Somebody once said that without love life is not worth a nail. Me, it’s my hatred that holds me, keeps my knees from bending. When I see the cattle crowds raving about a newborn’s pink ass, I tell myself that with not much you soften a lot of brains. I can’t stand those sore wet eyes. What I like best is scaring my neighbors, seeing the kids in the neighborhood scream. Humanity is foreign to me, and frankly, I hate it, while the planet is indifferent to me. I didn’t ask to live there, with those that life imposes on me. Whenever I can, I piss off my people, and I swear to you that I have good relief in humanitarian projects.
From the start, I didn’t want them, for their all pink and purple air. I wish I had died in my mother’s womb and left her inside moldy. They came looking for me against my will, I was pulled from there with forceps. I’m not dead, but I was ugly, that’s it already. We wanted to reassure my parents, my face would be more presentable in the days that would follow. But I remained hideous, and very soon became obnoxious, refusing to make popo until it came close to the occlusion, waiting for someone to come and see what was going on in my pampers to expel foul stools, splashing the aghast faces of my dear father and mother.
They wanted to breastfeed me, to gain strength. I damaged my mother’s breasts so much that it cured my father of the urge to fondle them. They wanted to make me play, that I develop normally. But I broke everything that was put in my hands. Later, I ate my big brother’s goldfish raw, then drowned the little cat I was given. I stuck the pencil a friend gave me in my school’s eye, then set my school on fire. At the home where I was eventually placed, I sent the educator in charge of my follow-up to depression. I found him much later during a stay in psychiatry. But this time I did not miss it. It crashed five stories down, and I loved all that red on the gray sidewalk. It remains one of my best memories.
At eighteen, I was let out, without being able to diagnose me. I wasn’t crazy, just mean. I found a place to stay with a farmer who wasn’t looking at my CV. Very quickly I impressed him. Twisting chicken's necks, skinning rabbits, I had the knack right away. But it was by killing the pig that I really gained recognition. I had no equal for the Kabyle smile. With a sure gesture and a firm hand, I cut his throat without batting an eyelid, the thunderous moan of the bleeding pig eliciting very pleasant sensations in my pants. How powerful I felt, sex swollen and pumped up, while the beast emptied before my eyes. The dread that we then read in those of the farmer’s wife, who could see me getting off on this infamous task, made me harden even more. In the end, I scared her too much, and she managed to convince her husband to get rid of me, despite my excellent work. She had a tiny marshmallow heart, and my pleasure in killing had not escaped her, nor had the even greater pleasure I felt in watching her suffer in silence from my sadism. Because I was careful to ensure that the animal endured the anguish, even before the pain. Death was less important to me, after all, than evil, and the power I derived from it.
The farmer regretted having to part with me, having no qualms about how I was killing his animals. But he had a serious fault, he loved his wife dearly. He didn’t keep me in his service, paid me what he owed me, and a little more. He was a good guy, I have to admit. I pocketed my due and the extra, and left without looking back. They would find, after I left, their dog dying in his vomit, an adorable little bastard whom I took care to poison, and whom they loved like their son, them who had never had children.
After that, I wandered from odd jobs to seasonal jobs, and everywhere I went animals perished, unnaturally dying, until a reckless driver ended my murderous career.
Now that I am crippled by the company, I just rot in place, making no effort to heal my bedsores, infecting them if necessary, that they disgust my nurses. Three times a day, people come to my house to change my bandages. When the weather is good, I ask to be seated in front of my door. By the time the kids come home from school, I still find a way to slide the blanket I’m being covered in, showing my festering flesh under their noses. To see their little faces, so fresh just now, suddenly turn verdigris, is a most divine treat for me.
