The love of my death.

The love of my death.

ISBN: 9781370986477

Traducir al Español.

—Let's go at once— thought Aníbal.

—Where do you want us to go? — thought Julio.

—Go to the hell—I was going to think.

They had gone to try to convince me. They were encouraging me to come back, along with them, to throw my lottery ticket.

I had not prepared it. I ha to fill out forms, questionnaires, complete the application, that is, a number of routine procedures.

Some time ago, Yes, I wanted to do it, I was determined. The love of my death was waiting for me, but things changed.

She was a shining alive girl; she was a bright star in the life of the living people.

Me, on the contrary, I was a common dead. My name did not appear in the newspapers, I did not have a minuscule success or crime to brag about.

I saw her for the first time on the day of my funeral. She stopped for a moment in front of the coffin. I guess to verify that she did not know me.

The event was attended by the ones I expected. Some other enemy, which was over there to make sure that I was actually dead, the garbage dumps of the district, the man of whom I was a tenant; who had the intention to claim his rent, in addition to the casual onlookers, among whom she was.

She looked at me; my heart began to warm, because beating could not.

Julio, was explaining to me that the process for the applications to new opportunities was complex. I should fill a form, in which I must detail my intentions concisely, summarize the data I could remember about my previous lives.

Aníbal, clarified that, I would have to cite references of known dead. Because without having PIN number, or e-mail addresses, or username with your corresponding password, I would have to refer details about the day of my death, the chosen method, that is, cremation, burial, thrown into the sea, shot at the cosmos , etc.

Also, if some famous dead guy could recommend you, it was a factor to consider.

I was devoid of support or recommendations, so the process was going to take longer.

So I decided to take it easy. In a couple of years it would be ready. Nor was he going to wait too long, she could die, the life of the living is too ephemeral. It is easier to find an alive among the living than a dead among the dead.

I got into consideration that it might not work out as I had thought. In case I would proceed with the application, we would be out of relation in the time. When I came back to life, she could have died.

Time is a contrary variable, nor can the dead avoid it.

Then I pretended to declare my love for her, from death. I left her notes of love, written on the back of the obituaries I had brought with me. But it seemed to scare her.

I whispered love poems next to her pillow while she slept, what she interpreted like nightmares. I fired to her mind images of my favorite portraits from when I was young.

I was a handsome young man. I never imagined that this idea would impel her to consult a psychiatrist. I did not want to attack or harass her, the dead guys, we are peaceful people.

In her aura I could read that she needed love, she was alone, overwhelmed, weary of ordinariness.

I sent to her an anonymous letter that, went through shadows, paths from beyond the grave, parallel universes, it missed a little to be incinerated in psychotherapies, It was about to be considered or confused with a fatal premonition of her ancestors, without achieving, that she could understand that someone loved her, even if was an  insubstantial dead who begged her attention.

My friends advised me to leave her alone, to retur to reality. They did not consider that the dead have no reality.

For a few months I tried to train myself in the cartomancy, the horoscopes; divinations that allowed me to predict her passions and to interspers me between them, resulting that I became a disoriented dead.

So, I was forced to act. I put a couple of hundred-dollar bills in her wallet. It worked.

I watched her when she was leaving, searching through her things, among which there was barely any money left for breakfast.

I had been studying her. I already knew her. She scattered the contents of her purse on the table looking, just as the navigator would look for the distant light of a lighthouse.

She kept perplexed when she saw the first bill, her perplexity turned to fear when she found the second one.

Her name was Ana, the three most common letters of the earth.

In a hurry, she finished her breakfast and went to work.

Ana was a brave woman. She did not have children. She was still young.

She liked horror movies; she was sophisticated when dressing, in her appearance in general. She also took care of her spiritual cleanliness.

Julio, who I thought was intruding on my romance, told me that she was addicted to Champagne and Chanel No.5.

Because he seemed to be too informed, I clarified that she was Catholic. He, who was a heretic, withdrew immediately.

I saw her working. I enjoyed watching her nervously flip her desk, looking for prints that would help her know who left bills under her paperweight.

I helped her to live. I had discovered a way to calm my passions. The passions of a dead are insipid, rarely lead to success.

—It will not work.

—It's not possible.

—Chimeras.

Said Julio,  Anibal and John, another who joined them trying to discourage me.

We cannot lie, because we are residents of the frank portion of authenticity, in which nothing is hidden; we know what others think. I knew there was no security in their sentences.

I was not going to give up. I had found a meaning in my death; even when I could not find it in my life.

—The livings believe in what they see— replied Anibal once when I explained to then the possibility of establishing a relationship with Ana. I had been clarifying my close bond, while living, with each of my dead.

—It is evident — I thought in my analyzes — most of the changes, which are carried out, produced by matter, at its root, are guided by ideas. Even in Genesis, there was the idea of God.

The living cannot see the ideas, even if you crush them in their face.

So one day, on her way to work, Ana, in her rush, almost crash her car against someone's other that was turning when the light changed.

Luckily I was with her. It was usual. Without hesitate, I hit the brake hard. I avoided the accident. She released the rudder. I grabbed it, turned the entrance ramp.

Here the feeling arose. She looked inside the car, place by place, corner by corner. She did not see me, but she knew I was with her.

She came to her table. She lifted the paperweight. She grabbed the bill. "Thanks!" She said, giving me the wonderful pleasure of knowing she knew.

It was a lovely season. I was going home before her, that is, to her house. I heated her food, prepared the bathroom, ran the vacuum, and scented the dining room, put incense in her room.

I left a set of Chanel No.5 at her bedside, using the revelation of Julio, who was envious of my progress.

One afternoon was special in particular.

Unforgettable, she had come home sure that someone was waiting for her. She freed herself of her belongings, threw her clothes on an armchair and went into the bathroom.

She took a long time, she played to despair me. I would not enter without her approval.

She came out clean as only a goddess could be.

She put on cream, the perfume. She lay naked on the bed. She stirred, flirtatious. She got up, started dancing.

Another sunset, after work, she entered home singing songs, she repeated the bathroom routine. Then, in bed, she would curl up in erotic convulsions with her eyes fixed on the bill I had placed next to Chanel's exotic bottle. I consoled myself, believing that she was thinking about me, about her mysterious specter that so pleased her.

I was going to have to reconsider regarding the applications - I concluded in that season - to abbreviate it, to make it as quick, as soon as possible or impossible.

Yes, the relationship was created. Ana talked to her friends about me, which, of course, they did not imagine that I was dead.

She did not completely believe it either. She figured I was a kind of invisible man, that my inexhaustible flow of money was the product of a great robbery or something similar. She did not care. "Money is money", she shortened, using that phrase that has been in us since the Paleolithic period.

The flow was not so inexhaustible. In those years my job was to move souls from the earth to purgatory. Usually, in their entirety, they were rejected, having to release them in hell itself; hard, exhausting work.

My friends commented on my idyll in the team. They made fun. Ana, it was my reason to resist. However, I was going to have to call her to the trial, to regain control.

It was remarkable how much she had changed. She wore new clothes, expensive brands. She put on her perfume at all times. She exhausted it, she asked to me for another one. She got bored of Chanel No.5. She started asking me for Imperial Majesty, from Clive Christian. I did not know this fragrance, but I looked for it.

She bought a new car. I was happy. She left me notes, pictures about her everywhere.

She came home, shouted like singing; "Love ... I'm home".

I carried with the love, the delirium and the constant support to the bride.

Therefore, so it happened what had to happen. I lost the job I neglected the schedules.

I missed close to a week from my job. I was chasing her by the entire city, helping her. My girl needed help for the most insignificant details. I lost my job.

At the beginning I reduced the deposits under the paperweight from $ 100 to $ 50, then to $ 20, finally to $ 10.00.

Ana stretched her lips in annoyance. I would have liked to explain it to her.

Although I tried hard, since I no longer only did what I described before, but also washed her clothes, collated the closets, prepared her snacks; the greetings of arriving home drastically changed.

She no longer told and sings me... "Love ..." now she yelled: "Here I am!"

I had saved some money. On certain dates we went out for dinner. Thanks that the people is going around talking with the phones like if they were insane, it was not strange that Ana would spend hours, sitting at the table, talking to herself.

One night, after having spent no less than three hours caressing her mind with romantic thoughts, I confessed fearful that I was only a spirit.

She placed her index finger over her mouth.

— You Cannot...? - I felt a tremble — talk? She said at last.

— Doesn’t matter! - She continued- men's conversations are bored.

After a while, she suggested I look for a thing called ... Güija. According to her criteria, this is used to talk with the spirits.

I made her to think that it could be expensive. We did not need it.

—You always with economies! — She replied.

I had not told her that it depended on a salary; modern ladies detest the proletarian class.

She abandoned the tempting practice of the long bath. She lay on the bed wrapped in quilts.

—Leave me alone, I'm tired, I had worked like a donkey— she said.

  I begged her to uncover at least one of her delicate ears to prove a voice of professional speaker that I imported from the world of the living.

—A voice? How much did it cost?, the world of the living?—She said alarmed.

I reminded her about my immaterial consistency, that I was a spirit; I needed the warmth of her body.

I had no physical body, I was dead. I was a twice dead man, biologically and of love for her.

—Well, you're a perverted dead— she muttered, covering herself completely.

— Ah! — She said taking out her head -breakfast with toast, please.

It did not matter. I was in love. The coexistence had become strong, natural, real.

We coped with the normal problems of normal people, I was happy to give her the possible and even the impossible.

One weekend she told me that she wanted to watch an old-fashioned film, which had been out of the market for six decades. Unable to find it on the shelves, or in the virtual world of the living, I brought it from the past. I enjoyed watching her laugh with the silent films.

We had to sell the car. We buy a used car. I had to learn mechanics. I became expert in repairing parts, reheating meals.

Ana was exasperated.

— Is it that you cannot find a fucking job? — she yelled — If you do not get one that pays like the one you had and lost because of your negligence, get two.

—“Negligence? If I have to constantly go to your help!"

But, those thoughts, she did not read.

— Enough! Enough! Leave me alone.

Ok, I'm gonna leave you. I left her. "You will have to fix your live by yourself".

She crashed her car, total loss. She practically did not eat. Greetings, pleasant baths, deposits under the paperweight, were finished.

The talks with the friends became summaries of calamities. One asked what had happened to the Gallant?.

— Gallant?  He is a miserable dead! — she tearful said.

— Dead? Miserable? — said the other and continued making the gesture of the quotes with her fingers...

— Could you suggest him, ask him for the favor to introduce me, with one of him "miserable dead" friends?

I felt sorry. She had lost weight. Another of her colleagues advised her to find a boyfriend.

—If you are lucky, you may find one who does not just want sex, who takes care of you, your things.

She tried, but she had to give up, after becoming entangled in credit conflicts, cards without funds, criminal rolls, debts, bankruptcies, selfishness, abandoned children, in short, she missed her dead. Oh, her dead!

"At home everything is empty, sad." thought my nymph, with the pain of the repentant.

Her words hurt me, I was also melancholy. I was plenty of time, I still had no work. Unemployment was exorbitant. The increasing number of deaths without the possibility of claiming improvement made them put a train straight to hell.

Julio and Aníbal stayed the same without work. They were fully occupied with the issue of applications, because they had hoped to get work in the world of the living, which seemed unlikely.

I pointed out to them about the matter of the phase alteration, so, then they revealed to me what they had been hiding.

"When you fill out the application, there is a box where you can indicate the age you want to return to."

"Fantastic!" just what I needed to know!

When the mood changed, things changed. I got employed in the maintenance of the train. The pay was small, but it was a job.

I went back to home.

One night, in which she was entertained looking at the old love notes, Ana whispered in tears:

— Love, where have you been? Where are you?

Suddenly, she looked at the corners of the ceiling, under the bed, she went to the kitchen.

I had ordered it, washed the dishes, I made tea.

— You're here! — She shrilled jubilantly.

— Where were you going, crazy boy? — She hummed.

— I know you have another girl; I will not share you, so you know! —she sentenced sternly.

Women! Women! I told myself, I let her to know that only she inhabited my inactive heart, that nothing, nobody else was in my death, I say… in my ... well, yes, in my death, what was I going to say ?

I told her that I had gotten a job, which it was not as well paid as the other, nevertheless it was a job.

— It does not matter, love, we can live simply — she said sobbing with joy.

— See, how much things change! — I thought, watching her throwing hugs everywhere the same as if she tried to grab flies.

— Let me catch you, naughty bad dead, unfair, you do not want anyone.— She muttered between teeth.

Anibal and Julio filled out the application. They are out there around; they are still waiting for the next documentation to arrive for their new opportunity. They checked the box to indicate that they want to be born children of a rich guy.

That is not going to happen. The probability is one in three hundred thousand billion. They don't have another option that returning. They were expulsed from death, because their infidelity.

In my case, she wanted, although I convinced her that we should throw it away. It is better what we have, than to live the troubled life of the living people.

Ana and I live modestly; well I do not live, in any way, neither in life nor in death. I am extremely busy. We do not have a car I accompany her every hour, every second, there is no remedy.

I lie on her thighs, she tells me gossip about work and we wait for the metrorail to pass.