hypochondriachitman

[hypochondriachitman]

5

Eduardo Blaisten is Argentinian, just like me. He lives on the fifth floor of a sunny, renovated building, with two appartments on each level, on the Claudio Coello street, in the Salamanca district, but he spends his days in the city center where he works. In summer Eduardo Blaisten puts on colorful polos and khaki cotton slacks. In winter, he always dresses in clear shirt, a tailored suit and a long coat, topcoat he said. He wears a tie almost every day, and sometimes a long scarf of vibrant tone, wrapped several times around his neck, the ends falling on his chest. He never, under no circumstances, gets separated from his flat and stiff leather briefcase. Blaisten's hair is dense, white, and combed to the back, like Frederick II of Prussia, with a darker streak on his side whiskers. He smiles all the time, as if he was proud of his hair. He drinks coffee twice a day, rarely after 2:10 pm. Except once, the last Saturday of past September, he began drinking it at 2:04 and finished it 7 minutes too late. He sometimes has meetings with people. Or reads the newspaper, or takes notes as if he didn't need or even see anybody, happily being an outcasst in the middle of a noisy cafe. Eduardo Blaisten always walks briskly. Eduardo Blaisten speaks English and Hebrew. He reads The Guardian and the Israeli newspaper Haaretz. If we don't mention El Pais, El Mundo, La Nacion and Clarin, of course. Eduardo Blaisten has a partner, unlike me.

[hypochondriachitman]

4

I am, above all, a man who falls a victim to a bad luck. Ever since I acquired the skill of reasoning, ever since I was born to this world as a weak and fragile child, misfortune followed me constantly through all the world. If I have two ways to choose from, it's the other one which is good. If I go out with my umbrella, I will walk around all day without it being of use. But it only requires me losing it to end even the most persistent drought immediately. If I turned the other cheek, I'd get hit in the neck instead. If I raised my hand to make a complain, I'd probably get a dislocated collarbone. Well, looking no further, this afternoon after the lunch I went to a haberdashery to buy a forty centimeters long aluminium knitting needle as my tool to kill Blaisten. At the exact moment of me entering the shop, a client started to introduce the seller to the details of the problem with chronic prostatisis of her husband; his nocturnal cries because of the burning sensation felt while urinating, the decrease in their sexual life due to the pain accompanying the ejaculation, the prostate massages with the index finger in a latex glove, learned through mistakes. The saleswoman noticed my livid face, my hands looking aimlessly for some support, understood the fact the client's been dragging the businness on and asked me: - Do you need something? But, as the fate put me in a place I don't frequently visit, at that moment I wasn't listening to her question as I was covering my ears with the palms of my hands to isolate myself, curling up. I still had a good moment before I fell, as the blood was rushing to my brain, and without thinking I interrupted their converation - Give me a cylindrical knitting needle, an aluminium one, forty centimeters of lenght. - We sell them in two. - Imagine that I put a huge needle into my husband's right leg femur... I quickly retreated without finishing my demand. But things do not end just there. During my flight, I was seized with a violent pain in the leg, as if I was stinged, an undescribable pain which doesn't ever leave. I know that this sensation penetrating and crystalizing up in the femur won't diseappear no more.

[hypochondriachitman]

3

Emmanuel Kant never left his home of Konigsberg, which today is Russian Kaliningrad. That small, formerly prussian town grows protected by the last stretch of the river that flowed into the Pregolia which always flows into the Vistula. All the citizens of Konigsberg knew the habits of professor of philosophy. He followed inflexible rules: for forty years, he continued his work with a radical punctuality, to the second, without missing, not even once, his class. Kant had also an inmutable tendency to take a walk in the afternoon for exactly an hour, between 5 and 6 pm. He walked alone or in the escort of his faithful valet, trying to prevent meeting, even his closest friends, and having to speak out of courtesy. He preferred to keep his mouth shut and breathe through the nose to not catch any disease of the pharyns, laryns, broching and lungs. On the 15th of July 1789, at 5 pm, the inhabitants of Kongsberg, familiar with those habits, didn't see Kant on his evening walk. They checked their watches, the clocks on the facades and towers. They had to be broken, delayed, every single one without exception, they for sure showed wrong time. But how wrong exactly? One minute... Ten... Thirty? They asked his students, if the professor got sick, if he was a victim of some unfortunate accident... But Kant gave his morning class and had lunch at his usual hour, even showing a sign of a good appetite.  the priest, the vice-librarian, the main walking stick pommel make of the whole north-west of the coutry, and several other members belonging to the lifeblood of Königseberg, gathered to steer en masse toward his home. Lamp, the servant of the philosopher, opened the door. Faced with many questions, despite to all the interruptions, he managed to answer them. - No, my master doesn't have any creditors. My master is in his office, meditating like every day. I know, I know that his conduct may seem extravagant... I beg you to accept his apologies for the inconvenience caused... There. It shall not happen again. Yesterday, the Bastille was taken by the people of Paris and my master is preparing a special course for his students... No, I see no other circumstance in the world that can make an incident like this happen again.

[hypochondriachitman]

2

It's been a year and two months since I've been Eduardo Blaisten. I take my time, as I like to do my job properly. It's Tuesday, so I know that it's not long until he appears on Virgen de los Peligros street, at the corner of Alcala, like every Wednesday, to drink coffee in Starbucks, sitted on a high stool facing the front. I know that because it's 10:22 and Blaisten always arrives on the Virgen de los Peligros steet after 10:23, and before 10:24, stepping lightly in his tailored suit, the open coat and a leather briefcase held tightly in his right hand. I don't know about the rest, but one thing is to recognize - Eduardo Blaisten is a punctual man. Usually the punctuality makes my job easier. Every element of routine helps with planning the homicide. I know it may seem contraditory, yet I can't help to feel that this extreme punctuality is some secret plan to mock me. In fact Eduardo Blaisten is so accurate that I, hidden behind an English newspaper - those work the best for that - next to the kiosk, close to the subway station, as the last seconds until 24th minute of 10 o'clock are passing, am getting an attack of anxiety. It starts with an opression in my chest, a hot flush on my face, and makes me take the scarf which protects me from cold, microbes and all the other enemis of my health and profession, off. The panic came over me and suddenly, I put down the newspaper and revealed my face. It wouldn't matter as much if only this day wasn't my last on this earth. My victim, Eduardo Blaisten, choose this very moment to not present himself on the rue which he always arrives on at the same hour. I choke. I cannot breathe. I undo a button of my shirt. I opened my mouth to get some air, but my lungs seemed dissatisfied. I feel more and more oppressed. A fire burns up my cheeks, ears and the whole surface of my scalp. I must've reached, easily, 37,4, 37,6, 37,8 degrees. As at 10:25 Eduardo Blaisten finally appears on the corner of the Virgen de los Peligros street, smiling at the rondabout as if he found himself in a village where he knows everybody, in a slightly varnished coat due to light rain, my heart already reaches 115 beats per minute and I breathe 5 times per second. This man will be the end of me. Those rare times when he's late, I think he does it to make me suffer, torment me, make me lose the control. The rest of time I think he tried to be precise in his habits and appointments to take me by a surprise, showing he's more punctual than me, avoiding his invetiable death. But it is useless, as I am, of course, above all, a man of punctuality worthy of Kant.

[hypochondriachitman]

1

There's no more than one day of life left for me after robbing the Death of fifteen billions. Only one. Two at the most. Just like on my usual morning, I am absolutely certain today I am going to die. It would deny all the laws of nature to let my body, overwhelmed by all kinds of diseases, go on for but a day longer. Yet first I need to finish my bussiness with Eduardo Blaisten. I was paid in advance, and I am a man who works like Kant said. This morning at 7:40, I checked my puls, putting my index and middle fingers on the inner side of the wrist: 82 beats per minute, and on the left side of neck: 86. I took 18 breaths per minute. Then I checked my blood pressure: 12,7/7,4 mmHg. For my breakfast, I prepared green tea - it's polyphenols prevent cancer - but I didn't get any milk, as it would put the benefits to the cardiovascular system to a complete dismiss. I also had two toasted pieces of a whole bread drizzled with olive oil, as well as my morning plums. Afterwards I took a few minutes of wait before slipping a thermometer into my rectum - 37,2 degrees, it said. A degree more than in the mouth. I got up and let some fresh air into the house, while maintaining the temperature of 26 degrees inside. At 8:20 I checked my blood pressure yet again. Hopefully these precautions will keep my poor body alive for this day - is it asking too much? Do I really demand impossible, my dear God? For I must assasinate Blaisten...