I can still feel the moment. The sound has become eternal; it's not something you can forget so easily.
"Throw it" — it was a whisper.
For the first time since I could remember, my response was a sigh rather than a denial: "No."
"Throw it!" — it insisted.
The puppy looked happy. Regardless of animals having sharper senses, it couldn't distinguish that increasingly taut smile on Smiley's face. He really hated it when I denied him things, but I couldn't do this.
"Kick it!"
A squeak was the only response in the night. The animal fled after having been playing near the railing where I stood. Smiley didn't look as angry as other times, not like when I flat-out deny him things. It might have seemed like he was recovering a smile, but it wasn't the one from when I was a child anymore; this was the warning that I was walking on very, very thin ice.
I remember the first times: throwing the food plate, staining the table, the clothes, my own head. Everything was fast, quiet; he didn't have to use violent expressions or arguments to convince me. It was just a very happy smile that laughed when my parents came to clean me up, or when I managed to expel some urine just as they were changing my diaper. That was Smiley: he laughed at my silly things, and I laughed with him. It was so easy to please him; he made everything seem simple.
But I knew, deep down, that Smiley wasn't someone others could see. It was just me and that smile. And that's how it lasted for years. Whether it was pushing a classmate, pulling a girl's pigtails, making rude noises with my hands on my cheeks... I became the "problem child," but I swear by all that is holy that I wasn't the one doing those things.
It all started with a mischievous look pointing at whatever I had to interpret. From there, everything came down to a little phrase, and usually, I obeyed. What did it matter? I laughed, he laughed, and those around us thought it was funny. It didn't always go well for me; there were hits, punishments, and visits to the principal's office. But it didn't matter because Smiley was there.
However, this time was different. When he asked me to throw the puppy off the building and, when I refused, ordered me to kick it... I couldn't. The animal wasn't to blame. And Smiley stopped smiling so much.
I had said no to him on other occasions. For example, when he asked me to take a gun from an armored truck guard. I knew then I was risking my life. Also when he asked me to abuse the teacher's daughter; I managed to hold him back no matter what he offered me. Those days I learned his true form.
It was no longer the flat "smiley face," with cartoon eyes and mouth. It began to look angry. Its silhouette slowly peeked out from behind walls, in the reflection of windows or glass, always in the corner of the eye. The worst was coming home and seeing that my parents no longer smiled; they had received the complaint about what happened with the girl at school.
Lately, with that horrible face it shows, it asks me for worse things. I've managed to calm it by stealing small things from stores, but it's no longer satisfied. Now it only asks for violence: hits, abuse, cruel mockery. I can't go on like this.
Yesterday they warned me they were taking me to a psychologist. I had hoped something would happen, but upon leaving, my hands ended up scraping the old wall until the finish embedded itself in my skin. I feel the burning, and I feel how Smiley half-accepts my sacrifice. The visit was useless. The psychologist was nice, but when they tell you "you can move forward" or "you can face your problems," they don't understand anything. I can't grab Smiley with my hands and show him to them. He's here all the time, watching what I don't say, supervising what I do.
My hands throb; the red mark is the proof that you don't mess with Smiley. I have to go home, but as I retrace my path, I hear him: "That lady, hit her." "That girl with the toy, shove it in her mouth, let her choke." "Jump off a bridge." "Sneak in the back of public transportation, no one will notice." "Look... do you know what it would feel like to squeeze the neck of that woman sitting in front of you?"
"No!" I scream internally. It's too much.
That face doesn't even smile anymore. It's covered in cracks. Under that garish yellow color hides a sickly reddish tone. I don't know if it's a demon. I don't know. I've been to churches, and the smell is the same; I don't smell sulfur, but I don't feel saved. I've ended up kicking the pews in desperation; I can't go back there anymore.
I have to do something. I think about my mother's pills, the ones she started using when I was no longer a child whose "pranks" were forgiven. Now she has to endure everyone seeing her son as a misfit, a violent person, a sociopath. But I'm not that. I just want to get rid of this face that has haunted me all my life.
It wants me to take someone else's life, and I don't want to anymore. I can't anymore. I can't even approach the bathroom; its smile is now a grimace of fury, something horrible that peeks out from behind every reflection.
Every time I close my eyes, I understand: this can't go on like this. But as I said, in the midst of this chaos, I found my salvation: the pills. Those little colorful objects my mother takes so she doesn't suffer; she takes one and sleeps, she takes two and laughs. I'm convinced that if I take them all, this will finally stop.
But Smiley is smarter than me. I have to find a way to truly stop him.
When I take them, I can perfectly feel what I've just unleashed. The colors of the houses and things begin to merge. There are no more walls, only stains; a beautiful stain that invites me to rest. But I must resist. I must call.
"Emergency service," I whisper into the phone. "I'm very unwell. I can't go on living anymore. I need to end this. Listen to me, I'm not going to stop. If you want to come, I'm on the street, at the usual house, my family's house."
The good thing is they answered. I'm sure they'll come. I just have to stay awake; keep these eyes, which feel full of dirt, from closing forever. No, Smiley, I don't want to see you. You're nothing anymore, you're not even a smile anymore. You're a horrendous shape that's always near me. Why didn't you choose someone else?
Today your reign ends. I'll make sure no life is lost, because I'm smart; I'm smarter than you give me credit for. I'm sure they'll try to save me, and I'll be unconscious enough not to allow assistance. Then, when the paramedic approaches, when he tries to put his hands on me, I'm going to attack him.
It won't be something stupid like going for his neck or using weapons. I just need the police officer accompanying him — because they always accompany in suicide cases — to take care of me. To see the attack. I'm going to bite his arm so hard he'll think I'm trying to kill him. Then they'll shoot. They'll take care of you through me.
It's so hard... hard to breathe, hard not to sleep.
Here they are. No! Let go of me! I don't need help, I need them to take care of me. The bite...
Don't bend down... No... I just bit his neck.
The shot is too painful. You shouldn't have fired... but I bit his neck very hard. He's bleeding. I can't stop his bleeding. I can't move. Three or four holes are draining all the life from my body.
Where are you, Smiley? You said you'd go with me.
Here you are. In the puddle. That puddle that is my spilled life. Here I see you reflected. Why are you smiling? Why do you keep smiling like that?
Is the paramedic not going to make it? Is it that in the end, like all the times throughout my life, you accomplished your goal?
.