Without Soul

Without Soul

He had a perverse soul. He was quite aware of that. He knew about his corrupted soul and sometimes he used to feel that he did not even have one at all. “Soulless, that’s me,” he used to call himself. He believed that, at some point in his life, he had lost his soul, as someone loses an object of minor importance, dispensable. He even thought how funny that idea was. Many times, he thought that there was a point when he could have changed, but it was already too late. During his life, he had achieved success after success, easy money, power, women, fame. And also, he badly hurt the people around him, tiring, spoiling and exposing them to the entire world. He was mean.

He was already old, even though he neither looked old nor tired. When he turned 80, he remembered everything in the morning. At noon, someone had knocked on his door and he, the powerful, famous, rich and disgusting man, the man who looked much younger than he actually was, perfectly knew who was calling. He opened the door and there he was, waiting for him. He did not feel fear or sadness. He felt nothing.

The neighbors called an ambulance, but it was already too late. Everyone saw him, lying on the floor next to the open door of his house. They said he looked older and had more wrinkles than yesterday, the day before yesterday or even last week.

The doctor signed the death certificate, which attested that he had died of natural causes. Everyone in the neighborhood felt relieved upon knowing that the old bastard with no feelings had died, the old man without friends, family, or anything.

Since then, life has been somewhat better for them.

Escribo, tomo fotografías artísticas y analizo música clásica y rock, literatura, historia medieval y me atrevo con las noticias de Argentina y del mundo.

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