Txema Rodríguez

Luka gouged Nastia’s mauve eyes with a dented knife and put them into a ziploc, right after the body heavily hit the floor, just as Konstantin ordered -not only a proof of death, but also a fetish-, washing his blood stained hands pouring a bottle of mineral water over them and the blade.
He drove from Jávea to Alicante, entering the port harbor at half past five.
Konstantin was waiting his arrival at the deck of the yacht and held out his left hand without even looking at him.
‘Ladno’, he said, and threw the ziploc bag overboard.
No checking, no touching. Anything at all.
That night he got drunk as usual. He cried and babbled in Russian on the silicone breast of a Dominican prostitute, feeling like a ghost. Feeling weary and sold out.
Next day he found Nastia’s lover and hit his face until he spit half his teeth to the ground and the jaw was broken into three pieces.
Luka used to read Nietzsche before engaging the mob.
“He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster”. What a truth.
He also used to love Nastia from a distance.
Luka has always been a faithful servant. Utterly devoted. Silent. Stoic.
Now he is almost in his way back to the East. The train is leaving in about ten minutes.
Every man has a limit, even though it makes him a deserter, a runaway, a renegade, the next target shot.
He misses Mamulya a lot. She is like death itself. She always has some borscht to put on the table and a warm, quiet, forgiving embrace. Kak pazhivayesh, VazliublEnnyj Luka?
Every man has a a word, a heart, a limit and a mother waiting for him at home, somewhere.
Ya sebya nekhorosho chuvstvuyu, Mamulya.
Ya sebya nekhorosho chuvstvuyu.