2
Born in the heart of Madrid, in all its beautiful myriad of jubilee and flamboyancy, was a lone Spanish boy of pure descent, born on the precise time of exactly midnight—twelve right on the clock—during a rather warm day on the second of March. That was the year of 1845, a year more commonly referred to as the year of unexpected vitality and ardent passion. The people who brought upon the life of me were of the gentlest yet cruelest of natures.
My father held a seemingly refined and composed demeanor, yet was as easygoing as a single feather of a corrupted bird. He was an ensalada tropical of specially chosen genes: predominantly Spanish, with a mix of simple Italian heritage, and maybe a dash or two of German blood. His upbringing was pitifully penury, though that seemed to change upon a chance meeting with one beautiful girl of mixed Spanish and English heritage during an apparently cold winter day in the heart of a Belgian city (my memory had lost all contact of the specifics of its name, but I believe it to either start with an "l" or possibly an "r"). They have spoiled me rotten, especially considering I was their only child—their only "love" of their lives save for each other. But, their punishments were of the most animalistic nature, for if perchance I was to ever frown or display any sort of contempt or rancor, they starved me until I begged pathetically for mercy, to which they oftentimes responded with maniacal laughter. They whipped my fragile posterior senseless with a varying array of stinging weapons until I bled, then they whipped my fresh wounds till the very break of dawn. All it was could be described as pure, brutal, unadulterated carnage.
Yet, even with their rather sadistic doings, they loved me, and they made sure I was very aware of that, for their gentle embraces were as sweet as the softest icings on my photogenic mother's cakes, and their kisses were filled with teeth-rotting saccharine and care. I reciprocated their love in my own way, with perpetual smiles and never-ending laughter. To frown was an evil that should never be committed, and anger and sadness and all those negative emotions were of equal evilness. I have neither frowned nor cried nor threw temper tantrums thanks to the help of my very loving parents. ¡Gracias! ¡Gracias, mi familia!
Alas, at the ripe age of a newly prepubescent child, well around possibly eleven or twelve, did my parents leave me for the mirth-filled oblivion above, after a freak accident concerning a raging bull during a flamenco dance-a-thon. They were both killed, stained in their scarlet lily-white blood, after greeting the horns of one rabid Spanish bull, corrupted by insanities and whatnot. I witnessed their cries of sheer terror, their expressions of painful entreaties, their yells of drunken expletives, but when they looked at me, all they did was smile as gently as they first set their placid, crazed eyes of dark brown upon my uniquely emerald ones. I smiled back.
And then they fell onto their knees, their mouths spilling blood, draining their lanky bodies clean of the red liquid, and their expressions were emotionless, yet their bloodied red lips remained curled upwards into a soothingly deadly grin of hopeless hope. That was the last I saw of them until they were carried away, leaving me all alone, long forgotten, to fend for myself.
Whilst I loitered around the busy streets of Madrid all by my lonesome self, smiling, remembering the words my parents have left behind, in the very depths of my childish musings, I happened upon two young boys in very peculiar yet similar predicaments as I was. They had changed my life and view on various aspects of life forever.
The one I had noticed first went by the name of Gilbert Beilschmidt, though he apparently preferred the nickname "Gilbo," which he claimed was a play on words with his name and the term "albino," though I would have much rather thought a more logical name to support that would be "Gilbino". But, whatever the case, I found him to be a very strange specimen of the human species, for his hair was an unnatural shade of light—almost translucent—silver and his eyes a color of dark, dark red, signifying the corruption of innocence and his skin was deathly pallid and lackluster. His perfectionist parents had abandoned him, for they thought of him as the Diablo, from his choleric expression at birth and his rather malicious-looking demeanor. He was, I found, very nice, per se, though I found him to be a little bit arrogant at times as he always referred to himself as "the awesome me" and brought upon every egotistical statement he could say during conversation.
The other was Francis Bonnefoy, or simply Francis (he, apparently, did not go by any sort of nickname, but he generally called himself "big brother"). He was, indeed, the eldest of the three of us, giving him a much better array of knowledge than the rest of us. He knew everything there had to be known about intimacy and sex, though as I had come to know him better, it was basically because he had been constantly raped by salacious men and women alike, bringing upon that perpetual knowledge in the area of sex. His mind had been corrupted with a never-ending sexual libido, and he would pounce upon anything he deemed worthy of his love. On the day we three chanced our meeting, I had apparently become the item of affection for Francis, which meant I had also become Gilbo's toy of the day, too.
The two boys had been nice to me at first, calling me soothing names such as "cutie" and "adorable little kid". I made no correction as to say I was more than likely just a few weeks younger than them or so (well, at least concerning Gilbo, anyway; you can never be too sure when it comes to a Frenchman) and remained taciturn on the spot, feeling the chills rise up my spine as the two boys approached me in a salacious manner, tracing their slender fingers around the entirety of my body with an astounding gentleness. Then, in a matter of unforeseen seconds, those seemingly gentle demeanors dissipated into that of a lustful animal's—frightening and rabidly hungry. They both flaccidly dropped me into the nearest alleyway—dark, clandestine, forbidding—and proceeded to tactfully stripping me of my pathetic rags all the while stripping themselves of their own worn-and-torn attire.
I took account of every minor and insignificant detail splayed before me. We three were in the darkness in all our nude glory, and they stared at me with evident lust and want—those bright red eyes scrutinizing every aspect of my scarred body, and those evilly gentle blue eyes entertaining itself with whatever my body displayed. And I was smiling, because that was the only thing I could have done, and maybe I did blush tentatively for a few nanoseconds, for the attention they were giving me was very pleasurable. Yet, something inside of me ached, as if it were telling me of the immorality of all this; but, it was not as if I could stop any of this. They had easily pulled me into their trap, and they would not cease their goals just because of some pathetic entreaties that would just so-happen to escape my lips.
So there I remained, perpetual smile intact, feeling all the roughness of calloused and abused hands on my body, lingering against the palpitations of my heartbeat, feeling the eternal scars of years of abuse… They were grinning at me, and that moment had reminded me so much of my birth parents, whom had always smiled at me regardless of the circumstance. I made myself succumb to the two perpetrators, letting them do as they wish to my body, whilst smiling in the process and feeling an empty void in my heart being filled when I knew they reciprocated with their own smiles.
They had not gone any further than groping, however, on that one particular day. Rather, they congratulated me on my "courage" for enduring their foolish actions, and soon enough, we all became friends. We three began to hang out all day, all night, caring for one another, bonding with one another, sharing our lunatic-inspired musings with one another. After a few months, we have come to be known as the "Bad Touch Trio" amongst the citizens of Madrid. This was simply because we were infamous for our treacherous doings, for we produced pranks around the entirety of the city during the span of our boredom, which happened too often for our own good.
Many years have gone by, and it seemed that we three were inseparable. As if we were the very reincarnation of The Three Musketeers. Los Tres Mosqueteros—uno para todos y todos para uno. Or rather, we were the Trío de Mal Tacto—inspiring, deficient, together forever. We three grew up to be very wonderful men, full of the wisdoms of this insane and prejudicial world. Yet, we three were still children of the world, having naught knowledge of what the outside world had to offer to us on a fragile flower petal, and condoning to foolish errors and mistakes that could never be amended. But, if anything, it was the three of us that remained no matter what, and it was the three of us who taught one another the correct ways of life—the ways that would lead us to into the path of perpetual happiness and heavenly promises. Supposedly.
Seeing as they were the only two people I had left, I listened to both of them and learned their ways of sadistic mannerisms. And it is those sadistic mannerisms—those hay-wired, corrupted musings—that brought upon my very own heaven and hell, altogether, all at once, in a single moment swept up by a lone Spanish summer zephyr, all warm and dreary and simply wonderful.
