OUR LADY OF PERPETUAL HELP

The ringing of the bell inside the chapel affected not only my hearing, but my thoughts. I went to seek peace of mind in something I didn't even believe in, because in difficult times people believe in gods and pray for them. The little church was simple, very beautiful. At the entrance, the baptismal font, further on the holy family (in plaster), with baby Jesus on Mary's lap and a Joseph with the typical staff. On the other side, an empty cross supported under its beam and a white band over it where it was written: He lives forever! The circular windows boasted colorful stained-glass windows, from the 14 stations of Christ, from death to death. The center of the altar was a nave, much higher than the rest of the building, with a vault made up of solid concrete arches that seemed to overlap in a beautiful architectural ensemble, like a cage. I recognize that I was more fascinated by the architecture of the place than any imaginary force that could be there. Even so I said my prayers: "Dad, listen to me. I'm not okay with my father down here, who knows, you might not help me up there. This thing, this anomaly, aberration, the little book that jumped out of a well like a flea jumps out of a dead dog, without having a place to lean against and it ends up that some unlucky person comes across it, as was my case. What is it? How does the Lord allow such things to exist? Well, the Lord allows evil and the answer I even know: "We cannot question the creator". Okay, that's right. But if it has to be me, teach me how to get rid of it. We always have a choice, right? Isn't free will about choosing good and evil? What is the other option? Reveal your secrets, man. I need to get rid of this. I'm already screwed without needing a curse ". After praying I looked around. Those ladies, all with rosaries in their hands, unraveling our priests, bird-maries, kneeling, was an admirable devotion. The priest entered the confessional and as I was among the first rows of benches, I promptly entered, being struck by the recriminatory look of the most fervent butts, who were already piling up in front of the altar bumping into each other. –So, Father. I don't even know how to start. I never confessed before. –Son, start presenting yourself and presenting your sins. Even though God knows all the intentions of our hearts and knows all his children, it is prudent and advisable that you willingly offer your sins so that they can be forgiven.

- I understand, Father. Well, my sins. It is complicated to talk about them, there are many. I don't believe in God. I fall drunk in the gutters every weekend. There are days I don't even sleep at home. I am no man's model for anyone, least of all a professor, and teaching philosophy is the only thing that can redeem all of this, at least a little. I'm here to talk about curses, Father. Do Catholics believe in curses? - Didn't the booklet mess with your head, Reinaldo? Do you believe me? Ah, there, there, there, there! Do you believe now?! Can you believe it, Reinaldo ?! -That calm voice, with a dragged country accent, had turned into dry and serious screams and ended in an insane laugh. I opened the confessional window and came across the figure of the priest transmuted into a hideous Christ remedy, his face all tangled in webs of dried blood. The crown of thorns was taller and more robust than the paintings remind me of. The red tunic over his shoulders accentuated his skeletal contours, instilling in him the sacrilegious aspect of a holy heretic, an abomination. The laughter did not stop, writhing on the stool he hit his head against the fragile and thin wooden wall of the confessional. His wounds started to open and bleed. Wounds that once seemed dry and healed opened their black and purulent mouths to make fun of God himself and good. Blood dripped viscous and black as pitch in increasingly strong splashes as if manholes were pouring the contents of all the sewers in the world in a rage. I ran out and the bloody and disjointed Christ the priest had become chased me with open arms and crooked steps. In a disjointed dance he moved forward and stopped, sometimes backed up and screamed in desperate agony, as if he felt a superhuman pain that prevented him from continuing and his nerves and muscles were moved by such diabolic force, like a puppet. The old butts screamed and cried, waved and ran like dizzy cockroaches. I tripped at the foot of a bench and fell, but instead of crashing on the church floor, I ran into the green grass. I was back in that dream landscape, where I saw the well and the book appeared for the first time.

Red and pink clouds demarcated the horizon, paling in a faded yellow to faint in a grayish blue. With the weight of my body resting on my right arm, after I managed to turn around, I heard the neighs and hooves hitting the floor. Pegasus approached snorting. He rose intrepidly and aloof, plucking grass and earth, his chest puffed over me, like a shield that moves fearlessly over the enemy, the agitated paws that dug into the air before they hit the ground and the gusts of dust that ejected your nostrils like sulfur gases from hell. –Ride me, human. I will show you what the book is, where it comes from and why it is so powerful that it cannot be destroyed.

The uncomfortable radiation from that red sun hit my skin again. Pegasus was determined and steadfast in his stride, even in the snow. To think that after so many daydreams and crazy dreams that ended before the end, before an explanation, now I would have an answer, made me face that hellish chapter more. I actually yearned for that. That would finally give me a peaceful night's sleep. The first after that hell started. There were many kilometers traveling, in which I got to sleep. I woke up scared and realized that the horse had stopped. When I looked ahead I saw a blur, in the distance. Something blue, indistinct. - What is that? - I asked. But the horse just took a puff and didn't answer me. The closer it got, the more it looked like a person. It were blue robes. Perhaps a cloak. She looked like a saint. She was holding something in her lap. A woman in a red tunic, with a golden collar, wrapped in a blue cloak. She had delicate features. Thin nose and small mouth. Eyes low and sad, tearful. She held a little baby, wrapped only in a cloth diaper. I was paralyzed with fear. The figure of the woman with the child also did not move. Until the boy started talking. He spoke to me: - There is no book that is like the little book. The stories written in it nobody wrote, were lived. There was not, nor will there be anything like what is contained in the little book. None of the four managed to stop the book. Do you think you can do it? - concluded the boy and started crying and babbling, as expected from a baby and nothing more. The woman shook him and whispered, as if to calm him down. And said: - The dove is the key. She was the first. You need to know what she knows. Reveal what she hides.