Egoism

Dear reader,

This was the first book I ever wrote, and it’s the longest, densest, and most complex of them all. The version I’m going to upload will be heavily condensed for the reader’s convenience. Despite being my first, its content is tragic and graphic.

Don’t expect something sweet.

Apicas S.

“Sometimes it’s so hard to love you,” said Alberto, staring in awe and confusion at his own hand. He didn’t know how he had come to feel so much hatred for someone he once loved so deeply. He hadn’t noticed it before, but the woman he had once loved with passion had gradually become a source of constant suffering. He was exhausted. He could no longer keep pretending that somehow, she would turn back into the beautiful, vibrant woman he once adored.

Then he realized—he had become his mother: that woman who allowed a man to destroy her life while clinging to the naive hope that he would change one day. He had always known, and now he was more certain than ever, that what kept his mother tied to his father was not love—it was the simple, raw fear of being alone. The most distressing part was that now he truly understood what his mother went through, because he was living it himself.

Catalina rushed out of the house, trying not to be late again for her part-time job. Rodrigo had come home very late the night before, as usual, and things hadn’t gone well after that.

He was a rough-looking man, a bit senile, with prematurely worn features given by his libertine lifestyle. He staggered into the small living room while his wife watched him with concern. She was used to seeing him like that, but tonight she was startled to notice the knife stuck in Rodrigo’s back. She approached him, and reflexively, her most honest reaction was to pull the knife out. Within seconds, the furious man turned around and slapped her hard across the face with utter disdain. Seeing the knife in her hand, he couldn’t contain his rage and spoke with difficulty, his drunk tongue slightly slurred in a voice that echoed through every corner of the house:

“Stupid bitch! Now you wanna kill me? If a corpse comes out of here, it won’t be mine!”

Saying that, he grabbed the terrified woman by the hair. She was so used to the abuse that she couldn’t even defend herself, despite the knife clenched tightly in her hand. The large, ragged man dragged her into the kitchen while she screamed and cried, begging for mercy.

Little Alberto was exhausted. He had had a long, hard day at school. He had finally finished his homework and started helping with the household chores. He loved helping his dedicated mother, who was always at home with him. She used to say, “So my boy gets all the attention he needs.”

Her greatest anxiety was not being able to finish cleaning the whole house—especially the windows. She always forgot the windows. As Dad used to say, “The windows are the face of the house. They should never be dirty.”

The little boy put on oversized black rubber gloves that slipped off his small hands, grabbed the glass cleaner from the drawer, and with great effort and enthusiasm, began his hard task. It took him all afternoon, but he finished, and he felt proud of his work. He watched the light pass through the glass as the water mixed with cleaner dried. Then he waited for his mom’s approval—which never came. She was too busy sorting Dad’s laundry.

Alberto decided it was time to rest. He went up to his room and carefully laid out his uniform for the next day. He was excited because he would compete against the third-graders. His favorite game: soccer. As he was deeply focused, he heard his mother call:

“Alberto, come eat!” came the voice from the kitchen.

He came down right away and saw the food perfectly served, with steam dancing above the plate. He quickly sat at the table, looked around, and realized something.

“Mom… isn’t Dad coming today?” he asked, watching her attentively.

His mother, facing the stove and serving her food in small, sad portions, sighed in sorrow.

“No, Alberto. Your dad had to work late today,” she said with a faint smile, approaching the child. One hand gently stroked his fine hair while the other held her small plate. She sat delicately in her chair, as if trying to avoid any sudden or imprecise movement. Alberto imagined it was due to the blow his father had given her in the stomach a few days ago.

“Mom… are you okay?” the boy asked with sincere concern.

“Of course, sweetheart. Just a little stomachache from something I ate—it was spoiled,” she replied, waving her hand to downplay it. “Everything’s fine.”

Catalina had no idea that Alberto knew exactly where her pain came from. The boy only hoped the scene wouldn’t repeat that day. These things usually happened only when Dad came home late from work—or at least that’s what the child believed.

After a silent dinner, Catalina took Alberto’s small hand to help him up from the chair. He had always been a very small boy—the smallest in his class. She lifted and hugged him with that tenderness only a true mother can give. She carried him to his room, tucked him in. He adored that moment—the moment when Mom tucked him in, when she gave him the comforting feeling that everything would be okay.

She took a book and began to read. She was a wonderful storyteller, able to transport the child with each of her words. By the time the story ended, he was already deep in sleep.

At three in the morning, a loud noise from the kitchen woke little Alberto. He rushed downstairs as fast as his feet could take him. In the kitchen, he saw his father slamming his mother against the table—again and again—shouting:

“Stupid idiot! I told you to clean the damn windows!”

Immediately, the boy looked at the windows. They looked hazy. The drying mixture of water and cleaner had left them like that—but he didn’t know.

He screamed:

“No, Dad, wait! I was the one who cleaned the windows!”

The man turned toward him with red, glazed eyes.

“Well look who’s here, Catalina—this useless brat of a son you’ve got,” he said, pulling her head up by the hair.

The boy saw blood running down his mother’s forehead and couldn’t hold back his sobs. His cries and protests echoed through the house.

“Please don’t hurt Mom! Stop!”

His father turned to him and said:

“Useless little faggot.”

He gripped Catalina’s messy hair tighter. “Look how well you’ve raised him, Catalina. A faggot who likes to clean windows and act like a petty little princess.”

Her hair looked like it might tear right off. He threw her to the floor with hatred and began walking unsteadily toward the child.

“You’re not getting away today, little faggot.”

The boy, frozen with fear, was paralyzed as he watched his father approach.

The mother, tears streaming down her face, watched as the scene grew more horrific, as the child’s terror filled the air. She couldn’t take it anymore. Breaking through the thick layer of fear in the room, she stood up, ran, and with the knife clutched tightly in her hand, stabbed the beast threatening her child. She didn’t stop, driving the blade into his back again and again, until there was no movement left.