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Jacek Yerka. “Muszka Alarmówka”.

I’ve spend the whole afternoon piling up dead bodies, as usual. It’s a disgusting task, true, but somebody has to do it. And when I say somebody, I’m speaking about me specifically, because no one else is walking around these places as far as I know, and therefore, I’m in charge of carrying out the complete process, from the preliminary butchery –which starts practically in the first hours of the morning–, until the final sweeping, when the highest chain of hills covers the sun and the evening breeze begins to cool the oven in which this house turns into due to the summer heat.
The facilities are brand new and roomy, as I like it, away from any distracting noise or any indiscreet eye threatening the privacy of my everyday tasks, which are not few. Taking in charge the housework in three dreamlike rooms, plus two bathrooms and an ample space shared for the living, dining room and kitchen, in the so-called American-style. Everything well-disposed for my comfort and convenience, even beautiful and terrific devices that liven up and make easier the modern life -no more, no less.
Though the butchery strictly speaking, which lately takes up all of my energy, deploys its real splendor well into the morning, to becoming an enervating hustle and bustle with just brief minutes of respite after the lunch, and which only comes to a fully stop late at night, when the worries of the day weigh me down and demand surrendering to them. But it’s not easy to fall asleep, switch me off automatically from my hand brandishing the lethal weapon and inflicting the fatal blow, from the bodies falling one after another, scattered without rhyme or reason on the floor, as angels shot down in mid-flight.
It’s not easy to take on such task either, imposed by conditions and circumstances, whose price to pay is a permanent stress both emotionally and physically. Not only because of how unpleasant it becomes by itself, but for the incessant mental alertness in which it keeps you and the physical skills that requires. Because everything has its method and technique, even these displeasing tasks. You have to sharpen your sense of perception, especially the auditory and visual ones, so that you can perceive the subtlest vibration in the air and right away focusing the source point; keeping your eyes fixed on it, following the erratic curves of the silhouettes in movement; grabbing the instrument of execution not losing sight of your target; get closer with feline grace, avoiding being detected nor causing the flight in disbandment; lifting your arm with the right distance and tension, holding your breathe and bang!… releasing the deadly whiplash, merciless, to see them falling down abruptly, blowing up as lifeless remains after a fulminant blast, crushed against every possible surface, or just running away badly wounded until tumbling down, fluttering their last agony. And so on, the whole day, one after another, after another, after…
There is no infallible method, of course, and some of them always manage to avoid the process of expurgation, which ends with a diligent cleaning, sweeping the tiny bodies to stack them in a little pile along with the dust that has gathered in the windy and oppressive afternoons. The same wind that throw them inside in the hottest days, and which it’s useless against the sweat festering from these wild hillsides, surrounded by ravines and burning ground. Useless against the invasion of its steadfast flutters and buzzing. As much as the fumigations and insecticides, a fruitless waste of technology for death.
What else to do? Resign oneself before this new occupation, in this solitude where the illusion of quietness and rest seems an old-fashioned suit, or an ancient, romantic idealization of retreat and solace, where no one used to hurt a fly.