Friends and bitter coffees: Bad Days (2022, part 2) - Ken Scamander

Bad days, good night.

Chapter 5:
Agustín committed suicide 3 months ago, he and Angélica left, the former of his own free will and the latter had no choice, I believe that more than capricious, destiny is insatiable, it never tires of unhappiness, it is a prudent cycle, it leaves no chaos loose or right to doubt, how could there be any doubt left before the sharpness of death? They are like notes of music that repeat themselves, I don't need to look for an explanation.

Antonio was the most helpless, only three months were enough for him to lose more than seventeen kilos, he looks skeletal and unnoticed, a bowl of boiled water fell on his face, his countenance is devoid of any sign of life, his smile like mine is the consequence of a devotion (almost addiction) to coffee, his hair that was always abundant looks frayed like second-hand avocados. His wife Louis has lost the glow on her face, she was engrossed in routine and only came out of it to attend to a few requests from her children. Anne Marie looks herself as her mother used to look, it is now her habit to dress in black, I don't think it looks bad on her, but I can't conceive of a change in that decision, it is precise and perhaps, in a risky way, sensible and necessary. I have nothing to say about Raul, he went to live in a distant part of the West, it is a post-traumatic escape, and it is well known to us, by his wife's testimony, that he has forgotten how to sleep.

I feel that I have spent my whole life looking for a solution in the midst of all this disorder and uprootedness, I sought to be the one to guide my quintet of four, but I learned in turn that the worst thing you can believe is that because you have read more than a thousand books, you know something of what you are saying. Even more so when what is being said has not been learnt by anyone. I don't know where I will end up, I don't think I will be given the opportunity to feel the union again. I have lost my will to stumble, I only know that uncertainty will forever be my best company.

In concept, I lash out at myself, accusing myself of insignificance, my essence, like everyone else's, is embodied in little things that I desperately seek when I leave work, optional slavery (in my opinion, not so much), is something that takes hold of me as the days go by, I suffer from day to day, I condemn the protesters and I give reason to my captors, who sweat less than a baby in winter, and I behave like Kristin Ehnmark, thus being able to kill whoever poisons my master, and to deify my master when he decides that I am no longer useful to him, begging him, asking him, as his ancestors did for mine, not to let me die in such conditions.

Day by day he tries to convince me that I will get out of this, my father trusts in God, or rather, I don't know if God trusts in my father. Abundance is evil? It seems absurd to me, totally, in the sense of the word abundance to associate it with evil is something unusual, it unnerves me and makes my blood boil, we good men should not suffer aporophilia, we should not be afflicted and think that the best will come later, the consequence of our actions should be immediate, as much for the bad as for the good.

I feel miserable, though if Victor Hugo had written me I would surely be less of a yokel than I am now, now I'm just a heap of bones that hardly stand up on grey days, a heap of longings that don't know where they go and fear, shaped in me since I was a child, attacks me as if I were its raptor, and firmly condemns me until the day of my death comes. In dreams I often think that you love me, that I love you, that we can love each other freely, it's like trying to play hopscotch, making steps with my hands, honestly, it's becoming less and less difficult, but it doesn't feel natural. It's about feeling trapped. The days go by continuously, but I feel constantly stuck in the middle of loneliness. How can a person who can't even dress himself convince me that all his wealth belongs to him? The problem of inheriting, is only inheriting money, if you inherit nothing else from your parents, you will be an idiot all your life, on the other hand, if you only inherit what your parents know but not money, will you be a poor person all your life?
The consequences of this can only mean a life of poverty and pity, a life with few friends and bitter coffees.

• Christian Reyes (Ken Scamander), 2022, part 2, final chapter