The Power of Destiny
I barely drank tonight. In my body there was merely a glass of wine and maybe two of three cocktails. These are possibly the reasons why I can’t understand how I am inside this surrealistic situation.
The girl (tied and gagged, full of cuts, scratches and some burnings), can’t either understand it.
For, anyway, each one of us only are puppets moved by fate’s strings. A fate which ask me to enjoy; and ask her to die.
After all, how could I fight destiny?
Apenas había bebido esta noche. En mi cuerpo no había más que una copa de vino y un par de cubatas. Quizás es por eso que no termino de comprender cómo me encuentro en una situación tan surrealista.
La chica, atada y amordazada, repleta de cortes, magulladuras y alguna que otra quemadura, tampoco lo entiende.
Pero, a fin de cuentas, cada uno somos marionetas movidas por los hilos del destino. Un destino que me exige disfrutar. Un destino que, a ella, le exige morir.
¿Quién soy yo para llevar la contraria al destino?
A couple of day ago I created a pack with various of my short stories, named as “The Disturbing Collection”. It’s available free at Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/493206
Due to the success of this iniciative, I decided to offer it also in audio format. And now, you can listen these nine tales at YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=keUT7kWAUFc
What do I want in return? Just you enjoying them! 🙂
Despite feeling how your legs are barely able to hold you, you don’t think even for a moment about stopping to walk. Beside you, an inhospitable landscape up to the horizon; in front of you there is a seemingly endless road.
At your back, the city. Although don’t want to do it, you turn around and behold the grotesque framework of a ghost town with some sloping skyscrapers still fighting against gravity. A vast number of structures mocking of you, of the entire human race, by surviving their builders.
Because this world where you live, this world where you are condemned to live in, isn’t uninhabited, but they can barely be called humans. And I’m not only talking about the genetic deformation, inherited generation after generation, which makes some men look like living gargoyles. No. The worst part remains inside them.
Your thoughts are interrupted when a yell sounds in the distance. It’s a woman, five or six miles away, probably being attacked. A robbery, most likely, or maybe a rape. You hope to reach there on time.
Not for helping her, of course, but for sharing the booty.