Hypochondria

It all began somewhere in Metepec, a place whose name I shall not remember. Not long ago, there lived there a brave and gallant young man, old-fashioned in his ways, with a skinny nag and a swift greyhound—and quite a greyhound he was, too. Now that I think about it, he was actually very skinny himself, despite eating like a caveman.

But this story begins in the early hours of a weekend morning, when someone knocked on my door. I remember the doorbell had an especially annoying “ding-dong” to it. It sounded more like a short circuit connected to a loudspeaker. Clearly, I was more than asleep. I mean… “What sane person would be awake at ten in the morning on a Wednesday?”

Naturally, after hearing such an astonishing racket, I decided to rise from the depths of my slumber and answer the alarm demanding my presence. I know many people would have simply ignored such a disturbance, but for some context, I lived in the top-floor apartment of a building. So, if someone had gone to the trouble of climbing that three-story miniature skyscraper just to reach my humble abode, the least I could do was answer the call.

The point is that, after opening the door, I found myself face-to-face with a beautiful young woman wearing a nurse's uniform. For a moment, I wondered whether I had merely awakened from one dream only to enter another, with a considerably naughtier theme. But that illusion was shattered the moment I heard:

“Blah, blah, blah… we're here vaccinating…”

That was when I realized this was no longer the pleasant dream I had imagined. It seemed more like a nightmare written by Stephen King.

As many of you know, Don Antoine is a true gentleman, and obviously, I was not about to leave such a helpless damsel standing at my doorstep. So I invited her in and offered her something to drink, despite the torture she had planned to inflict upon me—a torture of which I was already fully aware.

And like the alpha male I am—silverback gorilla, hairy chest, lumberjack beard, and the voice of a jaguar warrior—I decided to accept such an atrocity.

She began revealing her merciless torture plan, showing me the instruments she intended to use in the process. She showed me the state of the poison she was about to inject into my poor body and even described the symptoms I would suffer afterward: how I would be practically dying for the next few days with fever, hallucinations, exhaustion, dizziness, thirst…

Then, while I was utterly captivated by her hypnotic eyes, she politely asked me to expose my beautiful skin.

Her eyes filled with a disturbing desire to mutilate me, and without the slightest hesitation, she delivered her great thrust in one swift and precise movement.

I could see in her eyes how the act satisfied her cravings, much like those of an addict getting his first fix of the day. As she injected that mysterious poison prepared by some corporation, she looked directly into my eyes. Perhaps she wanted to witness the suffering she enjoyed seeing in her helpless victims.

We stared at each other throughout the entire process, lost in our own thoughts, each trying to figure out what the other was thinking.

In reality, everything happened extremely quickly. She still had plenty of territory to cover and many other poor souls to torture. However, this story did not have quite the ending you might expect, and I know your imagination can take flight like a free bat through the nocturnal sky.

But, just to let those fragile little wings of imagination flutter for another moment, let me tell you what happened after that merciless soul injected her poison.

Once she had finished her work—which she had planned with malice, forethought, and full advantage—she kindly placed a small bandage over the injection site, as though I were a little boy who had just scraped his fragile knee.

I offered her another drink, and she accepted without hesitation.

I got the distinct impression that she was trying to postpone her return to the concrete jungle at such an ungodly hour. And under the blazing sun that was already beating down outside, going back out there must have seemed like an even worse form of torture.

She sat down while she drank, and as she did, she told me that she had already spent a couple of hours going from house to house, and that some people had answered the door by responding with one form of rudeness or another.

After finishing her drink, she headed toward the door.

It seemed her work with me was finally over. But just as I reached out to turn the doorknob, she stopped me.

She grabbed my arm and slowly ran her long, manicured fingernails along the entire inside of it, from my wrist to a few inches below my armpit.

The movement was slow and gentle.

As I felt her touch, every hair on my body stood on end. A tingling sensation traveled through me and exploded at the back of my neck.

She stared intently at my arm, examining it.

Then, suddenly, she took my other arm and did exactly the same thing.

Once again, I wondered whether I was still asleep or whether the mysterious liquid she had injected into me was beginning to take effect in the form of some strangely pleasant hallucination.

That was when she told me:

“There’s an outbreak in the neighborhood. A lot of people have been getting little bumps on their arms. If you develop any, go to a health center. It’s contagious.”

And with that, she opened the door and walked away.

At first, I didn't understand what had just happened.

Until I felt an intense itch on the first arm she had examined.

I quickly looked down.

And, sure enough, both of my arms were covered in tiny blisters…

Behave badly, stay safe, deny everything, and play dumb...
See you next time, bye.

Origanl post May 27, 2021 on: https://iasuarezv.com/Hipocondria/ | Mirror PDS: Alba AT Protocol