Mexican tragedy

In the raw blackness of a sleepless night, Luis was there, collapsed on the hot Juarez ground, down like a fly on the skin of the world. There was this silver moon up there, just hanging in the sky, like a dead fish eye in its sauce. It was bloodcurdling.

As for Luis, his face was painted a bloody red, a bloody splattering of his precarious existence, just because he'd taken a beating in the face. Barely twenty-three springs on the clock, and here he was, kissing the tarmac, tasting the world's filth live, like a sad spectacle of reality.

He tried to breathe, poor kid, but he was struggling more than he was living. All life had left to offer him was the distant rumor of the city, a burst of laughter here, a squeal of tires there. Crumbs of life that tickled his eardrum, while the Grim Reaper did his nails next door, watching for the end of the play.

In his mouth, there was a taste of metal, bitter, stinging, imposing itself on his tongue in a cruel reminder of the violence he'd received. He wanted to scream, to howl even, but all he could do was spit blood, as if his mouth were nothing more than a weeping wound.

His eyes, full of stars and pain, tried to scan the shadows, perhaps looking for a salvation that would not come. The harsh reality was that he was alone, as alone as the damned, alone with his fear, alone with his galloping end.

The night was gentle, almost ironically gentle, as he bled to death, the warmth leaving his body like a lover fleeing in the early morning. He tried to hang on, like a kid holding on to his mother's hand so he wouldn't fall, but that hand was gone.

It all had the flavour of the end of the world, a personal and heartbreaking end, a last kiss of destiny, a fatal embrace. As for Luis, he slowly faded away, disappearing into the night like a musical note in the silence.

His starry eyes finally closed, letting the night, that bitch, embrace him at last. Luis was gone, swept away by the dark river of silence, swept away forever, leaving behind only his memory, a silent ghost in the Mexican night.

An old man approached. He was a specter in the half-light, a shadow escaped from a nightmare. A heavy silence accompanied him, interrupted only by the sporadic creak of his boots on the asphalt. From his bony silhouette, he looked like a crow on legs, ready to devour carrion.

His eyes, two small glassy beads in the night, stared at Luis' lifeless body. No pity, no remorse. Just that frozen expression of a predator before its prey. In his rough hands, he held an old canvas bag, worn by time and dirt.

Without a word, without a sigh, he bent over the body. There he was, that old rascal, picking Luis up as if he were a sack of apples that had fallen off the truck. Without a shudder, without a glance to heaven, he put him in his bag, with the tenderness one would bestow on a piece of cold meat.

He dragged Luis' body through the night, down dark, deserted alleyways where even the wind barely dared to blow. Arriving at his den, a small, dilapidated shack on the outskirts of town, he laid him on a wooden table. A place that smelled of old sweat and rancid grease, like a distant memory of life.

He pulled a large knife from his pocket, the blade gleaming softly in the candlelight. Then, like a butcher with his pig, he began to cut Luis up, slice by slice, piece by piece. Each stab was a thud in the night, an eerie echo of the macabre feast to come.

Then he cooked the meat, mixing it with spices and herbs, while the fat crackled in the pan. It was a picture of horror, a grotesque vision that would have made any normal man's stomach turn. But there was nothing normal about this old man. He prepared his meal with perverse satisfaction, savoring every moment.

He pulled out tortillas, then added the meat, creating fajitas with what was left of Luis. The old man bit into the bread, chuckling softly, savoring every bite. This was the end of Luis, reduced to a simple meal for this nocturnal monster, a final act of indecency in the face of existence.

Night enveloped the city, muffling noises, lights, everything but the man's muffled laughter. Luis was gone, swallowed by the night, by an old man's hunger. All that remained of him was the memory, and the taste of his flesh on thirsty lips.

He was an old man, but as old as a stone in the desert. His face was a field of wrinkles, a map of age and regret. His eyes, two tired marbles, they were so dark they could make you fall into them, swallow you up, without a hope of ever seeing the light again.

In his dilapidated shack, he indulged in his vices. His trembling hands grasped a bottle of hard liquor, snatched from some neglected stall. Tequila, as he had so often drunk it, the one faithful companion that had never left him. He opened it and raised the bottle to his mouth, letting the burning liquid flow down his dry throat.

He drank in great gulps, seeking to drown his pitiful existence in the nothingness of inebriation. Each gulp brought him a little closer to the edge, each stream of Tequila tore away a piece of his life. But he didn't stop, no, he pushed on with the fervor of a man possessed, ignoring his body's nagging warnings.

Gradually, reality began to distort. Shadows danced on the walls, the ground undulated beneath his feet. His heart was beating like a wild, frantic drum. He laughed, cried and screamed as he poured himself another drink. Luis, his last meal, seemed a vague strangeness, a hazy, frightening dream.

Then his heart missed a beat. He felt the pain, brutal, unbearable, a dagger of fire thrust into his chest. He tried to get up, to seek help, but his legs were nothing but absorbent cotton. He fell to the floor, the bottle rolling out of his hand, spilling its foul-smelling contents.

He lay there, in the darkness of his home, the pain fading away to be replaced by an icy numbness. His eyes began to close, the world fading, shrinking to a tiny dot. The old man murmured one last insult to life, one last derisive breath, before sinking into oblivion.

And so, the old crouton departed, leaving this world as he had lived it - alone, drunk and without remorse. He had ended as he had lived, an outcast, a monster, a man without a name. The old man and Luis, two shadows lost in the night, had finally found their resting place, entwined in the macabre dance of death.