The human being is evil by definition with some brief flashes of goodness to the mix. We left the womb naked of prejudices but soon we acculturate. We live deluded when faced with the reality of death and this illusion darkens our days… we tread, mistreat and insult. We entered in a sort of crusade that ceases only when the neighbor’s misfortune is imminent and has no return. Then, we’re happy!
The quest for material goods governs our social footprint where even our friendships are calculated and will be valued or devalued in key moments of this search.
The more trophies we put in our shelf the more we step away from certain values that we only recover when we are hampered by our mortal condition. At that moment we find two of the humanity’s keywords, faith and hope, those we should have as dogmas of human’s life essence. I think that at that point we realize the true insignificance of things and of those that did surround us.
I believe that at the end of the journey we’re ready for its beginning.
Fausto opened his eyes. Glanced at the clock placed in an amorphous way on the dresser of the room and noticed it was 23 minutes past five p.m.. He had managed to sleep for almost two hours on a roll.
There was no body part that did not feel pain. His companions returned. He quickly grabbed the cloth off the bedside table and began to vomit. Vomiting was such that she felt his soul being torn off by the bowels. Then it stopped.
He wiped his mouth to one end of the dry cloth. The smell of vomit bothered him a bit but … he was accustomed. He wrapped the cloth and threw it to the floor. With a simple gesture he grabbed the pill off the table and put it in his mouth. He took a sip of water to push through the pharynx.
Laid his body keeping his head high.
Noticed the crucifix that was religiously placed next to the clock. The Book of the before and after was also open, simple object of adornment. He remembered that he had no salvation. He remembered that the pancreatic cancer, despite all the radio and chemotherapy had decided not to go away. He recalled the doctor’s cold words: “terminal phase”.
He felt wronged. As the Lord before his eyes also Fausto would leave this earth at the age of thirty-three. There was however a slight difference between the two of them: while the Other had been buried on the top of a rock, Fausto would be buried in a hole.
He cursed. He even scolded with the Higher Being because he thought he deserved to live a few more years. He did not know what to think. He did not want to think. A simple outburst of anger came from his mouth – “Fuck God and the saints.”
He dropped his head on the pillow. Elevated the mind and, with open eyes, began to daydream about strange things. Men with square heads, dogs with five paws and women without arms. In a glance he felt drawn back to reality. The vomiting returned.
He grabbed another cloth. Vomited. He wiped his mouth and threw the cloth to the foot of the bed. The pain increased. He took the seal of morphine and stuck it on the chest.
While rubbing the abdomen with both hands he let out a faint moan, “My God, My God … why have you forsaken me?”.
He grabbed the rosary off the bedside table and began:
– “Glory to the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning now and forever Amen …”
Photography: Sérgio Moreira
Text: Adão Baptista