The Obelisk

Vicente is seventy-four years old and alone.
His wife died three years ago, and no one from the village attended her funeral. His neighbors ignore him, despise him, treat him as if he were invisible. So every afternoon he walks to the obelisk, that forgotten monument on the outskirts of the village, and stands there, smoking, observing the black stone.

It’s his ritual. His only constant.

Until one day, standing before the obelisk, Vicente imagines something terrible: the face of his neighbor Amparo crushed against the stone. The image is so vivid, so real, that he can see the bones breaking, the blood on the stone. And then he feels something unexpected.

Pleasure.

An intense, overwhelming pleasure that courses through him like an electric shock. A pleasure that frightens and excites him in equal measure.

At first, he tries to ignore it. They are just thoughts, just fantasies. But the thoughts return, each time more specific, each time more violent. And with each thought, the pleasure intensifies. Vicente starts taking notes on his neighbors: their routines, their weaknesses, their schedules. He tells himself it’s just a game.

But it’s not a game. It’s an addiction.

And like any addiction, it needs to be fed.