You can read this first

Mad Midas, there he is. The man who pretends to be so good and compassionate, like all those Christians sitting in the front row at church on Sunday, nodding when the priest speaks. Was it already Easter? I heard no bell toll, within five years, civil wars will be a fact because of the invasion of foreigners, said the voice on the radio. I wonder where the foreigners live. Is it outside the kitchen door, the garden, the Jumbo, or across the river?

My God, Midas laughs and that creep of a Dylan, who's always lurking on the rocks staring and gave me that bottle, behaves like his little slave. I'd swear he's got something to do with Frau Holle or at least someone with power... why does he keep staring over the water? Is this the quirk of the failed artist?

How difficult can it be? A dab here and a dab there, if you know money, you can be an artist without ever having achieved anything.

I watch from a distance as the man who thinks he knows it all, who doesn’t fear hell—just like the Pope, he believes he’s got all the strings in his hands. I can smell his booze from here. How come no one says a thing? Sweet sister, you should see this. When the poor line up, waiting, thirsting for flavoured water. Well, everyone—some refuse even when it’s handed to them.

I don’t like fat blokes bragging about their loans.
Who’s got their hand on my arse?
It’s the cop, your best mate, he says.
Want to hear a joke? I ask, pressing the tip of the knife into his groin.
Funny how some people lose their sense of humour when it’s aimed at them.

Counting pelicans wasn’t easy either. My neck hurts, I want to lie down for a while. The paper is not blank, it can be used. I hope she hasn’t painted on the wall again—the blood was hard to clean, and the whitewash smells better than the stench of corpses.

Friday – 7:31
I woke with a jolt. What a rotten dream. That drunk monk’s face, his crooked grin. How could I forget him? Devil? The cat looks at me and starts stamping its paws on me. Why does it do that?

Mad Midas—I suddenly remember his name… Midas the lard-arse. I thought he was an administrator. I’m pressed against the wall with Devil on my stomach. That doesn’t hurt as much—my stomach does, not Devil. There’s one bottle left and a stack of paper. I think I’ve written myself out. The days pass, and no one’s asked how I am. It’s always been like this.

I look at the chain around my wrist. I look like a ghost. Am I a spectre, like one from Ebenezer? I ask Devil, but he just purrs. He probably doesn’t give a damn.

I now click on— there’s a woman in the doorway.

I don’t move, staring straight at her, hoping she’ll leave—but she sits at the kitchen table and waits.

"Are you alright?" she asks after a while, but I don’t answer.

"I’m Mother Holle. Where is he?"

Who? I think, but say nothing.

"Where is he?" she asks again. "Did you check if he’s there?"

My heart freezes. Who was I supposed to check for?

"We could vote on it," she says, "or just flip a coin? What’ll it be? Want a cuppa tea or juice? Come out from under the table, dear child. I’m too old to crawl under there."

I sit at the table, staring at the woman’s face. She’s the one who helped me with the bottle machine. The cat purrs, jumps onto her lap, and she strokes its head.

"Well, where is he?" she says once I’ve emptied my cup.

"Who?"

"That bastard you killed."

Oh. How could I have forgotten that corpse? I shrug and say, "I left him in the cellar. Buried under the rotten potatoes—though I don’t know if they’re still there. You should know, it stank like hell, but the smell’s faded a lot."

9:51
"What are you doing?" she says. "Self-Voting is like dancing the waltz—didn’t you know? There are only two of us, and I think it’s best if I handle this."

The basement still stinks, but the pungent smell seems a lot less. She walks to where the brute is chained, his fingers are cut off and where he hasn't been begging for too long. I'm surprised that I don't feel anything. It's empty inside. No hate, no love, nothing at all, just a peaceful feeling.

"I see," she says. "Nothing left to do here. The bird has flown."

"What?"

"The snake’s spawn has slithered away..."

_{25.4.25
Prompt:self-voting - @freewritehouse
Painter: Leonardo Alenza y Nieto
Painting: Distribuyendo sopa (1845)
Painting: public domain - provided by @solperez
This story/diary is part of a series written with @almaguer.}