Once Upon a Black Kraken

  Part 10 | Part 12 My left leg still hurts after the wound courtesy of the ghost psycho-killer Jack. Even with him gone for good, I still had work to do. For starters, I needed to find what was behind the false wall on the janitor’s closet on Wing A.

  Part 9 | Part 11 RING! I answered the wall phone from my office that doesn’t have a line, but works amazingly well when receiving calls from beyond the grave. It’s always the guy who got killed after I didn’t let him come in on my first night as guard here.

  Part 8 | Part 10 As my seventh task was scratched and my recognition wandering was interrupted last time by a lighthouse “incident,” I continued to explore Bachman Asylum’s surroundings. There was an old shed around a hundred yards away.

  Part 7 | Part 9 I don’t have any more tasks now. It took me three days to finish the library’s inventory. Already asked Alex to bring more fire extinguishers on his next groceries delivery trip. The seventh, and last, instruction is scratched beyond readability. Maybe, for once I could relax.

  Part 6 | Part 8 “6. Make an inventory of the library.” If my task list says so.

  Part 5 | Part 7 As soon as Alex delivered me the gauss and ointment for the empty first aid kit, that I had ordered almost a month ago (if I may say so), I used them to take care of my arm’s burns until now only relieved by slightly cold water. Alex watched me as if I was a desperate, starving animal in a zoo. Pain prevents you from feeling humiliated or offended.

  Part 4 | Part 6 I couldn´t close the Chappel. After being thrown and smashed open the doors of the religious corner of the Bachman Asylum, it turns out I needed a key to lock the entrance as I am instructed to do by my tasks list.

Part 3 | Part 5  I contemplated the reappearing blood stain. Fuck it.

  Part 2 | Part 4 Hadn’t finished my job, so I went back to the cafeteria. The Canterville-ian blood stain was there again, as if I had never cleaned it before.

  Is announced that the manager resigned. Lies. We know. I was there. In the office’s men’s restroom, the urinal demands a tribute. A coin. Our overwhelmed boss, always judgmental about our tradition, entered a toilet constricting his rectum as a snake devouring its prey. A howl from the stall. Violent sucking. Chill-inducing burble. Only blood and shit were left.

  Part 1 | Part 3 Fucking satellite internet my balls!

  | Part 2 A dead guy called me. That’s the only explanation. Okay, too abrupt, let me start at the beginning.

  Certain things do not change. As a child you endure recess alone with your thoughts, same when you become a teacher. Other educators glimpse at me with disgust. Elementary school children do not denominate as " cool " to dialogue with their history “ teach . ” Not even the Christmas spirit alters traditions. Solitary, I eat my reindeer cookie. Cannot recriminate them. The scar, dividing my right cheek like a hemorrhagic cauliflower not chosen from the store due to its aesthetic deficiencies, is tough to ignore. I hear what they are talking about at other tables. Football, the new superhero movie, VTS (what's that?). Despite the hustle and bustle of the place, irritating screams and embarrassing cries, to my left something hijacks my attention: Santa Claus. "I'm going to ask him for a Mimtendo Witch 2 ." A deceived child, Santa Claus is unable to give away something that is rented. "Do you really believe that? Santa does not exist.” Shit. An...

  Ciertas cosas no cambian. De niño toleras tus recreos con tus pensamientos, igualmente al transformarte en maestro. El profesorado me ve con repugnancia. Los niños de primaria no ven “ cool ” dialogar con su “profe” de historia. Ni el espíritu navideño altera las tradiciones, en soledad como mi galleta de reno. No puedo recriminarlos, la cicatriz, que divide mi mejilla derecha como una coliflor hemorrágica no elegida en la tienda por sus deficiencias estéticas, es trabajosa de ignorar. Oigo lo que platican en otras mesas. Futbol, la nueva película de superhéroes, VTS (¿qué es eso?). Pese al bullicio del lugar, gritos irritantes y llantos vergonzosos, a mi izquierda algo secuestra mi interés: Santa Claus. — Le voy a pedir un Mimtendo Witch 2 . Niño iluso, Santa Claus no puede regalar algo que se renta. — ¿En serio crees eso? Santa no existe. Puta madre. Otro niño castrosito y no deseado que sabotea la inocencia ajena. ¿Y yo soy el que come solo? — ¡No es cierto! Tie...

  "What happened to your sister?" Not interrogate me about that. Same thing every time someone accesses my home. The photo is meaningful to me, but I dislike others seeing it. "An accidental fire," I lie. *** Easter. 1989. A warm spring for the rainy season we are used to. Stereotypical: Sun, flowers, animals and children playing. Every year, Mom would hide in the park the Easter eggs that we decorated during the previous month and filled with confetti. My little sister and I tracked them down to use as projectiles. It was the version of violence and confrontation allowed in a single day of annual catharsis. At the bottom of my basket, I came across a peculiar egg. Extremely ornamented. Not the one embellished by elementary school kids with cheap watercolors. I felt the texture of the design in my fingertips. Vivid colors and intricate drawings mesmerized me. My older sister approached. I presented her my souvenir. Without noticing, she cracked it in m...

  — ¿Qué le pasó a tu hermana? No me cuestiones eso. Lo mismo cada que alguien ingresa a mi hogar. La fotito es significativa para mí, pero me disgusta que otros la vean. — Un incendio accidental—, miento. *** Pascua. 1989. Una primavera cálida para el clima lluvioso que acostumbramos. Estereotípico: Sol, florecitas, animalitos y niños jugando. Cada año, mamá ocultaba en el parque los huevitos de pascua que decorábamos durante el mes anterior y rellenábamos con confeti. Mi hermanita y yo los rastreábamos para usarlos como proyectiles. Era la versión de violencia y enfrentamiento permitido en un único día de catarsis anual. En el fondo de mi canasta me topé con un huevito peculiar. Extremadamente ornamentado. No aquel personalizado por críos de primaria con acuarelas baratas. Sentía la textura del diseño en mis yemas. Colores vivos y dibujos intricados me hipnotizaron. Mi hermana mayor se aproximó. Le presenté mi souvenir. Sin advertirlo, lo reventó en mi cabeza. No hu...

  Do not order it. Not the crunchy cookie for dessert. “The chocolate delight, please," she orders to the waitress. Shit! The date was going like a charm. Nod the waitress seconding my companion. I hide my concern. "Why that face?" Damn. She is very aware. "Let’s change it for the cake," she proposes condescendingly. She raises her hand to regain the waitress' attention. “Sorry. I just wouldn’t be able to taste it," I explain. A concern glance. Eventually she will find out. I remove my teeth. Grin with the single tooth that survives in my gums. She does not judge, just foresees a story. *** 1991. My mother inspected my elementary school graduation portrait with disappointment. Unbeatable hairstyle, shiny shoes, and wrinkle-free clothes like baby skin. Was my smile what originated her reaction, it showed off a hole. The void was not a molar that can be concealed on the sidelines, was in the foreground. I grinned at her. She despised my dental gap. ...