April, 28th 2017 — Checkmate

This article is part of the series “What is like to attempt suicide and fail”. Start there, if you have not read it yet.

Friday, D Day + 21

I had breakfast. Total success. Maira, the beautiful and popular nutritionist, did not speak to me. No big deal (right?).

I did my first laundry. In theory, I have to take a basket of dirty clothes on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays to a magical place. There I leave the basket over a table, like an offering. There is no one around. Only the table, the offering and me.

From the offering I went to Dr. Juan’s lecture. The theme remains sex, and it seems to appeal to everyone. I must confess, however, that in the present conjunctures of life, the topic does not appeal to me. Neither to speak about it, nor to hear about it, nor to do it. In the realm of topics of the universe, this is just another theme. I do not think I feel like this because I am aging. I’m a forty — here nobody believes (or they’re all lying). That means, theoretically, I’m still good to go.

I think it’s more of a heartbreak problem. Or laziness. Or both. Or the phase of my life. Or the three things together. Or maybe because I do not know yet how thinks work (hence the lecture dumbass!). Or the four things together. Anyway, as a rule, when it comes to sex, my interest is very low, almost zero.

Right after the lecture, I was introduced to an old fellow, who walks with difficulty, practically does not speak, has a collection of CD’s, a Walkman and carries, wherever it goes, a chessboard. Apparently he’s very good at it. He challenged me to a match. By then, no one from the clinic had beaten him.

I went in there, packed the pieces, tried to remember my last match — probably with my father years ago. I pushed the pawn, moved the horse, threw it from here, threw it away, and almost without realizing it, there I was checkmating in the world champion of Alcatraz Land.

I stood up, held out my hand and said smiling, “good game.” My smile broke into crumbs when I saw the expression of displeasure from my opponent. Pure hatred and desire for revenge. I’m just not going to add him to the list of possible people who can exterminate me in here because he calls me every 15 minutes for a rematch ever since. I’ve already played some and fortunately lost the majority of them. But he will not leave me alone. I am always on the run, now.

I will post more tomorrow. I’ve created a list of songs I’m listening to while inside the psychiatric clinic. To listen, subscribe to the “After Death” playlist on Spotify.

If you want to talk to me, write to rodrigo@bressane.com.

Be kind,
Rodrigo Bressane