Records vinyl, a slightly warped pressing that was born in a factory, made its way from New York in the mid-'50s, and—who knows after how many adventures—ended up in my hands from a secondhand stall in Turin, beneath the awnings of Piazza Madama Cristina.

The seller was a freckled Dutch guy with crane-like arms and a cigarette clamped between his lips. He wore a T-shirt with an X-ray of a skull printed on the chest, and inside the skull, there was a nail—just like the ones in The Life of Mary Magdalene by Salvador Dalí, long carpenter’s nails with broad heads. The medical report, printed right at stomach level, read: chronic obsession.

After half an hour of haggling, we settled on sixty euros and a Moroccan coffee.

Tonight, the record spins under the needle of my battered Pioneer, an orphan of a decent stylus and a belt elastic enough not to creak like a noose rope. The volume is so low that if you press your ear close, you can hear the music straight from the diamond’s friction.

But Veronica and Chicco are sleeping.

It’s not their fault that my sleep-wake cycle has gone to hell, that I’ve counted every last sheep, read through my entire bookshelf, and that TV is nothing but a parade of horrors.

Every time a leaf stirs, every time the shadows shift along the avenue, I feel that weight in my head—the one that’s been haunting me for years. It’s not a good travel companion because it has the habit of showing up when you least expect it and always in different forms. Tonight, for instance, it feels like a splinter lodged under a fingernail, or like the heat of a freshly fired bullet.

Codeine, corticosteroid, tranquilizer.

I’d like to pick one of these, but there’s never anything in the room, and my step is heavy—I limp on the right side, as if termites had gnawed through my heel. I don’t want to wake Veronica and Chicco. He’d pout and start crying, making that pain in my head throw its own personal Rio Carnival. She’d just murmur:

"Love, maybe next time wear headphones."

And she’d sign off with a lazy kiss before curling back up in bed.

Paracetamol, lysine salts, procaine.

Not even worth considering.

Whiskey.

That night, I was sipping a Rebel Yell from Kentucky while Nina Simone sang I Put a Spell on You. The deepest vibrations, the ones born from raw emotion, from the warmth of summer nights or from the sweat of long hours spent rehearsing, they reach you, massage your soul, and never disappoint. But it’s best if the lights are off.

Now, I settle for some water—and not even sparkling. I forgot to screw the cap back on the bottle, and the upside-down paper cup covering the neck let the gas escape, mixing with the musty air. I fill it to the brim and press my lips against the edge.

Better than nothing. And later, I’ll take a bite of an apple, a couple of apricots, or the speckled banana whose spots spread a little more each night. I’ve found that fruit has pain-relieving properties. When I told my doctor, he curled his lips over his crooked front teeth and laughed right in my face. Poor guy—he suffers from hyperdontia, a kind of dental overcrowding that makes him look like a shark, and he’s ugly as sin. Judging by his breath, he won’t be giving medical advice much longer.

The record ends in a soft hiss, the mechanical arm clicks up and settles precisely on its rest. And I’m still not sleepy.

I wouldn’t mind listening to some Randy Weston, because jazz is the most nocturnal music there is—and sometimes, it even helps you sleep. Or at least, it tries.

The records are lined up beneath the window sill, standing tall like dutiful soldiers, their spines worn by the years. If I remember correctly, The Modern Art of Jazz is the sixth masterpiece from the left, so I reach for it—and that’s when I see it.

A shadow, moving among the leaves.

That unsettling presence that always puts me in a foul mood.

The room is dark, but I’m careful, hiding behind the curtain. A branch of the maple quivers, as if a sparrow had just taken flight—but there are no birds in the garden, and the air is as still as a coffin’s interior. It doesn’t matter that the third streetlight’s bulb is burned out—I know for sure that someone is out there.

Whoever it is must have climbed the wall, probably using a ladder. Then an accomplice must have helped, stashing the equipment and waiting for instructions.

That night, Veronica was in the shower, and Chicco, kneeling on the living room rug, was playing with his Fabula cards, inventing stories and acting them out, switching fluidly between two or even three voices.

The next day would be Saturday, and the forecast promised summer temperatures and a sea as flat as glass.

That night, I regretted planting all those trees, because they were now shielding someone’s bad intentions.

Hunched at the base of the acacia, I had no doubt—there was a man.

The certainty that this would happen again has stolen my sleep for years. And even if some evil little gremlin is kicking my gray matter, tearing out my neurons bite by bite, even if my heart no longer beats like a metronome, even if my legs are weak and tired and my eyes have deceived me more than once—this time, I’m sure.

He’s moving along the wall, creeping closer.

And now, I have no doubt.

There is only one thing more terrifying than a loaded gun—

And that’s a loaded gun in the hands of a father who will do anything to protect his family.

It’s there, in its usual place. The cylinder is full of .357-caliber sweets, eager to spread their wings and unsheathe their blades at the first taste of gunpowder against their backs.

They are hungry.

And tonight, my Taurus Tracker is itching to take center stage.

That evening, however, the Taurus was empty, and I had to rummage through the drawer—you know how it goes. When panic takes over, your hands get tangled, objects conspire against you, and time speeds up. It feels like someone has poured a bucket of tar onto your windshield while you're rounding a curve, like someone else has shoved sea urchins into your underwear, and like—

Veronica had rushed out of the shower, screaming, because meanwhile, as I struggled with the bullets slipping from my nails cut too short, seeing the drum holes small and dark, that man was about to break into the house, and Chicco had stopped playing and was calling out loudly.

“Dad, help! Someone’s trying to get in!”

But a wise man does not repeat his mistakes, and this time, all the rounds settled neatly into the magazine, ready to fire. All that was left was to go down the stairs, in the dark, like when listening to music. Slowly, barefoot, using surprise to my advantage, I could find myself with the target perfectly framed behind the sights.

That night, fumbling with the ammunition, the revolver had slipped from my grasp, bouncing off the floor, and my sprint in slippers had echoed against the walls like a cavalry charge.

But now, I gain ground, eating up meters like a mole tunneling underground.

Veronica has locked herself in the bathroom, and Chicco must have hidden under the bed. Those are precious seconds gained, and everyone knows—the difference between life and death can fit within the beat of a wing. This time, the Taurus does not slip. The rubber grip clings to the skin of my palm, and there is a burning desire to shoot.

There is only one thing more terrifying than a loaded gun in the hands of a father determined to protect his family, and that is a loaded gun in the hands of a father willing to kill to protect his family.

There were two of them, I remember, their faces grotesquely deformed beneath the stretched nylon stockings. Their hair was plastered to their foreheads, lips smudged into ridiculous red blots, noses widened like oversized pears, and their breath struggled noisily through the tight weave of fabric. On both of them, a ridiculous apostrophe of stocking formed at the top of their heads, resembling the reservoir tip of a condom.

The first one, to the left by the door they had evidently forced open with some kind of tool, was pointing a large semi-automatic at Chicco, who was crouched between the telephone stand and the potted clivia. The other man had Veronica by the throat, pinning her between the crook of his arm and his broad chest. She was naked, desperate, trembling, with the barrel of a chrome-plated revolver pressed against her temple. Chicco had wet himself, but that wasn’t important. Later, I would have convinced him that the overfilled plant saucer had spilled over, forming a puddle, and in his fright, he had dunked his bottom in it like a biscuit in milk. His eyes were swollen with tears, and the scent of fear reached me even there, on the stair landing lined with framed paintings.

Now, I see the first man shining a flashlight as he rummages through the drawers. At the foot of the cabinet, discarded objects deemed unimportant lie scattered, trampled underfoot without care. I hear the crunch of an old watch crystal shattering beneath the intruder’s sole.

Both of them are wearing gloves. Their faces are uncovered.

The bastards aren’t afraid of justice. Or they don’t plan on leaving any witnesses.

The second man, gripping a small LED light between his teeth, fumbles anxiously with the lock on the safe.

They seem to be in a hurry.

The first time, it had been different.

The lights had been bright, and in no time, fear had transformed into rage—raw, primal aggression. The bullets had started flying. Short, one-way trips.

The man keeping Chicco in check had perforated the wall behind me, destroying a couple of paintings and hitting a third squarely on the nail holding it up. It crashed down, its fragile frame shattering into a trap of splinters. Retreating, I stumbled, and as I fell, I started firing too.

Bang: the center of the mirror shattered, a web of cracks spreading as fast as sound.

Bang: the intercom handset flew off like a venomous snake and began dangling, scraping against the wall.

Bang, and in the man’s chin—Chicco’s captor—a hole appeared, collapsing his face inward, held together only by the taut nylon of the stocking. Bang—then nothing but thick smoke filling the house. Bang—bricks pierced. Bang—splintered wood, crumbling plaster.

Bang.

A searing pain surged through my foot, as if a train had run over it, as if a bucket of gasoline had been poured onto the wound, climbing up my leg, into my groin, through my guts like a cat clawing its way up a curtain, into my heart, my throat, my chattering teeth. And bang…

A strangled scream cut through the haze, and the stench of blood seemed to float in the air. One more time: bang.

Then the lights went out. All at once.

But darkness is an ally.

I don’t let myself be distracted by the circles of light skimming over the safe’s door, dancing like club lights on a carpeted floor. I make myself small and descend the stairs on my rear, slow and deliberate. Veronica and Chicco have been through this before. They’ve learned. They breathe quietly, slowing their heartbeats, letting their blood flow gently through their veins. They blend into their surroundings like insects, hidden among the shower and the bidet, camouflaged by the floral patterns of the rug.

I approach like a submarine—deep, stealthy, silent. The noises guide me, giving me their exact coordinates. The targets are now in the crosshairs of my periscope.

One down, two down, and I’ll watch them sink.

Something crashes into me, and I squeeze the trigger.

You know, a wise man tends not to repeat his mistakes. But a flawed man? Oh, he repeats them all right. And as I recite that proverb in my mind, I realize I never took off the safety. When I try again, it’s already too late. The universe has shifted, the dealer has dealt a new hand, and this time, I’ve drawn a losing set of cards.

The first body slams into me like a steamroller. Even with the safety off now, I can’t fire. The grip is too tight—we’re practically fused into a single being. Siamese twins.

I let instinct take over. I do what I can. I smash the intruder’s head with the butt of the Taurus—once, twice, ten times—hitting so hard that I see stars, my hand aching unbearably. I think about the damn painkillers that aren’t in the bedroom.

Codeine, cortisone, sedatives.

Glue.

There’s a tube of it on the nightstand—strong stuff, good for sniffing when the pill blisters are sadly empty.

But I hold on. I endure.

I tense every muscle, turn myself into unfeeling stone, until my weapon breaks under the strain. But the satisfaction is immense when blood pours from his wounded head, dripping into my mouth.

Sweet and warm.

The second man has arms of steel. He grabs my ankles, and the pain in my foot resurfaces—horrific, just like the first time, that same furious cat climbing up, turning my testicles into minced meat.

He jerks me downward with determined yanks. I try to brace my spine against the steps, but they’re marble—unyielding, pitiless. I find myself pinned beneath the bastard I had just bludgeoned. He slides over my face until the hideous snarl of the other one comes into view.

He has rows upon rows of teeth, like a werewolf. His breath stinks like a landfill, and he growls like a monster. He wraps his hands around my neck, reigniting that excruciating migraine, and somehow, I land a punch that sends half a dozen of his teeth cascading down like gravel spilling from a truck.

But it’s too late.

The grotesque snarl plunges a blade into my jugular.

The Dutch guy who had sold me that John Coltrane record was wearing that impossible-to-find T-shirt with an X-ray print of a skull. I’ll never forget it. I admit it—I envied him for it, and all my searches to find one just like it had been useless.

When I open my eyes, the T-shirt is hanging on the wall.

The one who jumped me first is hunched over a plain desk—four machine-bent metal tubes for legs, a worn-out Formica top resting on a flimsy frame above a single drawer. He’s writing by hand, checking boxes, filling out forms with the diligence of a pensioner waiting in line at the post office. His tongue pushes against his cheek. He’s got a bruise on his temple and his hair is matted with some whitish pulp.

I was sure I’d hurt him pretty bad. And I swear, next time, I’m buying a sturdier gun.

The second guy—uglier than death itself—has his back to me, staring at the wall where something is hanging next to the used-record dealer’s T-shirt. His elbow is raised as he scratches his chin, then occasionally lets his hand slide down to his neck, massaging the nape.

I’m tied to a table that scrapes like the worn asphalt of an old road. And I let go. To hell with dignity. I care about only two things:

“What did you do to my wife? Where’s Chicco?”

He answers without turning around, while his buddy with the messy hair keeps writing.

“You’ll see them when you start behaving yourself.”

“No, I want to see them now!” My voice screeches like a seagull’s cry. “I want to know if they’re okay.”

The guy writing stops, puts on his glasses, and looks at me. Behind those thick lenses, his tired, watery eyes look like a couple of dark stones sunk in a goldfish bowl. He goes back to his work and mumbles under his breath.

“Lacerations on the head, minor. Confusion state.”

The ropes cut into my skin, and I feel the headache creeping back in. But at least I take comfort in one thing: I must have been out for a while, because it’s daylight outside. The morning light, mixing with the buzzing ceiling lamp full of dead flies, filters through the frosted glass of a high-up window, casting our shadows on the back wall and across a sturdy metal bookcase.

The man with his back to me turns around. His lip is split, smeared with some greasy ointment, swollen like a beach ball. He glares at me, then grabs an ice pack from beside the scribbler. He presses it against his wound, grimacing. His voice is thick, like he’s sucking on his own tongue.

“This can’t go on, you know that?”

“Show me your face, you bastard!”

He does. And flashes a crooked grin. His gums are covered in blood, and there’s an extra tooth that’s squeezed its way between his front teeth.

“Happy with what you did?”

I cry.

Because I’m useless. Because I didn’t have the guts to kill them. Because I have no idea where my family is. The thought hits me out of nowhere, and the image of two corpses takes shape in my mind. They could be dead because of my incompetence. And then—again—that migraine, shattering my thoughts like broken glass.

The guy with the mangled lip opens a drawer and pulls out an envelope. Pale yellow, the kind bad news comes in. Inside, what looks like a medical report. He reads the first lines under his breath, but trying to read his lips is like trying to understand a broken radio.

“The professor agrees. We’ll attempt the procedure…”

“I want to see Veronica first, and then my son. And we have to be together all day.” I scream, and a stiletto of pain pierces my skull, straight through.

Paracetamol. Lysine salts. Procaine.

Whiskey.

Glue.

I get it now—it’s not easy to talk when your face has been rearranged with punches. So I hold back a laugh as Beach Ball Lip struggles to make himself understood.

“The last time we left you alone with your wife and kid, you tried to kill them.”

I remember. But goddammit—Veronica had reptilian pupils and was flicking a forked tongue at me, not even trying to hide it. And Chicco—damn him—was speaking Aramaic!

He ignores me. “It’s a complicated and risky operation, but we have to try.”

“Why don’t you just drop dead, you filthy rat? Fucking burglar!”

“Because if I die, there won’t be anyone left here who can stand you.”

“I’m as good as gold!”

“Sure, buddy. Just look at what you did to us.”

“It’s exactly what you deserve!”

The scribbler chimes in.

“Oh, right! You tried to kill me with a banana and covered my hair in this… smoothie-looking crap!”

“It was a gun, a goddamn Brazilian revolver!”

Yeah. With spots on the peel that grow bigger every night.

“I’m never buying a Taurus again. Italian guns are way better.”

The guy with the busted lip leans in close. It’s easy to act tough when the other guy’s tied to a table. His breath reeks of stale blood, and I get the feeling no dentist will ever be able to save that canine of his.

“Last time, you wrecked the cafeteria, pal. The institute doesn’t have the budget to rebuild it every time you come down for a bite.”

All I did was flip a couple of tables and knock over a pot of vegetable soup. These guys have a funny definition of “wrecking.” I insist.

“How’s Chicco?”

He runs a hand through my hair, then takes the chance to shine a light in my eyes. The same tiny flashlight he had in his mouth while gambling on the safe’s combination.

“He’s fine—thanks to you. He’s not fine—also thanks to you.”

My heart turns to butter, and I don’t care if I cry again.

“And Veronica?”

“She’s okay. Because of you. But it won’t be long before she moves on and finds someone else.”

I know. Now everything is clear.

My lucid moments are getting fewer and shorter. Soon, they’ll abandon me for good. Now I’ve seen it—the doctor’s kind eyes. He doesn’t actually have a mouth full of teeth like IT. He just never wanted to get rid of that extra incisor that makes him stand out.

Women love him anyway. Even if, when he injects the sedative into my neck, it feels more like a stab wound.

He leaves the room, and his colleague follows. They’re both wrecked. It’s not the first time I’ve beaten the shit out of them. Night shifts at this clinic aren’t easy, and yeah, I’ve made things harder for everyone. I was the one who glued the medicine cabinet shut. Some “safe,” huh?

They leave the light on, whispering to each other even before stepping out. Once in the hallway, their voices rise. That place must know more about madness than the whole psychiatric faculty.

I look around.

The record seller’s T-shirt is gone. In its place, an X-ray of my skull, backlit just right. And damn, that bullet is crystal clear.

A nine-millimeter. Shining like a diamond.

Eight grams, wedged between my parietal bone and brain matter, nestled between my hemispheres, tight with blood vessels and neurons.

The weight in my head.

Even through the haze, the confusion, that damn thief, before I killed him, had planted it there—like he’d parked his car after carefully studying the spot.

And sure, the hole in my forehead healed perfectly, thanks to a titanium plate and a little skin grafted from my ass. But my “pet peeve,” as I like to joke, is still there, causing more short circuits than a bunch of punks pissing on a transformer.

Enough. One last round. Let’s hope the dealer hands out good cards. And let’s wait for the carpenter willing to pry this nail out.

With a good hammer, properly sterilized.

The way it went in, it has to come out.

And when it does, finally, I’ll get a good night’s sleep.

L